Sunlight fell across the edge of the stone bench, illuminating the child's tiny hand as it twitched slightly in sleep. Chen Wuya still sat where he was, the faint warmth and softness lingering in his palm. He lowered his head to look at the fingers reddened from being gripped, a smile still at the corner of his mouth—when suddenly, the true qi within him stalled.
It was neither blockage nor backlash. It was like a stream naturally veering around a jutting tree root, shifting ever so slightly off course. The sensation was minute, yet too distinct to ignore.
One of his brows twitched almost imperceptibly.
Three zhang to the southeast, within the shrubs, the airflow had stagnated—not as though the wind were blocked, but as though someone were deliberately suppressing their breath, slowing even their heartbeat to its faintest rhythm. Yet in the end, a trace had slipped through. It was not the stillness of a living thing, but the result of killing intent pressed beneath flesh and forcibly restrained.
Without revealing anything, he slowly rose and gently handed the sleeping child in his arms to Bai Zhi by the door.
"I'm going to add some firewood," he said, his voice as usual, even carrying a hint of idle ease.
Bai Zhi took the child, her gaze lingering on his face for a moment. She did not ask, only nodded before turning back inside. Before the door closed, her back remained straight, her shoulders unrelaxed.
Chen Wuya picked up the axe leaning against the wall and headed toward the woodpile behind the house. His steps were steady, each landing even, as if he truly had gone only to fetch firewood. But when he bent to pick up a bundle of dry branches, his fingertips suddenly flicked, sending a thread-thin strand