Chapter CXLIII: Strange Woman

at least, to him.

…

He didn't leave his room at all for three days. Only meditating.

He had to calm the storm inside—quiet the spiraling thoughts, clear the haze before it turned into mistakes.

Yanwei didn't hate his paranoia.

It was draining, yes. A slow, constant pull beneath everything he did. A weight behind every glance, every decision. Like walking through fog with blades hidden inside it—always watching, always calculating.

But that didn't mean it wasn't useful.

It chewed at sleep and made trust feel like a luxury he couldn't afford.

Yet it kept him alive.

It kept his instincts sharp, his caution sharper. It forced him to question what others ignored, to anticipate what others couldn't even imagine. Where others saw coincidence, he saw intention. Where others relaxed, he prepared.

He knew the toll it took—on his body, on his mind—but survival demanded a price.

And Yanwei was always willing to pay it.

Because when the moment came—and it always did—paranoia could mean the difference between surviving and becoming someone else's story.

So he stayed still. Focused. Coiled.

Waiting not for peace,

but for the next breath worth taking.

….

He was done with a soft breath out.

"Wuyan, come here," he said quietly.

The little cat stirred. One ear twitched. Then her eyes fluttered open—still half-dreaming, still caught in whatever quiet world she'd curled herself into.

She stretched, yawned soundlessly, then padded over with slow, drowsy steps.

As she reached him, she lifted her head—then bumped it gently against his arm.

Not leaning. Not resting.

Just that small, familiar motion. A nudge. A gesture.

Wordless, but clear.

I'm here. You're here. We're alive.

Yanwei didn't smile, but his gaze softened—just a little.

Yanwei reached down and picked her up, cradling her with a practiced ease.

Wuyan didn't protest.

She knew the routine.

He lifted her and placed her gently on top of his head.

She stretched once more—then curled lazily across his scalp, her tail wrapping just behind his ear like a crown made by something that didn't care for appearances.

It didn't change anything.

He was still ugly.

His features were still sharp in all the wrong ways, like a statue carved by someone with no patience. The faint scars. The tired eyes. The crooked mouth that never seemed to smile right.

But none of that mattered.

Not to him. Not now.

He opened the door.

The hallway was dim, shadows stretching long between flickering wall-lanterns. The air smelled faintly of old smoke and oil.

He stepped out.

And just like that—he was no longer still.

The pursuit continued.

…

Days passed.

Exactly how many, Yanwei didn't bother to count.

Each one blurred into the next—quiet, calculated, uneventful. His investigation into Velurya's whereabouts had stalled. No new leads, no sudden breakthroughs. Just more dead ends dressed in polite conversation and closed doors.

And this day was supposed to be the same.

A boring, empty kind of day—the kind that had become routine.

Yanwei was inside the Alchemy Association—not for pills, not for business, but as part of the investigation.

Alchemists were respected. Trusted.

And trust came with information.

He'd been spending time here, subtly familiarizing himself with the apprentices, clerks, and visiting cultivators. A slow, patient effort to weave himself into the background—where loose words sometimes slipped out without notice.

Then the door opened.

She walked in.

Nothing about her stood out.

Plain robes. Unremarkable features. A face that wouldn't turn heads.

But Yanwei noticed her instantly.

Not because of what she looked like.

Because of how she moved.

She approached the front desk and spoke to the clerk—calm voice, measured tone, a small respectful bow.

Well-mannered. Soft-spoken.

But something was wrong.

It wasn't the words. It wasn't the bow.

It was what came after.

The way she stood. The way she waited. The air she gave off.

Politeness, yes.

But not humility.

Humans who were truly well-mannered tended to place themselves beneath others—especially elders, especially in places like this.

But this woman's manners didn't lower her.

They elevated her.

Not arrogantly. Not obviously.

Just enough to make Yanwei's instincts stir.

Whether it was deliberate or unconscious, it meant one thing:

She didn't belong here.

Not as a passerby.

Not as someone ordinary.

And people like that didn't show up in lower branches of the Association without reason.

Yanwei didn't move.

He just watched.

Until she turned to leave.

And then, quietly, he aligned his steps with hers.

Because boring days didn't start this way.

And prey didn't always look like prey.

…

Yanwei stood by the counter, quietly asking about the price of an uncommon reagent. His voice was steady, but his eyes never left the woman across the room.

She moved smoothly through the space, speaking softly to the man at the Talistman shop. Every word was carefully measured, every nod polite and controlled. To everyone else, she was just a respectful customer.

But Yanwei saw something different.

He watched as she acknowledged passersby with a gentle smile, her head tilting ever so slightly—just enough to suggest warmth, but practiced enough to seem automatic.

Then, without hesitation, she stepped toward a nearby commotion—a group of cultivators bullying a young man.

Her voice cut through the tension, calm but with an undercurrent of steel.

"I suggest you stop this at once," she said evenly. "Or I will see to it that the guards are called immediately."

The group froze, their faces blanching. The threat alone made them scatter without another word.

Yanwei's gaze sharpened.

The more he observed her, the more the odd details piled up in his mind.

Her hand gestures were too precise, too fluid—as if every movement was choreographed to show grace but conceal strength. When she folded her fingers or rested her hand on the counter, the tension in her muscles betrayed a coiled readiness beneath her calm.

Her head movements were subtle but telling: a slight tilt here, a measured nod there, signaling attention and control rather than simple politeness.

There was an emotional dissonance in her presence—an unsettling blend of warmth and cold calculation.

Her smile never quite reached her eyes, which flickered with sharpness and quiet command.

To the casual observer, she was a well-mannered woman handling herself with care.

To Yanwei, she was a carefully crafted mask hiding something far more dangerous—something practiced, deliberate, and undeniably strong.

Unease settled deep in his chest.

He knew that feeling well.

It was the kind of instinct that screamed watch closer—because what looks polite can easily be a weapon dressed in silk.

And this woman?

She was no ordinary customer.