“Ye, do you understand?”

Owen’s pale, fine-boned face twisted like a cracked mask; his twin red irises flickered with hate, his breath came shallow like winter wind.

Ye Weibai listened, the image of lively, sunny Philia weighed down by Misfortune; his eyes dropped, his silence spread cold and still like deep water.

Was he too sad to speak, his throat sealed by grief like ice?

No. Not that.

A common listener would empathize, then curse this unfair World like a bruised sky.

Ye didn’t stop there. He mourned for the little girl like a bell tolling in fog, and he thought, sharp as a blade through mist.

Owen’s hate and sorrow ran to the bone; that can’t be faked. His good home had been torn apart by a Monstrosity, like fire through dry paper. Ye didn’t think he’d misread it, nor that Owen was acting.

But—was the tale a hundred percent true? In principle, Owen had no need to lie. Yet Ye had trained himself to trust words like he trusts calm seas—never fully.

Besides, from the first meeting, Owen’s actions and expressions had felt off, like a note out of tune in a quiet hall.

Second, why reveal such a tragic past to a stranger at first sight? Was it a surge of feeling seeking release, as he claimed, not wanting to “hide from Ye”? Or was there something deeper, a seed buried under snow?

Third, and most crucial: this past could explain the villagers’ “pity,” their gazes like soft rain. It could not explain why that pity carried “fear,” nor why their smiles were hollow, like paper lanterns without a flame.

Worse, this past made Philia’s Oddness sharper—after such ruin, why did her eyes show no scars, no clouds, only clear spring?

Don’t say “she’s strong,” or “she’s optimistic,” or “it’s like she’s untouched,” or “she smiles through pain.” Those are curtains, not walls.

Those who’ve known tearing, bone-deep pain know: as Time flows like a slow river, wounds knit and scab. Yet scars stay, a pale ridge at the heart, bleeding if you brush it.

Happiness or hope can cover it like leaves over a stone. Once it exists, it never vanishes.

Such wounds—Ye Fei covers with Void, Xue Yutong packs with Fill, Ruan Lin dodges with Flash.

None of those erase.

And besides… it’s too short.

If it truly happened half a year ago, six months of Time is drizzle against a cliff; too brief to scour despair from stone.

She shouldn’t, and couldn’t, gleam with such bright, honest smiles in that storm.

Cruel as it sounds, “depression,” “silence,” “irritability,” “fear”—these should’ve been Philia’s present weather.

Reality wasn’t.

Ye felt it, the cause of this Oddness hid like a thorn in moss. To find it, and solve it, was the key in this maze.

He thought so.

…

“Sorry. I scared you.”

Seeing Ye silent for so long, Owen seemed to realize his lapse. He smoothed wind-tossed hair, sipped tea like bitter dusk, shoulders loosening as he sank back.

Ye shook his head. “No. I just don’t know what to say.”

“No, Ye. You don’t need to say anything. Just listen—” Owen paused, then added, “Just coming to our home already eases me, like a warm lamp in rain.”

Ye looked at him. Owen’s smile was gentle, his relief soft as spring light, his sincerity clear as glass.

So sincere—yet Ye felt a deep dissonance, like gravel under silk.

It wasn’t fake politeness, nor hostility, not even killing intent. Even Ye couldn’t name it; the dissonance was a color he’d never seen.

He’d never met this exact wrong note.

“Ye.” Owen cut through his thoughts. “You haven’t found a place to stay, right?”

Ye startled. “That’s true…”

“Good.” Owen smiled. “Stay with us.”

The invitation was kind, offered like warm bread.

Yet Ye’s first thought flashed like lightning—don’t accept.

“What’s wrong, you don’t want to?” Owen pressed, urgent like a hand on a door.

That urgency made the dissonance ring louder. Ye readied himself to refuse.

“W-w-what are you two t-talking about?”

Philia bounced between them, a sparrow in spring, curiosity shining.

At the girl’s arrival, Owen’s face softened like water. He flicked her forehead, smiling. “So many questions. Homework done?”

She whined, sugar-sweet. “L-let me r-rest first.”

Owen sighed, helpless, like wind through reeds. “You.”

“Hee-hee.” Indulged, the little girl preened like a cat. “S-so? W-what are you t-talking about?”

“I just invited Ye to stay the night.” Owen said, easy as pouring tea. “Ye was about to agree, but you cut in.”

“R-really? X-Xiao Bai!” Philia looked at Ye, delight bright as lanterns.

Ye froze.

“Right? You were, weren’t you?” Owen smiled at Ye, like a hand guiding a chess piece.

Ye pressed his lips. Philia’s expectant eyes glittered like twin stars, her tragic past drifted up like a black reed. His heart softened. He decided—what harm in staying? He didn’t fear village whispers. Worst case, that Monstrosity rises again like a bad dream.

But Owen had said a Demon Exorcist had killed it when word spread, clean as a blade through rot. That should be true, or this village would be an empty shell.

Besides, staying would help him find the truth, like lanterns along a path. Most of all, he could seek Philia’s despairing yet sincere tears.

Resolved, Ye smiled and nodded. “Yeah. Homeless me—Philia won’t turn me away, right?”

She smiled, then huffed with tiny pride. “M-maybe. If—if, X-Xiao Bai, y-you—”

Ye blinked. “If I steal your lines again, you’ll toss me out, right?”

“X-x-x-Xiao Bai!!” Philia puffed her cheeks like dumplings, eyes wide as coins. “B-brother, l-look!”

“Hahaha.” Owen laughed, warm as embers.

Watching Philia plead to her brother, all soft and kittenish, Ye laughed too, the courtyard air light as petals.

He never imagined that in a few hours, Misfortune would descend on him like a black bird.

…

“L-lunch is ready!”

High noon in the courtyard.

Ye moved the table and chairs under the eaves; he and Owen sat in a pocket of green, shadows pooling like ink.

A lively voice chirped from behind. Ye turned. Philia staggered through the doorway, a tray in her arms, steps wobbling like a young fawn.

“Careful.”

Ye stood, took the weight from her small hands. He set the potato stew and meat-sauce noodles on the tea table, steam rising like mist.

“N-no need—” Philia’s smile bloomed like a flower.

“I’m not worried about you,” Ye said, teasing as a breeze. “I’m worried about my lunch.”

“Mm—!” As expected, Philia puffed her cheeks, glaring like a tiny storm. “X-Xiao Bai!”

“Heh.” Owen chuckled beside them, eyes soft as velvet.

Philia huffed and dropped into a chair, a little queen on a throne.

“You two eat first.” Owen rose, struggling a bit, like a branch in wind.

“You’re not eating, Owen?”

He smiled. “I’ve gotten used to skipping lunch.”

He looked at Ye, gaze deep as a well. “I think… you won’t manage either.”

Ye didn’t understand.

Owen said nothing more. He smiled and drifted back inside, quiet as smoke.

Ye turned—and caught Philia peeking at him, eyes like lit stars.

“What?”

She blinked, then pointed at the dishes.

In the small bowl, potato soup held flecks of green like floating leaves. The noodles gleamed under meat sauce; steam rolled up in soft waves and filled the air.

From the look alone, Philia’s cooking was solid, pretty as a picture.

Yet the smell carried a sour edge, strange as unripe fruit, and a whiff like dead fish at low tide, a stale sea-stench curling up the nose.

Ye’s face stiffened, appetite collapsing like sand.

No wonder Owen wore that look… Philia, what secret ingredients did you summon into such simple food? The sight said potatoes and noodles; the scent said something else entirely.

Ye glanced toward the sitting room. Owen sat in a chair, smiling as if watching a play. Seeing Ye look, he smirked and gestured—please eat—like a host at a feast.

Ye sighed, the sound thin as a reed.

Philia looked confused, eyes tilting like leaves.

Ye’s hand hesitated. He sighed inside: eat. You won’t die.

“Looks nice.”

“O-of course~”

“I’ll try the potatoes first…”

He speared a piece, smiling, and slipped it into his mouth.

The girl watched, anxious and proud, like a cat presenting a caught moth. “H-how is it?”

“Mm~ not bad.” Ye nodded, chewing like a monk on herbs.

“Hee-hee~”

“What’s that?” Ye suddenly pointed behind Philia, surprise bright as a spark.

“H-huh?”

She turned at once, puzzled, and saw nothing. In that heartbeat, Ye’s smiling face contorted like he’d swallowed a packet of sour, sweet, bitter, spicy all at once; his eyes almost watered like a spring.

By the time she looked back, his expression was calm again, clouds drifting.

“N-nothing there.”

“Ah—cough—maybe I saw wrong.”

“Y-you’re s-strange, X-Xiao Bai.” She pouted, then pointed at the noodles. “T-try th-this.”

Faced with that expectant, triumphant gaze, what could he say?

“O-okay…”

Ye smiled a bitter smile inside and lifted his chopsticks.

“H-how is it?”

He chewed, smile frozen like frost. “Mm… h-how to… say?”

Philia puffed her cheeks, indignant thunder in a teacup. “X-Xiao Bai! D-don’t copy me—s-speak properly!”

Ye had no words. Should he say he wasn’t mimicking her? The noodles’ mysterious flavor had just jammed his tongue, breaking the little machine called language.

Breaking a little girl’s dream is unforgivable.

“Well, overall, it’s pretty good.” He swallowed with effort, then smiled. “Not bad at all. Keep it up.”

“Hmph. Y-you don’t need to say it!—W-where are you going?”

“…Where’s your bathroom?”

…

He won’t speak of the time after lunch. Ye felt he spent a strange pilgrimage in that bathroom, legs trembling like bamboo in wind. When he finally emerged, the sun had already leaned toward the west, gold spilling like honey.

Ye Weibai sagged into the chair, empty as a wrung towel. His gaze drifted to the clock on the living-room wall, a pale coin of time. Two thirty already—like waking into the next day. He could’ve sworn he’d been marooned in the bathroom for a day and a night.

Only heaven knew what kind of hell he’d just waded through.

Never underestimate the lethality of “dark cuisine.”

Maybe Owen’s frail body came from eating Philia’s cooking every day, worn thin by love and toxins alike. Then Owen was tougher than he looked; if it were Ye, he might’ve died with a smile.

When Owen saw Ye Weibai sprint for the bathroom the first time, he’d grinned, shook his head like a willow, and gone back to his room to rest.

Now the living room was empty, a shell washed clean by tide.

Ye let out a breath, washed his throat with a big mouthful of tea, and decided to check what little Philia was up to after that attempted culinary homicide fizzled.

He braced on the armrest and stood with effort, then went to the girl’s door.

Creak—

In case Philia was asleep, he eased the door open, soft as a cat’s paw.

And there she was: a small girl in pink pajamas, standing at the window, staring out as if spellbound.

In the unlit room, she seemed freshly risen from bed. Pink pajamas soft as dawn. Red hair tumbled down her back, baring a long, pale neck like porcelain.

Outside, the weather had turned sullen. Heavy clouds smothered the sun, the air gravid with rain.

The girl stood bathed in that dusk-light, bare feet on the cold floor, still as a reed a stray breeze could bend away.

Ye Weibai held his breath, heart a tight drum in the fog.

From the first glance—only hours ago—her cloudless, sun-bright self had etched into him. Yet now, alone, Philia felt brittle, a blade of grass caught in wind.

He couldn’t help it. He tiptoed over, breath tucked in, and stood at her side.

“What are you looking at?”

“There.” She didn’t turn. A small finger pointed beyond the glass.

In the garden, on a waist-high shrub, a white butterfly rested like a petal on the green tip of a leaf.

Behind it, a deep-green mantis blended like a leaf’s shadow, inching closer with the hush of moss.

The butterfly sensed nothing, lingering as if in love with the moment.

No doubt—this was a cruel pageant between predator and prey.

Ye’s breath snagged; in a flash he thought of that thing Owen had spoken of, a thorn in memory.

But Philia, the one who’d lived it, watched with a calm face, eyes unblinking, as if hungry to see what came next.

On the twig, the prey fluttered its light wings, unknowing. Behind it the hunter, close enough now, raised its twin blades.

Whoosh—

He could almost hear those sharp forelegs cleaving the air.

He moved in the same heartbeat. He pulled the girl into his arms, and his hand covered her eyes, shielding her from a scene both bloody and “natural.”

“X-x-Xiao Bai?”

Warmth closed around her; in a blink she knew she was held by Ye Weibai. Heat flooded her cheeks like steam, and she cried out, flustered.

“W-what’s happening?”

He held her soft, slender frame, her warmth a little hearth in winter, and a sigh left him without sound.

Then he tipped back with her, falling onto the bed behind them like a wave folding into shore.

“Ah—ah—ah?!” She flailed, tumbling with him.

It ended with Ye Weibai cradling Philia, the two of them lying on the white bed, a blank field of snow.

“Ah… ah?” Her head pillowed in his chest, and her face all but steamed. “W-what—Xiao Bai?!”

“Sleepy—”

Ye tugged the quilt up and spread it over them both. He tightened his arm a little and whispered at her ear.

“Let’s sleep, Xiao Fei.”

“Eh—eh—eh—eh—eh?!”