As Hei Long approached the teahouse, he took a moment to compose himself.
The building was modest, traditional, with paper walls and curved tiles.
Its wood had been worn smooth by time, and the aroma of steeping leaves drifted out into the open air like a subtle lure.
Hei Long could already feel this heroine's presence.
Still and unmoving—like the surface of a frozen lake.
"…" Hei Long smiled faintly, eyes glinting:
"Let's see how cold you really are, Ji Yao…"
And with that, Hei Long stepped inside.
A hush seemed to follow him.
Curious eyes turned his way.
Hei Long paid them no mind.
His steps were steady, unhurried, as if he belonged wherever he chose to go.
Soon, he reached a long table crowded with inner disciples—both men and women—each vying, almost pathetically, for the attention of the Saintess.
Their laughter was forced, their words shallow, and Ji Yao's expression—cold and distant—made it painfully clear that none had managed to interest her.
