Jiyin pauses, his gaze lingering on Wang Lee's now-exposed jawline. The air between them crackles with tension, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Then, just as suddenly, he lets the mask fall back into place, leaving Wang Lee's face mostly hidden.

  "No..." he murmurs, his voice steady but laced with something almost like reluctance.

  He pulls back a fraction, his hand falling away from the mask but still lingering near Wang Lee's face.

  "I want to see when... you let me."

  Jiyin walks away with the air of a lion stalking through a field, leaving Wang Lee frozen in place. He doesn't look back, just disappears into the shadows. Wang Lee is left standing there alone, heart pounding and mind whirling with confusion.

  The night suddenly feels cold without Jiyin's presence. He can still almost feel the ghost of the prince's touch against his skin, the heat of his gaze burning into him...

  With Jiyin gone, Wang Lee finally lets out a slow exhale. The cool night air does little to quell the tension still running high within him. He runs a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath.

  He walks away too, heading for his quarters.

  One month later, the palace is in chaos. Wang Lee sits stiffly with the other dancers during practice, but something feels off—the air thick with tension. Maids rush past in a flurry of hushed whispers, their usual grace replaced by frantic energy.

  Then he hears it: murmurs about healers from distant valleys and masters of herbs arriving en masse.

  "What's going on?" he mutters under his breath to one of the nearby dancers.

  The dancer hesitates before answering: "They say... Prince Jiyin collapsed last night."

  Wang Lee's breath hitches. The world around him blurs for a second—dancers, whispers, the rustle of silk and hurried footsteps fading into white noise.

  "Collapsed?" His voice is too sharp. He clears his throat, forcing calm. "Where? When?"

  The dancer exchanges uneasy glances with the others before whispering back: "The Imperial Study... at midnight. They say he was alone when it happened."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The other dancer's voice drops to a barely-there whisper, thick with sorrow.

  "It was always going to happen... A court prophet read the prince's fate years ago—'Your Highness will die between twenty and thirty.'" She presses her hands together as if warding off evil, "They say the stars themselves wrote it in blood."

  He clenches his jaw, fighting down the panic trying to claw its way up his throat.

  "How is he now?" he manages to ask, somehow keeping his voice steady.

  The first dancer glances up, her eyes dull with sadness.

  "They say he's still unconscious... The healers have been with him since it happened, but he hasn't woken at all."

  Wang Lee nods numbly, his mind working through the information on autopilot. He should feel relief, right?

  He looks down at the floor, hands curling into fists. Something ugly twists in his gut: worry. Worry for the infuriating, arrogant prince currently unconscious in the Imperial Study, surrounded by healers and hushed voices...

  (Midnight)

  Wang Lee waits until the palace is quiet, the night guards' patrols slow and drowsy. He slips out of his quarters with practiced ease—years of dance training have made him light on his feet, a shadow in silk.

  He dodges past two drunken sentries by pressing flat against a pillar, their laughter muffled as he melts into the moonlit courtyard. The outer wall is his final hurdle—too high to climb normally. But Wang Lee isn't climbing... not exactly.

  A whirlwind step from an ancient combat style launches him onto a low-hanging tree branch just outside; one swift leap lands him beyond palace grounds entirely. No alarms raised. "Best security - kai fu, huh?"

  (Get in forest)

  Wang Lee moves like a ghost through the thick forest, his footsteps light and silent beneath the towering trees.

  The darkness is near-absolute, but he slips between shadows with the ease of long training. The forest is silent as if holding its breath around him, even the nocturnal animals keeping their distance.

  He knows these woods like the back of his hand. Every dip in the terrain, every twist of the path, memorized from late-night walks and training sessions... including the exact path to the Imperial Study.

  Wang Lee steps in front of a gnarled, ancient oak—the one with bark scarred by centuries of wind and time. His fingers hover above its trunk before moving into precise formation: the Three-Handed Phoenix Seal, an obscure cultivation technique reserved for those trained in forbidden arts.

  His index, middle, and ring fingers press against the wood in rhythmic succession—left to right—while his other hand traces intricate spirals through the air. A low hum fills the space as latent energy responds to his touch:

  "Open."

  The tree shudders violently before parting like a curtain at its base... revealing hidden stairs descending into blackness below.

  From the other side, Wang Lee presses his palm against the inner surface of the oak's trunk—his fingers weaving a Reverse Seal in swift, precise motions. The air crackles as energy responds to his will.

  "Close."

  The stairs behind him seal shut with an ominous groan of ancient wood, leaving him in utter darkness save for a single flickering lantern further down. The forest above disappears as if it never existed—nowhere left to run but forward into whatever waits below... and whoever might be watching from beyond.

  Wang Lee raises his hands, fingers forming a Crescent Moon Seal—an intricate pattern of his index and middle fingers pressed together while the rest curve outward like moon blades. A low chant leaves his lips as cultivation energy responds to the gesture:

  "Linghui Zhen." (Spirit Light True)

  A pulse of soft silver light erupts from between his fingertips, casting eerie glow on the tunnel walls. The darkness peels back in layers—not just illuminating but revealing: runes carved into stone that weren't visible before... and something else moving deeper below.

  As Wang Lee descends further, he's hit with the sharp scent of damp earth and stone. Chill air seeps through every crack, carrying an edge of ice that leaves gooseflesh on his skin. When the stairs finally give way to a stone floor, the room beyond is revealed: small and square, lit by the soft silver of moon-glow.

  Runes carved into the walls flicker to life as the light falls upon their patterns: ancient sigils with no discernable meaning. In the center is a massive, circular array carved into the floor—its lines eerily familiar.

  Wang Lee unfurls the scroll with deliberate slowness, his eyes scanning the inked words—each one a dagger twisting deeper. His jaw clenches as he reads:

  "Some years ago... Prince Jiyin's prophecy was read: he will die between twenty and thirty. Yesterday night he co

  llapsed."

  A pause—then, like poison on parchment: "If this is fate's doing... then our mission nears completion."

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