Chapter CXLII: Paranoia
The moon still hung bright and cold above the city, high and watchful, as if the heavens hadn't blinked since sunset. Pale light spilled in through the tavern shutters, casting long lines across the floor, cutting the room into quiet pieces.
Wuyan was asleep—curled up near the edge of the bed, a soft rise and fall in her small chest. Her ears twitched once, reacting to some distant sound only she could hear, then stilled.
Yanwei sat cross-legged by the window, eyes closed, back straight, spine like a drawn string. His hands rested lightly on his knees. He wasn't cultivating—he couldn't. But the silence helped. The stillness helped. Meditation sharpened what cultivation couldn't.
Awareness. Clarity. Control.
His breath came in a steady rhythm. His thoughts didn't scatter—they spiraled inward.
The day replayed itself behind his closed eyes. Faces. Voices. Fragments of rumors. A dozen useless trails. The kind of puzzle that didn't have corners to build from, only scattered pieces with smeared edges.
He hadn't underestimated Velurya.
He'd underestimated how hard it was to find people like her.
Elites.
They didn't just walk the streets. They slipped between them. Untouchable. Discreet. Respected. Even when people whispered their names, they did it with caution—like speaking too loud might summon something they couldn't handle.
No one pointed directly.
No one dared.
Even now, with the auction long over, no one could say where they'd gone.
His shoulders stayed relaxed, but his fingers curled slightly.
Velurya… she had knowledge he needed. And if he couldn't chase her down with feet, then he'd chase her with preparation.
His breath slowed again.
In.
Hold.
Out.
No qi in his veins. No arts to rely on. But that didn't mean he'd wait around like prey. Even without cultivation, he trained—his instincts, his discipline, his edge. Because sometimes, survival came down to one second. One breath.
And if that moment came?
He'd be ready.
Another breeze slipped through the crooked shutters, brushing past his face. The kind of wind that carried questions in it. The wooden charms hanging from the door rattled faintly.
He opened his eyes.
Slowly.
No tension. No fear. Just sharpened calm.
His gaze swept the room.
Still.
Wuyan was still asleep, tucked into herself like a shadow in the corner of the bed.
Yanwei let his breath out.
"…Not yet," he murmured.
He looked up toward the half-moon above. It was still there—still bright, still sharp-edged. Cold, distant, and silent.
It looked down like it had seen everything.
Yanwei tilted his head slightly, as if amused by it.
"Keep watching," he whispered.
Then closed his eyes again.
And let the quiet sharpen him.
…
It had been seven days since Yanwei began investigating.
Not since the auction.
Since Velurya.
Or more accurately—since the elites who, like her, might hold the key to testing for second talents without the Moonlit Pavilion's chains.
Seven days of subtle movement. Seven days of watching without being seen. Of questions folded within questions. Of steering conversations without ever appearing to drive them.
And still—nothing.
No trace of her.
Not a single thread that hadn't already frayed.
Yanwei sat on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, back slightly hunched. The candle near the window guttered in its pool of wax, casting long, shaky shadows across the floorboards. The wood creaked faintly beneath him, but the room itself was silent.
Except for Wuyan.
She slept like usual—coiled and quiet, one paw twitching now and then like she was dreaming of something she'd never tell him.
Yanwei wasn't meditating.
He hadn't meditated properly in days.
His thoughts didn't stop long enough.
They circled. Tighter. Sharper. Faster.
What if she knows?
He had no proof. No strange glances. No sudden changes in how people acted.
But the question had still rooted itself in him. Deep.
Because the source of his worry wasn't a mistake.
It wasn't a misstep.
It was him.
He was born with paranoia stitched into his bones. Others needed danger to become careful. He didn't.
He was danger.
From the beginning.
That constant tension—the voice in his head measuring every breath, every silence, every gaze that lingered one second too long—wasn't trauma.
It was instinct.
It was innate.
And that paranoia?
It had only grown sharper as he rose up the demonic path.
Not just a cultivator.
A top-tier one.
A demon who clawed his way up by being two steps ahead of threats others didn't even know existed yet.
But paranoia was only half the blade.
The other was caution.
That one he earned.
He'd trained it over years of playing games no one else could afford to lose. He learned when to retreat, when to bait, when to lie without moving his lips. Every failure, every betrayal, every close call had carved that instinct deeper.
And now, both paranoia and caution whispered the same thing.
Something's wrong.
Yanwei stood and walked to the window. Opened it just a sliver.
The city was asleep.
Or pretending to be.
Lanterns flickered like half-hearted stars down below. A breeze slid through the alleys, brushing against walls and rooftop tiles like fingers in the dark.
Nothing moved.
But still—he felt it.
Not the presence of danger.
The possibility of it.
That was enough.
Because if Velurya—or anyone close to her—had noticed someone sniffing too quietly, too skillfully, too intentionally…
They might already be watching.
Yanwei closed the window and leaned against the wall.
He didn't feel fear.
He felt the time ticking in his head.
He'd been subtle. Perfect, even.
But perfection was never a guarantee.
Not in this world.
Wuyan let out a faint breath and shifted slightly. Still dreaming. Still untouched by the tension slowly seeping through the room.
Yanwei didn't move.
He could feel the silence closing in now—not as peace, but as pressure.
The kind that came before something snapped.
The kind that warned you just before the knife left the sheath.
He tilted his head back.
Stared at the ceiling.
Didn't blink.
Time's running out.
The silence wasn't calm.
It was a countdown.