It was a noisy night; the Glachidor Clan’s manor hummed like a beehive under lantern light. Their heir, missing for near a month, had finally returned. She brought back a man, yet the elders stared past Ouyang like stone lions; as long as Xi was home, the rest was fog.
In a shadowed corner, Ouyang gnawed a whole cabbage, the leaves blistered and smoky. The darkness pooled like ink around him, and the roasted scent clung like damp wood.
He had no seat at the feast; Xi had called him her servant, and servants were kept outside the glow like moths barred from flame. Even this cabbage he’d wrestled from a knot of servants like stray dogs worrying a bone.
As the Demon King Council’s first seat, he felt his crown sink into mud. If Wutong heard, that guy would peck at him daily like a relentless woodpecker.
Frustration boiled like a kettle; he wanted to spit fire. “Damn, a bunch of starved ghosts. If I had the magic, I’d cast ‘Carnage Banquet’ and let you love and kill in the same breath.” He bit down; the cabbage cracked like frost.
He sniffed, pride raised like a fan. “Short-sighted mortals, pecking low-grade slop like sparrows. This, this is the high table.” The words glittered like cheap coins.
Truth was, it was sour grapes; what he couldn’t reach tasted bitter as ash. He didn’t need food to live, but this treatment bruised his pride like a ripe peach dropped.
While he chewed alone, a little girl in a princess dress toddled over, a doll hugged tight. “Hehe, I found a puppy someone abandoned.” Her hair burned orange like autumn leaves, and her face echoed Xi like a moon seen in a still pond.
She patted his head, light as a falling feather. “Don’t cry, puppy. If you’re thrown away, I’ll adopt you.”
A brat—where’d she crawl out from? Annoyance pricked like nettles, and he lifted a hand to shoo her, but something he saw iced him white as chalk.
She should be kin to Xi, yet when their gazes met he fell into depths. Her eyes were wells of ink, pure black, no whites to catch the light.
“Hehe…” Her laugh rang like a silver bell gone hollow, and Ouyang felt his soul hover like smoke ready to drift.
“You… you…” He stammered, tongue knotted like twine.
“Big brother, is that roasted cabbage? It smells so good.” Somewhere in the blink, her eyes shifted to a deep violet, and a crescent moon floated like a boat in her pupils.
An illusion? Doubt pricked like a thorn, but he propped his chin and let his mind lie flat like a still lake. He didn’t buy it; a commoner might, but he was a Demon King, and his spirit was god-tier steel.
If it wasn’t an illusion, then a storm swelled beyond the hills. He lifted his eyes to the girl, watching her like a hunter watches wind.
“Illusion? What illusion?” she asked, hugging her teddy so tight the seams creaked; she looked eleven or twelve, cute as a snowdrop on a fence.
He wasn’t in the mood to admire, irritation buzzing like flies. He waved her off. “Brat, go play in the mud. I’m busy.”
“I don’t play in mud,” she said, voice clear as spring water. “Mother says it’s dirty. She doesn’t allow it.”
She leaned in, eyes shining like twin stars. “Big brother, can I have some? It’s my first roasted cabbage. It must be delicious.”
This brat… A vein bulged like a blue worm on his temple, and his patience cracked like thin ice.
“Fine, don’t play in mud. Go play with animals. Dogs, cats—let them keep you company.”
“But Father forbids it unless an adult is around,” she said, rules clanking like an iron gate. “Those animals might hurt me.”
His words scattered like pebbles on a river, and she stood unblinking like a little statue. Ouyang went speechless, a dry wind gusting through him.
He slumped deeper into the corner, the stone cold as old bones, and gnawed in silence. Whatever she said, he treated her like mist. Soon, boredom tugged her away, her steps skipping like stones across a pond.
He watched her back ribbon through the hall, thoughtful as a cat at dusk, and snorted a puff of frost.
He only wanted a quiet nook to finish his cabbage like a monk finishing tea. One girl left, and a grown girl drifted in on the scent of polished wood.
“Sir, I didn’t expect you to treat her like that. She’s the Glachidor Clan’s little princess—Xi’s younger sister, Xian.” A maid rested against the wall with him, her voice smooth as silk.
Her chestnut hair was bound by a white ribbon like a river tied with snow, and her blue-and-white uniform set off a figure carved as if by a careful hand. Even Ouyang had to admit, beside Snow, Xi’s curves were beat like a drum without a skin.
He clicked his tongue, a pebble tapping glass. “That brat. One look and you can tell she shares blood with that idiot woman.”
The maid blinked, then understanding lit like a candle. He’d just insulted the young lady, and her eyes widened, impressed as if she’d found a rare coin.
“Sir, from your tone, you and the young lady clash like flint and steel. Looks like you’ve been through something together.” Her smile was warm as autumn sun, but Ouyang’s guard rose like a shield.
Her observation cut sharp; she’d read him from voice and face, a blade slid under paper. His vigilance tightened like a drawn bow.
“I’m Ouyang,” he said, smile drifting like a spring breeze. “How should I address such a beautiful lady?”
He tipped the conversation aside like a boat avoiding a rock; he neither admitted nor denied, letting his words swim like fish.
“Snow,” she said, her name falling soft as snowflakes. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ouyang.”
“Please, the pleasure’s mine,” he said, honey on his tongue. “To meet a woman with both wisdom and beauty—Snow—must be virtue from a past life. From the last life, the one before, the one before that, and the one before…”
Snow watched the “before” march like stacked stones, then she laughed, a note bright as glass. “You believe in reincarnation too? So do I. I hold that everyone has a first source, a spring. Time flows like a river, people die like leaves falling, yet the source doesn’t end. The wheel keeps turning.”
He wanted to cut in, then stepped back, his temper folding like a fan. He listened, quiet as a good audience, the cabbage crunching like dry reeds.
Snow noticed he’d settled to watch the play, so she paused; their bout ended with the board empty as dusk. Ouyang let the skirmish fade like smoke.
“Mr. Ouyang, you have refined taste,” Snow said, voice teasing like silk on skin. “Roasting cabbage—few people do that.”
She moved to spar again, but Ouyang had no interest in fencing shadows. He smiled, a mask smooth as lacquer, and answered every question with a soft “heh-heh,” two dry coughs in the air.
At last, Snow set her fan down; there was no opening to press. She stopped other topics, and simply gazed, smiling, gentle as warmed wine.
From afar, tucked in that dim corner like a lantern alcove, a man and a woman looked at each other with threads of light. The gentleness, the shared smile—they were lovers carved from a spring dream.
Unfortunately, a little lass caught the scene like a sparrow snatching a crumb.
Xian bounced over with her doll, her steps springy as coiled wire. “Wow, big brother and Sister Snow are a couple. You two are so loving.” Her voice rang like a bell, and the hall turned as one like a field of sunflowers.
To be fair, they did look lovestruck, eyes soft as silk. If Ouyang hadn’t been chewing a cabbage, the crowd would’ve believed at once. Even with leaves between his teeth, some believed anyway, like reeds bending with the wind.
“Who’s that cabbage-muncher?” someone blurted, envy bright as copper. “Snow’s just a maid, but in town her popularity soars like a kite. That cabbage-muncher snuck in and captured her without a sound.”
Cabbage-muncher—another tag stuck to Ouyang like a burr on cloth. No one knew his name; they saw the cabbage, so the nickname flew like a banner.
The stir buzzed like a hive, and Snow looked embarrassed, a blush rising like dawn. She bowed like a bending willow to apologize for the commotion, but she didn’t explain; the silence hung like mist.
Before leaving, Snow glanced at Ouyang, a quick arrow across the air, and the crowd boiled like a pot.
“She admitted it, she must’ve!” someone cried, giddy as spring wine. “That’s a lover’s lingering gaze.”
A fat man gripped a chicken drumstick, despair dripping like oil, eyes pinned to Snow’s fading silhouette. He glanced at Ouyang’s crisp cabbage, then at his greasy leg, and felt the other man’s “class” rise like a temple tier.
“Why do I chew chicken, he chews cabbage, and yet she favors him?” he muttered, thoughts popping like bubbles. “Could munching cabbage make girls like you?”
Others sneered, blades flashing like cold light. “It’s not the cabbage, you lump of meat. Look at you.”
But hot-blooded youths heard a different drum, their blood fizzing like chili oil. They seized on the idea like a torch in wind.
“Cabbage—it’s gotta be the cabbage! Brothers, munching cabbage will make girls like you!” someone shouted, and the crowd surged like a tide. For a while, cabbage-munching rolled through the town like a fashion breeze.
