After explaining to Alicia why she’d cried, Ling’s heart still fluttered like sparrows in bamboo, and she bolted with a brittle excuse—“I’m thirsty, I’ll grab a drink”—her retreating silhouette to Alicia all fluster and fear, like a hare darting into reeds.

Maybe it was her naive loli logic: since she’d used thirst as cover, she actually went to the vending machine, neon humming like a cicada at dusk.

She slipped a coin into the dusty, seldom-used slot, the clink falling like a raindrop into a quiet well, rose on her tiptoes to press the top-row coffee, then hugged the warm can to her chest like a pocket heater and perched on a nearby bench, cool as river stone; the tab still uncracked, her gaze drifted off like a cloud blown thin.

What was she thinking? No one knew—maybe that eerie feeling from before, like cold dew at dawn; maybe the prickly guilt of hiding things from Alicia, like a burr in the sleeve; or maybe… simple blankness, a lake without ripples.

Time pooled like water in a shaded bowl; she didn’t know how long. A crisp can-pop cut the air like a kingfisher’s click—followed by someone’s bold gulps, like drums down a valley.

Glug-glug-glug…

The thief raised her prize like a banner and let the now-cold coffee pour down like a winter brook. Ling watched her own can—when had this girl even snatched it?—tip back and vanish, and the emptiness in her chest turned from white sand to a live coal, small but hot.

“Ah—so good!” The satisfied cry fluttered through the air like a flag in wind.

Not only did she finish it, she made a show of it, like a cat waving a stolen fish—really asking for a smack.

“Don’t be mad. I’ll get you another, won’t I?” The tone slid by like a breeze dodging stones.

“Huh? You—”

Before she could finish, a warm can—fresh as bread just out of the oven—arced into her hands, the exact same brand, label like a twin.

“Why?” The single word glinted like a pebble in a stream.

“Why what? Kids shouldn’t drink coffee.” Alicia’s voice tapped her knuckles like a ruler on a desk. “I’ll let it slide for National Day, like fireworks once a year. No more next time, okay?”

She sidestepped the question like a fish slipping a net, and fanned Ling’s ember into flame with one lazy sentence; Alicia’s talent for talk was a blade wrapped in silk.

“Say that again! I’m not a kid! I’m—”

Add my past life’s eighteen to my current thirty in the head… that’s… f—f—forty-six! Yes, a forty-six-year-old adult, like an old pine on the ridge!

How am I supposed to say that out loud?! The words felt like a stone stuck in her throat.

“You’re what?” Alicia’s smile curved like a hook.

“I…I…I’m an adorably cute little loli! ớ ₃ờ” The declaration popped out like a sugar plum flung from a bag.

She gave up, letting the argument drift like a leaf on a slow river—loli it is; better than spiraling into weird thought mazes again.

Alicia’s face pinched with theatrical disgust, like she’d sniffed vinegar; she even gave a tiny gag, a dry ripple like a cat swallowing a hair.

Ling flushed on the spot, cheeks blooming like peach petals. She’s the one who calls me a kid, and she’s the one who looks down on me! How can there be such a nasty woman… no, such a female Yokai, thorny as wild bramble!

Before Ling’s temper could burst like summer thunder, Alicia yanked the conversation back to purpose, clean as a wind change over the sea.

“Alright, alright, enough nonsense. Back we go. Father says he’s got a surprise for you…”

“Father?” The word rang in her ears like a bell down a corridor.

Oh! That daughter-obsessed old man… I’d almost forgotten I’m his adoptive daughter now, a vine I never asked to climb; not that I want to admit it.

“What could he even give me?” Her skepticism lay flat like a calm pond.

Alicia shrugged, palms up like empty shells, wearing a neat “no idea” face.

Whatever. Let’s take a look; idle hands are just autumn leaves, drifting anyway.

With Alicia’s sudden arrival like sunlight through fog, Ling shook off that odd haze and followed her back toward backstage, footsteps beating like soft drums behind the curtain.

“Yahoo—dear audience, your host is back!” The emcee’s voice leapt like a kite in a spring wind. “How was that performance just now? The tale may not be entirely true, like mist that changes with the light, but who cares—we only need to know it’s carved its mark into generation after generation, like a river cutting through stone. Also, our King is here tonight, a mountain in the house, and rumor says he’s got announcements to make. So this small fry will bow out, like a leaf making room for the moon, and leave the time to His Majesty!”

The words brushed the line of impolite like a fingertip over a blade, yet no one minded; the hall breathed easy, open as a summer field.

The old king came up wearing a full smile, winter sun on a frosted roof; his white hair made the kindness glow warmer, like snow under gold light. He accepted the mic with a light touch, eyes sweeping left to right like a tide, and then he spoke.

“Ahem! Ah—ah—ah. Ahem. Okay, done playing.” The boyish test rang like a child tossing pebbles into a pond.

This king was surprisingly childish, a willow bending when you expected oak.

“Ahem. Today marks our empire’s birthday again, lanterns relit for another year,” he said, words steady as a bell toll. “It’s also one more year I’ve been cared for by this country, like an old tree sheltered by a forest. First things first, thank you for spending time with this old man. I’ve got plenty to say, like a scroll that never ends, but since we’re all gathered, let’s skip the dull parts and head straight to the point.”

He flicked his hand back, a fan’s graceful turn, and two black-clad attendants brought out a map as tall as two men, a wall of parchment like a cliff face.

“This is our empire’s map,” he went on, voice warm as embers. “I’m truly old now, leaves thinning in the wind; I can’t watch over you for many more years. One among my children must be chosen as king. Announcing it here may be informal, like tea without ceremony, but who cares, right?”

He took a pen from an attendant, the tip skating like a crane’s foot, and drew circles along the empire’s outer rim—ink rings spreading like ripples on a pond—some larger, some smaller, but close enough like stones in one hand.

After six or seven circles, he returned the pen and lifted his gaze again, not to the sea of faces anymore but to the front of the stage—to his children, lined up like young hawks on a rail.

“Pick whichever plot you like,” he said, each word a stake set in earth. “I give you five years, five rings on a sapling. The land is uninhabited, blank as new parchment. Whoever manages their plot best, gathers the most people like birds to a warm roof, and wins the people’s hearts like a current that chooses its channel—that one will be the new king. Rest easy, though. Those not chosen will still keep their land, a hearth for their future days.”

The choosing of a new king had begun out of nowhere, like thunder from a clear sky; the boys and girls in the front row, seventeen or eighteen, buzzed like a hive, but soon someone spotted a thorn in the garland.

“Father! Did you mark one plot too many?” The question flew like a startled swallow.

It mattered. If the old king had circled too many, the rest would each claim a wider slice, hunger stretching like a bottomless well.

The old king understood that gleam in the eye, and he smiled, sly as a fox under snow.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Each plot divides the whole evenly, like wedges of the same moon. And that extra plot is…”