The thunder rumbled in the distance, a low growl that matched the heavy sound of hooves. By late afternoon, the courtyard of the Lin Manor was no longer quiet. Twenty imperial guards, dressed in polished bronze armor, stood in a neat line. In the center sat a gilded carriage, smelling of expensive incense and arrogance.
Prince Zhao stepped out. He was a man of sharp angles and even sharper eyes. He flicked a speck of dust from his yellow silk robes and looked at the manor with a sneer.
"Xiaowei!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the halls. "I know you are in there. Hand over your father's maps, and perhaps I shall let you keep your head. Or better yet, I shall take you back to the capital as my concubine. It is a better fate than rotting in this ruin."
Xiaowei stood behind the heavy oak door, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked around for Lu Chen, but the house was silent. Had he truly gone to the forest? Or had he fled at the sight of the Emperor's seal?
"I have no maps for you, Prince Zhao!" Xiaowei called out, her voice trembling despite her bravery. "My father took his secrets to the grave!"
"Search the house!" Zhao commanded, waving a bored hand toward his guards. "If the girl resists, bind her."
The guards stepped forward, their heavy boots thumping on the stone porch. But before the first soldier could touch the handle, the door swung open with a slow, eerie creak.
A tall figure stood in the shadows of the doorway. It was Lu Chen. He was no longer wearing his travel-worn robes. He wore a crisp, midnight-black suit with silver buttons that caught the dim light. A white towel was draped perfectly over his left arm.
"Good evening, Gentlemen," Lu Chen said. His Queen's English was as sharp as a razor. "I am afraid the Mistress is not receiving visitors at this hour. It is time for her evening tea, and interruptions are... quite distasteful."
Prince Zhao blinked, confused by the man's strange attire and calm demeanor. "Who are you? A servant? Move aside, peasant!"
Lu Chen smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a cat watching a mouse run into a corner. "I am the butler of this household. And as for moving... I am afraid my feet are quite firmly planted."
"Kill him," Zhao hissed.
The lead guard lunged with a spear. Xiaowei screamed from behind the door, but the sound was cut short by what happened next.
Lu Chen didn't move his feet. He simply leaned an inch to the left, and the spear passed harmlessly under his arm. In the same motion, he reached out and caught the wooden shaft. With a flick of his wrist—a movement that looked as effortless as waving a fan—the thick wood snapped into three pieces.
He then tapped the guard on the chest with two fingers. The man flew backward, crashing into the carriage with such force that the golden wood splintered.
"My apologies," Lu Chen said, straightening his cuffs. "I am still learning to control my strength when dealing with... fragile things."
The other guards drew their swords, but they hesitated. The air around Lu Chen had turned unnaturally cold. The flowers in the courtyard began to wilt, and the horses whinnied in terror, trying to break their silk ropes.
"You... you are a demon!" Prince Zhao gasped, stumbling back toward his carriage.
"A demon? How uncouth," Lu Chen replied. He began to walk toward the Prince, each step slow and deliberate. "I prefer the term 'Executive Assistant.' Now, since you have traveled so far, it would be rude not to offer you a meal."
Lu Chen reached into the air—literally into the empty air—and pulled out a silver tray that hadn't been there a second ago. On it sat a single glass filled with a thick, dark red liquid.
"This is a vintage from a very old cellar," Lu Chen whispered, standing directly in front of the shaking Prince. "It is the blood of those who came here last night with bad intentions. Would you like a taste? Or would you prefer to leave before I have to harvest a fresh bottle from your own veins?"
Prince Zhao's face turned the color of ash. He scrambled back into his carriage, nearly falling over his own robes. "Retreat! Retreat at once! To the capital! Call the exorcists!"
The carriage roared away, the guards running behind it in a panicked frenzy. Within minutes, the courtyard was empty again, save for the settling dust.
Lu Chen sighed and turned back to the house. He looked at Xiaowei, who was watching him from the doorway with wide, wondering eyes.
"I am terribly sorry about the noise, Mistress," he said, bowing low. "The Prince was quite a difficult guest. I'm afraid I had to be a bit... firm."
Xiaowei looked at the shattered spear on the ground. "Lu Chen... did you really make a drink out of those bandits?"
Lu Chen chuckled, a dark, melodic sound. "Of course not, Little Rose. It was merely pomegranate juice and a bit of theater. Even a vampire knows that a Prince's blood is far too salty to be enjoyed."
He stepped inside and closed the door, locking it with a soft click. "Now, shall we discuss your new wardrobe? I believe the emerald silk suits your eyes perfectly."
Xiaowei stared at the glass of "pomegranate juice," her heart still thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The courtyard was silent now, the only sound being the distant, fading gallop of the Prince's horses.
"You're very good at theater," she breathed, leaning against the doorframe for support.
Lu Chen set the tray down on a polished side table. "In my experience, humans are far more terrified of what they imagine than what is actually there. Though," he added, his eyes briefly flashing that dangerous, rubine red, "I wasn't entirely lying about the harvesting. A butler must always keep a well-stocked pantry."
He reached out, his cold fingers gently brushing the hair away from her face. His touch was no longer frightening; it felt like a cooling balm on her heated skin.
"You are trembling, Mistress. Come. The evening air is turning damp, and I have prepared the hearth."
He led her into the main hall. To Xiaowei's amazement, a fire was already roaring in the fireplace, despite the wood being soaked by the afternoon's humidity just hours ago. The room was bathed in a warm, golden glow. On the low table sat a bowl of steaming congee and small plates of pickled vegetables, arranged with the precision of an imperial banquet.
"Eat," Lu Chen commanded softly. "You have had a taxing day. Dealing with royalty is more exhausting than digging ditches."
Xiaowei sat and began to eat. The food was perfect—seasoned exactly to her liking. As she ate, she watched Lu Chen move through the room. He didn't walk so much as glide, his presence filling every corner of the house. He began to light the wall candles, not with a match, but by simply passing his hand near the wicks. Each one flickered to life as if bowing to him.
"Lu Chen," she said, her voice small in the large room. "The Prince will not stop. He will tell the Emperor. They will send more than twenty guards next time. They will send the Heavens' Guard... or monks with blessed seals."
Lu Chen stopped his work. He stood by the window, looking out into the pitch-black night. The moonlight hit his profile, making him look like a statue carved from the finest white marble.
"Let them come," he said. His voice was no longer the polite tone of a servant; it was the voice of a king who had watched mountains crumble into the sea. "I have spent five centuries hiding in the shadows of European cathedrals and another five drifting through the deserts of the West. I did not come back to these Middle Kingdoms to let a petty Prince touch what is mine."
He turned back to her, his expression softening into that impeccable, butler-like mask. "Besides, I have already taken precautions. The road leading to this manor has... changed. Those who seek to harm you will find themselves walking in circles until they find themselves back at the foot of the mountain, quite confused and very tired."
Xiaowei felt a wave of relief, but a new curiosity burned in her chest. "You said you waited a thousand years. You said I have 'those eyes.' If you are a vampire... are you lonely?"
The question seemed to catch him off guard. He paused, a silver candle-snuffer held mid-air. For the first time, Xiaowei saw a flicker of genuine sadness in his gaze—a loneliness so deep it felt like an ocean.
"Loneliness is a luxury for the living, Xiaowei," he replied quietly. "For the undying, it is simply the atmosphere we breathe. But tonight..." he looked at her, his lips twitching into a small, sincere smile. "Tonight, the air feels quite fresh."
He bowed once more. "Now, I shall retire to the shadows of the rafters. Should you need anything—a glass of water, a change of linens, or the head of an enemy—you need only whisper my name."
Before she could respond, he extinguished the main lamp with a wave of his hand. In the sudden darkness, Xiaowei saw two glowing red embers near the ceiling, which quickly vanished into the night.
She lay down on her bed, the silk sheets smelling of lavender and old magic. For the first time in years, she felt completely safe. But as she drifted off to sleep, she couldn't help but wonder: what would happen when the "Little Rose" eventually withered, while her butler remained forever in the spring of his youth?