"No. I won't agree. And I didn't lie," Ling said, her tone clear as winter water.

At that answer again, Dorado's brows knit like a storm gathering on the horizon.

A prickle of doubt rose—was this little thing just throwing a kid’s tantrum?

You couldn’t blame Dorado. Ling’s frame was a sapling among trees, ten years old at best; most would see a child first.

Dorado was ordinary enough; she wouldn’t peg the girl before her as a schemer with a heart deep as the sea.

And kids, once Gill barked at them, would bristle like a cat after a scold, hating anything tied to him. That’s normal.

Dorado knew a child’s sulk is glass under a hammer. You don’t press; you coax, you guide step by step like a lantern down a dark path.

“Hey, little Ling, you know? There are bad people in this world. Very, very bad. And they all share one thing: they love to lie and cheat,” she cooed, sing-song as a nursery rhyme.

Dorado began to spin a story; Ling stared back, blank as a wiped slate.

Moments ago she had the cool-aunt aura; now she looked like a silly mom trying to make a toddler laugh, all balloons and sugar.

An airheaded mom, through and through, like cotton candy in human form.

Her words slowed, syrup-thick, as if spoon-feeding a babbling infant, her voice wobbling oddly.

Even her pitch slipped into a fake kiddie voice for “relatability,” a too-small coat draped on Dorado’s tall frame.

Even the windows of her soul—her eyes—glowed with a halo of boundless mother-love, a saintly light like dawn over a shrine.

Irritation sparked in Ling—what the hell was this? She’d branded me a child on the spot, and by the look of it not even two and a half.

Ling tried to beam pure displeasure. The glare left her pupils, crossed the air, entered Dorado’s eyes—then filtered like light through frosted glass into harmless “confusion.”

As the saying goes, few moments make a woman happier than her child toddling over, chubby fingers tugging her hem, head tilted, eyes wide, lisping, “Mama, what’s this?”

Through Dorado’s gaze, Ling’s scowl went through auto-beautify, soft glow, and filters end to end, emerging as the innocent look of a curious child.

A maternal surge popped Dorado’s mental fuse, but she didn’t care; nothing mattered more than “her child,” like a hearth fire on a snowy night.

“Little Ling, Mommy’s telling you: you can’t be a brat. Since you promised your Uncle Gill, you must keep your word,” she said, gentle as feathers.

What the hell! Where did “Little Ling” even come from? And “Mommy”—she just slipped that title on like a crown in a mirror?

Sure, Dorado was gorgeous, with a hard-to-name cuteness. But—she looked way too young for “mom.” On the street, we’d pass for sisters under the same sun.

If anyone misunderstood, my nonexistent “dad” would get branded a creep with a schoolgirl fetish, a scumbag—labels like stains on white cloth. The guilt pooled heavy as wet wool.

Ling pushed away Dorado, who was leaning in for “physical persuasion”—a bear hug—and flicked her forehead, hard. Snap.

A forehead flick works, especially when delivered by a little force of nature like Ling.

The maternal halo behind Dorado blew off like dandelion fluff before a gust. Clarity rushed back, cool as a bucket of well water.

Thankfully, she didn’t hit the holy trinity of dumbfounded—“Who am I? Where am I? What’s for dinner?”—and grasped what had happened at once.

She didn’t admit she’d been charmed by Ling’s charm—or cuteness. She blamed it on a brief spell, like wandering off the path into fog.

Awkwardness pooled again like stagnant rainwater. Dorado didn’t want to touch this.

Gill had thought she’d back him, and he jolted from his slump like a fish sighting bait.

Then she fell silent again. Gill rode another wave of rise and crash, mind cracking like thin ice. He slumped against the chair back.

Ahem!

In the end, Ling picked up the thread like a weaver returning to her loom.

“I’ll repeat it. We have no obligation to accept any request from you. You can sign this agreement or not. That’s all I have,” she said, voice still as a lake.

She finished and sat back in her seat, prim and quiet, like a cat tucking its tail, saying nothing more.

Gill didn’t pick up the agreement. His hands sat heavy as stone; he clearly didn’t plan to sign.

Dorado only lowered her head to read. She’d never opposed the terms; helping Gill was just banking a favor, like tucking a coin away.

But King Alex neither signed nor skimmed. He just looked at Ling, words piling like clouds before rain.

“Ling, are you truly not afraid of Wulu’s retaliation?”

It wasn’t proper to say this in front of Gill, but no one stopped him. Gill’s face stayed stone, as if it wasn’t his weather to worry about.

No one cut in. Ling knew they wanted her stance on the aberrants. Even Dorado set the papers aside like a fan on a quiet table.

They were worried about her, after all. Ling’s goodwill toward the other two ticked up like a lantern lighting another. But their worry was a bit extra, umbrellas under clear skies.

“Honestly, I’m not scared at all~,” she said, smiling with a calm like moonlight on water.