Chapter CXL: Shaved

The air changed.

It was subtle at first—just a thinning, like the room had exhaled. But then it deepened, coiling in the silence, thick and metallic. A pressure, invisible yet unmistakable, settled over the walls like the hum of a blade just unsheathed.

Bloodlust.

It surged not outward, but upward—rising from Yanwei's core in slow, steady waves. Controlled. Calculated. But there.

Palpable.

Heavy.

The cat stirred.

A twitch. Then a lift of its head.

Its ears twitched, eyes snapping open like something had bitten into its dream.

Yanwei didn't move. He didn't have to. The pressure in the room moved for him—emanating like heat from a furnace held just barely in check.

Then—

Soft steps.

The cat padded forward. Not rushed. Not afraid. Slow. Intentional.

Yanwei's gaze flicked downward, not fully turning yet.

The small creature stopped just a pace away from him, looked up—its dark eyes unreadable—and let out a single sound.

Meow.

Yanwei's brows lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his otherwise still face.

"…Huh."

He had expected it to bolt. To vanish back to the corner, tail bristled, eyes wide in animal fear.

But it stood there.

Unflinching.

Still wild, still cautious—but no longer hostile.

Yanwei's lips parted slightly, as if to speak. But nothing came out.

He just stared.

And the cat, oddly calm amidst the rising pressure, sat down beside him. Its fur trembled, barely, as if it felt the bloodlust, but its eyes remained fixed on him. Accepting.

Or maybe—

Recognizing.

Yanwei blinked once, slowly.

"…Strange little thing," he muttered.

And then he stood.

The bloodlust did not recede. It sharpened. Refined. No longer the unshaped promise of violence, but something distilled. Targeted.

A predator's focus.

There was no more time to waste.

Not with a Rank 2 eyeing at him.

Not with the Pavilion stirring.

And not with the scent of war creeping closer.

Yanwei glanced down once more.

The cat was still watching him—calm now, settled, as if it had made some unspoken decision.

He crouched, slow and fluid, letting his hand hover for a moment. Testing.

The cat didn't flinch.

A moment later, he lifted it gently and placed it on his shoulder.

It shifted slightly, claws adjusting against the fabric of his robe—but there was no tension, no resistance. Just a soft, rumbling purr close to his ear.

Then—

A lick.

Warm. Quick. Just beneath his jaw.

Yanwei stilled.

And then, slowly…

He smiled.

Not the crooked smirk of manipulation.

Not the cold curve of triumph.

Not even the razor-edged grin of provocation.

But something softer.

Real.

A rare, unguarded smile—faint, fleeting, but unmistakably human.

It lingered for only a second before his gaze shifted, and his hands moved again—quick and practiced.

He gathered the plates. Wrapped each one in cloth, tight and clean, tucking away the remnants of the meal without a sound. Nothing wasted. No sign left behind.

When he was done, he gave the room one last look.

Quiet.

Still.

Then, without a word, he stepped through the door—and shut it behind him.

Click.

…

The market buzzed with noise—vendors barking prices, spirit beasts snorting from cages, the heavy scent of talismans, incense, and cheap medicinal brews thick in the air. Somewhere between a forge and a jade-trader's stall, laughter rang out.

A bald man leaned casually against the counter of a talisman shop, shoulders shaking with amusement as he exchanged words with the shopkeeper. His face was lean, weather-worn, forgettable. His clothes rough and mismatched—trader's garb, faded from travel.

A black cat perched lazily on his shoulder, tail curled like a crescent moon, its eyes half-lidded as if drowsing through the clamor.

No one looked twice.

And yet—

That wasn't just any wanderer.

That was Yanwei.

Clean-shaven. Eyebrows gone. Skin rubbed raw from whatever bitter concoction he'd used to erase his scent, his hair, his presence.

The man watching him didn't know that.

Yet.

But the danger was real.

Yanwei hadn't forgotten the eyes from the sect—the Rank 2 quietly monitoring everyone who had returned from the secret realm.

That man had seen him enter the auction. Everyone did. It was public enough, and the attendance was tightly watched, even if only Rank 1 cultivators were allowed inside. The Rank 2 couldn't enter, but he knew who went in.

He also knew Yanwei had paid for a room.

So naturally, he would assume Yanwei returned to it afterward.

Why wouldn't he?

No one wastes spirit stones on a room they don't use. Not after the secret realm. Not before a major auction. And certainly not someone like Yanwei—quiet, self-contained, inconspicuous.

But Yanwei never went back.

The moment he slipped out of the auction, it was urgent—rushed. He had burned through nearly everything just to vanish without a trace. No room. No pause. Just disappearance.

That was why he did it.

He shaved his hair. His eyebrows. Erased his scent with spiritual powder until not even a tracking technique would recognize him. Shifted his voice, his posture, even his breathing rhythm. All of it, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of the person they were watching.

Because if he was seen now—like this—he would be just another passerby.

But if he was seen with his old face?

If the Rank 2 so much as caught a glimpse of the Yanwei they thought was resting quietly in his room?

It would all fall apart.

They would assume he had been lying.

They would assume he had something to hide.

And then?

There would be no questions.

Only pursuit.

Only the word spy whispered behind closed doors—loud enough to kill.

So he did what had to be done.

Destroyed the version of himself they expected to track.

Now he was just another drifter.

A bald man in dusty robes, joking with a talisman seller in a crowded market, a black cat draped lazily across his shoulder like it belonged there.

Still in inside of the marker where Moonlit Pavilion located.

Still close to danger.

But for now, invisible.