Chapter Text
The Northern Kingdom, the transmigrator discovered, was far more fascinating than he had ever imagined. Its society revolved around a strict monarchy, but it was not merely a system of governance. It was an entire philosophy, a theocracy.
There were the clans and families of noble blood, lords and ladies from old money. Old history and fortunes that moved the kingdom.
The heart of it all stood the Monarch, whether King or Queen. The title alone signified more than supreme political power; the Monarch was both head of state and the spiritual axis of the realm. In the eyes of the people, the Monarch was not simply a ruler, they were divine intermediaries, living vessels who bridged the realm of mortals and the will of their Goddess.
Along with the law, the Monarch commanded the military, aiming victory at any cost. The kingdom’s social institutions, from the education of its children to the organization of its cities. They were meticulously structured around martial excellence and physical cultivation. To live in the Northern Kingdom was to live for war: every breath, every prayer, every heartbeat tuned toward strength and conquest.
The transmigrator could not help but feel a sharp, almost curiosity stir within him. This was not only a kingdom; it was a vast, living machine of discipline and devotion, a society where power was both sword and sacrament. Kinda like Sparta, he compared, or maybe Egypt.
The Northern Kingdom was a hereditary monarchy, in theory. In practice, the path to the throne was far from straightforward. To truly ascend, the chosen prince (or princess) had to kill the reigning ruler in an ancient ceremony. It was a rite woven into the kingdom’s bones, a sacred, brutal ceremony. Difficult, magnificent, and drenched in blood, it transformed the heir not merely into a monarch, but into a divine embodiment of the realm’s power.
There was only one problem: Hanchen and everything he represented.
Yes, Hanchen (future Mobei Jun) was the problem. Can you believe that? It surprised him, even now, to realize he had a name beyond the cold, distant title of Mobei Jun. But he did Yet he was never truly meant to be prince. He had no surname and no official bloodline seal (he had his dam´s). A deliberate erasure. His sire had once scorned him, declaring him too weak at birth to be worthy of the throne. Only his dam’s desperate, bloody fight against the old woman had kept him alive at all.
In the royal nursery, Hanchen was the perpetual shadow. The black sheep whispered about in passing, never fully acknowledged. His presence was tolerated, not welcomed; his life, an inconvenient mercy rather than a rightful inheritance.
Even so with a tarnish in his name, his uncle, Linguang Jun, obsessed over the idea that only by killing Hanchen could he become the “true” Mobei Jun, the one the gods would recognize. It was a twisted conviction, echoing through court corridors in poisoned words and veiled threats.
And so the politics surrounding the title of Mobei Jun’s festered in secret wars and silent blades. Hanchen was, on paper, the true successor. He was the one most suited to inherit the icy throne. Yet no one truly wanted him. To them, he was an unwelcome symbol of weakness, an heir no one could bear to accept.
In this kingdom of frost and blood, Hanchen’s dam might have been his only warmth. His Niam Niam, his mother.
Hanchen had been born on a day of sweltering heat. The sun stood mercilessly at its highest point in the sky, scorching the earth below, an omen so inauspicious that the entire royal court had fallen into an uneasy silence. In the Northern Kingdom, a realm built on frost and night winds, such a birth was practically a prophecy of doom.
The second day after his birth was when it happened: the transmigration. A soul from another world slipped silently into the fragile, newborn body, eyes fluttering open with a spark that did not belong to any infant.
Mobei Jun, his sire and his Queen, had looked upon him with cold contempt. The child was too small, too fragile, too warm. In Mobei Jun’s eyes, Hanchen was the embodiment of his Niam Niam’s weakness, a stain on the unyielding bloodline of the north.
“She has tarnished the child,” Mobei Jun had spat, voice sharp as an ice blade. “Her weak heart has corroded his spirit.”
With that, any possibility of acceptance was severed. From the very beginning, Hanchen’s existence was a quiet battle against the harsh judgment of the kingdom, a life declared unwanted before it had even begun. And all the while, the newborn, with a mind now much older than his tiny hands suggested, lay silent, listening to the world that had already decided he was unworthy.
In his first days, Hanchen almost burst out laughing as he listened to the court’s whispered disgust, their veiled insults dancing like frostbite around him. Airplane! He howled internally, his mind echoing with manic disbelief. Airplane, are you serious right now? Are you an Avatar fan or something!?
This - this was straight out of a Zuko backstory! A weak, unwanted heir, scorned by his sire, surviving only through a mother’s desperate protection? It was so melodramatic he half-expected a blue spirit mask to drop from the ceiling and a firebending uncle to offer him tea. He had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Even so, a faint tremor tugged at the corner of his mouth, threatening to betray his amusement.
The courtiers watched him with cold eyes, misreading the flicker of mirth as yet another sign of his unworthiness. But inside, Hanchen was shrieking with laughter. Because in this frigid, cutthroat palace, the only fun left to him was his own ridiculous, unstoppable sense of humor.
Thank the heavens, Hanchen thought dryly, he didn’t have a sibling. After his birth, his parents had never shared a bed again. His Niam Niam had been granted an entire separate palace, far away from Mobei Jun’s icy halls. A cold exile disguised as mercy.
At least that meant there would be no brilliant, murderous little sisters lurking in the shadows. No terrifying child prodigy with golden eyes and a penchant for lightning strikes.
Sorry, Azula, he snickered inwardly. No stage for you in this tragic family drama.
It was a small comfort, but in a life as bleakly orchestrated as his, even that counted as a victory. No rival heirs. No baby assassins. Just Hanchen, the unwanted heir, the lonely prince, and, apparently, the only actor left in this frostbitten royal farce.
It was fucking dangerous do be baby Mobei Jun since everyone wanted him dead.
Mobei Jun’s court schemed daily to poison or stab him. His uncle’s faction dreamed of tearing him apart in a glorious public execution. The kingdom’s subjects muttered curses behind closed doors, wishing for his swift demise as if it were a seasonal blessing. Even Huan Hua Palace (yes, that same refined, elegant sect, he was surprised too) wanted his head on a spike. In fact, Huan Hua despised his Niam Niam even more than they despised him.
She had told him the story herself, late at night in quiet, trembling whispers to only a baby to listen: how she had once helped her dear friend Tianlang Jun meet his lover, Su Xiyan, defying the rigid political alliances of the demonic clans. That one act of compassion had burned bridges with Huan Hua so thoroughly that they still held a grudge sharp enough to draw blood.
The guy´s (Tianlang Jun) has yet to be imprisoned in the mountains. The transmigrator didn´t know when this happened, which was a bummer. He had theories about Tianlang Jun's imprisonment, but he could not confirm, since he was, you know, a baby.
He had never really understood, back when he read the novel, why the Palace Master of Huan Hua had been so nice with Luo Binghe. So fixated on controlling him, being close to him. Now he knew. Didn’t the man now know he was the son of his head disciple?
He needed to look deeper into this.
Well, at least he could look forward to one thing. When Binghe inevitably came to defeat him, to force his loyalty with overwhelming strength, Hanchen decided he would spill all the tea. Every scandal, every family betrayal, every petty northern vendetta. Wait until you hear this one, Binghe, he thought gleefully. You’re going to choke on your spiritual tea.
So here they were, waiting for the carriage with his Niam Niam at his mother’s palace. Small, but dignified. Tucked away like a pearl hidden deep beneath layers of ice, the palace radiated a quiet, stubborn grace that mirrored its mistress perfectly. It was the first time The Prince would go to a ball with the Queen Consort.
Ah, his Niam Niam….
She was a Zòuyù in human form, a divine beast whispered about in ancient legends: a creature of white fur and silver eyes, said to bring both blessings and fierce vengeance. Her human shape was elegant and coolly regal, every movement measured and graceful. She had white hair with black streaks, like a snow leopard coat. Big, almost tall as a pillar that held her palace.
But it was in her true form that her majesty truly shone.
As a snow leopard, she was breathtaking. Thick, silken fur like newly fallen snow; muscles rippling beneath as she moved with predatory power; those sharp, glacial eyes that could pin even the proudest courtiers into stunned silence.
(He ignored the fact his mother is a cat girl. A gigantic and muscular cat girl (cat woman?), but still a cat girl, nonetheless.)
Hanchen had always thought she looked more like a moonlit mountain spirit than a mere royal consort. And now, in this quiet palace carved from exile, she remained his only warmth. A solitary moon against the endless northern night.
Tsheej Hli, his Niam Niam had whispered to him one moonless night, her cool breath brushing his forehead like falling snow. That was her true name. The name of her people, the name of her ancestors. “Chenchen have a name too”, she whispered to him, “ Tsheej Luj ”, the name had so much power, but Hanchen did not know the significance of it yet.
In the Northern Kingdom (and the Tsheej Clan or the Demon Realm over all, truly), names held power. A deep, ancient power. A true name was a shard of the soul, a living thread tying spirit to body. To give it away carelessly was to hand someone the blade that could cut you from the world. Only a title was offered to strangers, to courtiers, to the countless scheming eyes that prowled the frozen palace halls.
To them, she was Baiying Diji, the White Shadow Imperial Consort. An unassailable figure, cold and dignified as moonlit snow, locked away from court politics.
But to him, she was Tsheej Hli, his Niam Niam.
The sound of that name felt like a secret warmth cupped between trembling hands. Fragile, dangerous, and precious beyond words. When she spoke it, the harsh winds of the North seemed to still, as though the entire kingdom paused to listen.
Hanchen understood that no matter how alone he felt in the endless frost, there would always be this one hidden thread, this quiet proof that someone had once called him son with true, gentle breath. Even if she was indeed only a shadow.
Niam Niam was quiet as her title suggested. Aloof, even.
Hanchen suspected she had absolutely no idea how to treat a child. She never cooed at him or pinched his cheeks. She never spoke in that syrupy, sing-song tone that so many mortal mothers used to coax laughter from their babies.
She didn’t smile, not really. And yet, she was warm, in her own distant, moonlit way.
She held him with steady, careful hands, as though he were something precious but fragile, a shard of crystal that might shatter under careless touch. She would watch him, eyes like cold starlight, as if trying to decipher a language she had never learned to read.
Hanchen, for his part, didn’t mind. He was an adult soul in a baby’s body; he had no need for silly games or endless giggles. While he still felt the strange, overwhelming urges of an infant to cling, to nuzzle, to cry, he understood her distance, and it didn’t hurt him the way it might have hurt a normal child.
Sometimes, when he managed to gurgle or grab her sleeve just so, he almost felt like he was teaching her how to be a mother. Each hesitant moment of contact, each small, awkward attempt to understand him, was a quiet lesson. One he gave patiently, despite the difference in their ages and worlds. In those silent, careful nights, Hanchen realized something strange and bittersweet: perhaps they were both learning together how to be a family, step by slow, tentative step.
After all, they were alone in this mess. It was just the two of them inside the palace. No eunuchs. No servants gliding quietly through corridors. No gentle maids to pour tea or warm bed sheets on icy nights.
Only Tsheej Hli and Hanchen, alone within the cold, echoing halls.
The Jìbai Palace, Silent White Palace, itself was alive with shimmering talismans. They were elegant charms that kept the floors spotless and the halls free of dust. But beyond that, every other task fell to her: cooking, washing clothes, mending torn robes, tending the enormous garden behind the jade screen walls.
She had to do everything herself.
Once, she had been a princess from a noble frost clan. The honored Tsheej Clan, blessed with the blood of the snow leopard. Her life had been spent learning court etiquette, dance beneath moonlight, the elegant ways of hunters who held themselves above the mundane world. At least she knew how to weave, just like every woman in the Clan.
She had never been taught to clean ashes from a stove, or to knead dough with her delicate hands until they turned raw and red, or to protect the frozen garden to not rot. Yet there she was, sleeves pinned up, hair hastily tied, moving through her small kitchen with careful, awkward determination. She knew how to hunt and how to kill.
Before they dressed themself to the ball, Niam Niam fed them Longcheng Bread and meat, sometimes fish. The only meal she knew how to make.
Her son, barely more than a fragile bundle of warmth, was strapped to her back with a plain linen sling. His soft breaths ghosted against her shoulder blades as she stirred, tried to see if the bread was ready, chopped the meat, selected the seeds to plant, or scrubbed a robe until the water ran clear again.
Mobei Jun had forbidden her from keeping any attendants. No helping hands, no voices to offer comfort or relief. Only her own strength, forced into quiet service behind sealed doors.
And yet, she did not falter.
Under the cold decree of exile, Tsheej Hli, once a noble moonlit princess, learned the weight of a broom, the heat of the hearth, the sting of soap against her skin. She learned to do it all with a child on her back, every task a silent rebellion, every meal she placed before her son a quiet vow: That no matter how small or powerless they were in this frozen kingdom, she would not let him starve. She would not let him be dirty. She would not let him be alone.
As he drifted half-asleep against her shoulder, Hanchen realized she might not know how to smile. But this, all of this, was her love made real.
"Niam Niam will teach Hanchen how to do it," she said calmly, her voice cool and steady. She did not look up as she spoke, focused instead on the bloody stag she had just hunted. Her sharp eyes traced every curve of flesh, carefully trying to judge what was muscle, what was fat, where to slice so the meat would stay clean and tender. "But first," she murmured, almost to herself, "Niam Niam needs to learn for herself."
Hanchen, perched against her back, peered over her shoulder. In his past life, he had been a pampered young master, his delicate fingers touching nothing more dangerous than a a cellphone or a teacup.
The sight of the gory carcass made his stomach twist. He grimaced, tiny face scrunching, and nuzzled deeper into the crook of her neck, as if trying to hide from the raw, visceral reality before him. Yikes , Niam Niam... he thought weakly, fighting the urge to gag. I was not emotionally prepared for live butchery lessons today.
But she only continued working, her movements awkward yet determined, her soft hair tickling his forehead. And even as he pressed himself tighter against her in silent protest, some small, grudging part of him felt a spark of admiration.
Tsheej Hli might not have known how to cradle him with sweet words, but here, with a blade and raw meat, she was teaching him something far rarer: how to survive.
Naturally, Mobei Jun had given her exactly what she needed to survive. No more, no less. Enough to live without worry of hunger or cold, enough to keep the roof from leaking or the fires burning through the long northern nights. They were not poor, but they were far from truly rich.
Sometimes, during the quiet afternoons when the snow fell like drifting feathers outside, Niam Niam would take out her old heirloom jewelry. They were delicate, moon-silver ornaments from the Tsheej clan, each piece heavy with ancestral pride.
Neck Rings, thick silver collars or layered neck rings, often worn by both men and women, symbolize protection and status. Believed to guard the soul and keep it from wandering, she explained in a murmur. Earrings and hairpieces, intricately designed with loops, feathers, or symbolic shapes like horns or flowers. Bangles & Bracelets, worn stacked on both arms during celebrations. Bells and dangles sewn into clothing or attached to jewelry, they make a distinct sound during movement meant to call ancestors or repel spirits.
She would place Hanchen carefully in her lap, his small hands curling against her sleeve as he watched her. Then, with slow, almost reverent movements, she would adorn herself: a shimmering pendant shaped like a snow leopard mid-pounce, jade bangles carved with mountain mist patterns, a thin headpiece that glittered like frost beneath moonlight.
She looked as if she were preparing for a grand banquet or a royal moon-viewing party. Some distant, elegant life that had once been hers. Hanchen would remain silent then, watching her with wide, solemn eyes. He understood, somehow, that these were her private moments of weakness.
She’s so young, he thought, a faint ache curling in his chest. She must have lived for centuries. Powerful enough to maintain her flawless, luminous youth. Yet, draped in the Tsheej clan’s jewels and layered clothes, she didn’t look regal or indomitable.
She looked lost.
Like a young girl dressing up in her mother’s finery, dreaming of dances she would never attend, of laughter echoing in halls that had long since turned to dust. It was rare they could go to the Clan territory.
In those silent afternoons, Hanchen would lean his tiny head against her arm, as if to steady her. Neither of them spoke. But in the hush of the snowbound palace, that simple closeness was the only comfort they had left.
Hanchen, as her son and heir, had jewelry of his own. They were small, exquisite pieces from the Tsheej clan, passed down for generations to mark their bloodline. Tiny jade anklets, delicate moonstone beads, silver charms shaped like snow leopard cubs.
And just like any other baby, he felt a relentless, baby urge to gnaw on them.
Whenever Niam Niam dressed him in these precious ornaments, his eyes would light up with single-minded determination. Before she could adjust the final clasp, his chubby hands were already tugging a pendant toward his mouth, gums working furiously at the priceless moonstone as if it were a teething toy.
Niam Niam, who almost never smiled, would laugh softly then - a rare, crystalline sound that filled the quiet palace halls like spring water trickling over ice.
Hanchen often lost the battle against the baby urges. Everytime, she did not pry the stones from his grip, nor scold him. Instead, she would simply watch, her sharp eyes softening as he drooled all over centuries-old heirlooms.
By the time she finally managed to reclaim them, the magnificent stones were thoroughly covered in spit, gleaming in the lamplight with an entirely undignified shine. Niam Niam would shake her head, her lips quirking at the corners, and gently wipe the jewelry clean, all the while holding him close, as if even this small, slobbery mischief was something precious beyond words.
"We do not eat rocks," she said, her tone as stern and unyielding as a battlefield general delivering orders before a siege.
Hanchen, cradled in her arms and still clutching a moonstone charm, let out a long, theatrical whine. Then he pushed out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout, his large eyes shimmering with feigned indignation.
Yes, technically, he was a grown man inside. An adult soul who had once written essays and debated cultivation theories late into the night in a forum with idiots. But none of that mattered here. Tsheej Hli was lonely . Isolated in her silent palace, she had no one else to scold, no one else to coax into obedience, no one else to share these simple, quiet moments. So Hanchen played along. He whined and kicked, grumbled and muttered nonsense syllables back at her, as though staging the grandest protest a baby could possibly muster.
After all, in this cold kingdom where every smile was a hidden blade, where every greeting might conceal poison, there was a strange kind of peace in arguing over whether moonstones were edible. And so they would mumble at each other for as long as they liked. Two lonely souls, bound together not just by blood, but by the fragile, stubborn affection that managed to survive even in a frozen palace.
When there were parties she had to attend, those grand and shimmering court gatherings filled with music and perfumed air, she would don the simplest robes they owned.
It was less a celebration than a march to war.
Tsheej Hli, the Queen Consort, could not refuse the invitation and the first time her son could go. In the previous time he went to the Tsheej Clan to stay with Laoye (Yawm yawm, mother 's father, grampa) and Laolao (Tais tais, mother´s mother, nana). Her absence would have been a scandal, a signal of weakness that would ripple through the noble clans like blood in water. And so, she stood among the glittering gowns and jade hairpins, dressed in the indigo coloured robes.
Niam Niam really hated to go to the balls. “Not my people's clothes”, she explained to the baby with a grimace.
This time she had decided that her son was ready to go to a ball with her.
To these opulent halls, bright with lanterns and laughter, were the most dangerous battlefields they knew. That was where the assassins crept in behind delicate fans and embroidered sleeves. Where poison flowed smoother than wine, and hidden daggers glittered beneath the folds of heavy brocade.
Hanchen, referred to in stiff, icy tones as "the Prince", never left her side. She kept a firm hold on him, as if she might simply pull him into her own body if danger struck too quickly.
He had nearly died twenty-four times, he could not phantom how many more would in this night. He counted all twenty-four (could be even more, those whose mother did not enunciate to him). Each failed blade, each bitter taste of averted poison, each moment he felt his pulse falter just before she intervened with chilling precision.
As it was said before, his uncle, Linguang Jun, was completely deranged. A man who believed that if Hanchen vanished, the gods themselves would crown him king by sunrise. In those glittering halls, amid the clinking cups and fake smiles, Tsheej Hli stood with her son like a lone snow leopard holding back an entire pack of wolves; regal, silent, and always ready to bare her claws.
And Hanchen, who should have been too young to understand, pressed closer to her side every time, lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. Twenty-four times and counting and they will increase tonight.
So, after the deer was eaten, after the palace was filled with the scent of roasted meat and warmth from the hearth… After she had dressed in her much hated robes, shimmering faintly in the firelight like memories refusing to fade… After they had hummed to each other, not songs, but soft, instinctive melodies of comfort passed between mother and child…
They stood together in the front courtyard.
Baiying Diji and her son. The Queen Consort and the Prince.
Dignified in their quiet, wrapped in old silks and resilience.
The snow crunched softly beneath their feet as they waited for the carriage to arrive. Somewhere in the distance, bells rang to mark the next hour of the cold northern night.
Her arms curled around him gently, not only protectively, but with practiced familiarity. His small head rested against her collarbone, hair tousled and eyes half-lidded from warmth and food.
“When Tsheej Luj grows up -” she whispered, voice like falling snow, “- he will learn how to survive in this court.” Hanchen gave a tired snort, a soft, almost theatrical puff of air through his nose. Then he buried his face into her neck with the dramatic finality of a baby protesting the cruelty of the world. “Yes,” she murmured, the faintest smile curling her lips as she stroked his back, “this Niam Niam knows.”
They stood like that, the young prince sulking against her shoulder, the exiled consort humming low in her throat, waiting for a carriage to take them to a palace full of enemies. And still, in that frozen courtyard, there was a strange peace: two snow leopards wrapped in silk, preparing once again to walk into the lion’s den with their heads held high.
The party was, for the most part, unbearably boring (aside from the assassination attempts, of course). Hanchen would have to learn how to read the shifting currents of a northern banquet: the careful pleasantries, the icy smiles, the undercurrent of murderous intent that hummed beneath every polite toast.
At some point during the evening, he was fairly certain someone had quietly collapsed at the food table. Whether from poison or a discreet blade, he didn’t know, nor did he particularly care. Another routine casualty in a hall where death walked as freely as the wine servers.
At first, Niam Niam did not socialize, he noticed. She stood like a lone glacier beneath lantern light, her cold elegance enough to freeze any wandering conversation before it even reached her lips. But she did not hide, either. She did not retreat into shadows or corners. Instead, she moved calmly through the crowd, her steps sure and her chin lifted in silent defiance, Hanchen perched on her hip like a small, imperious snow leopard cub.
At one point, as he peeked out from behind her shoulder, Hanchen’s gaze swept across the southern delegation. His eyes narrowed, squinting through the sea of elaborate hairpins, embroidered sleeves and almost naked demons.
There, he was almost certain, a flash of movement, a quick glimpse of dark hair and a childish pout. Is that… tiny wife #24? Xiu Yaolan or something like that. His mind nearly short-circuited. The girl looked impossibly small from this distance, a bright, delicate blossom planted among these frostbitten northern wolves.
He almost snorted aloud, catching himself just in time to avoid drawing attention. Instead, he pressed his face back against Niam Niam’s arms, eyes wide with the shock of recognizing yet another familiar piece of this chaotic novel.
Above him, Tsheej Hli’s hand drifted up to cradle his head, her fingers gently tapping a silent rhythm against his temple. It was a subtle reassurance that, whatever ghosts he saw in the crowd, she was still there to steady him.
Hanchen squinted through the shifting sea of silks and shimmering jewels, eyes sharp as a hawk’s despite his small, childlike form. He was almost certain that little blanket was wife #24. If he remembered correctly, she was something like an older cousin to Sha Hualing. That realization alone was enough to make him sigh, a thin trail of frost escaping his lips in the cold northern air.
In the space behind his half-lidded eyes, he began sorting through the tangled threads of the timeline, piecing together dates like a meticulous historian.
The novel never said how old Mobei jun was. But!
Xiu Yaolan was much older than Sha Hualing (see: the plot with jiejie kink).
Sha Hualing had been born close to Luo Binghe (see: the invasion of Cang Qiong Sect).
Which meant… Luo Binghe hadn’t been born yet.
Hanchen’s fingers curled slightly in Niam Niam’s sleeve as the pieces clicked into place.
Hm.
He closed his eyes fully, pressing his forehead into the gentle slope of her neck. So… Tianlang Jun isn’t imprisoned yet, he concluded, a ripple of amusement and apprehension rolling through his small, fragile chest.
Surrounded by glittering lanterns and poison-laced laughter, Hanchen’s mind spun rapidly beneath the calm surface. It felt like a cold chess piece being set carefully on an already crowded board. The game hadn’t even properly begun yet and yet, here he was, already plotting moves in a future that no one else could see.
Hanchen kept his eyes closed, his small fingers curling tighter into Niam Niam’s hair.
He couldn’t speak yet.
If he could, if his tongue wasn’t still trapped in this helpless and infant form, he would have warned her. He would have tugged at her sleeve, whispered in her ear about her dear friend, Tianlang Jun, about the plot slowly tightening around Su Xiyan, about the storm already gathering beyond the palace walls.
He would have told her everything.
[Warning!] Said the System.
But all he could do was sigh against her neck, a small puff of frost ghosting over her skin.
Niam Niam simply shifted her hold on him, mistaking his frustration for sleepiness or discomfort. Her cool fingers brushed through his hair, and she murmured a soft lullaby on her mother tongue under her breath, her voice low and faraway, as though she were singing only to the moon. Hanchen pressed his forehead more firmly into her arm, swallowing the words he could not shape.
If only… he thought.
But for now, all he could do was watch, a silent witness in a small body, forced to hold his secrets like knives pressed to his tiny, unformed tongue.
A southern lady approached Niam Niam, her silks shimmering like liquid sunset as she glided across the hall. Her eyes were a striking, gleaming red bright as pomegranate seeds, and her dark hair was wound up in elaborate loops, adorned with tiny golden bells that tinkled softly with every elegant step.
She carried herself with that careful, floating grace unique to the southern sects, her hand resting protectively on her rounded belly.
Hanchen’s gaze sharpened immediately. He let out a tiny, imperceptible huff, the faintest puff of frosty breath slipping from his lips. If that isn’t Sha Hualing’s mother, he thought dryly, I’ll eat this topaz on my forehead and wash it down with spiritual spring water. Sha Hualing is much younger than Mobei Jun (see: the plot where Sha Hualing makes Binghe jealous with Mobei and Binghe laughs at her face) , so that should not be her. Maybe an older sibling.
The lady finally stopped before them, and the hall seemed to hush for a moment, every eye flickering toward the meeting of two quiet, deadly worlds. "Baiyng Djii," the southern lady greeted, her voice warm and honeyed, though her gaze remained sharp.
Niam Niam inclined her head gracefully in return, her own cold, moonlit composure never faltering. The two women bowed to each other with slow, careful precision. A dance of frost and flame, each movement concealing a thousand unspoken intentions.
Hanchen, peeking from the curve of his mother’s arm, narrowed his eyes. Even as a small child with no voice to warn her, he felt the tension coil beneath their polite courtesies. Trouble, he thought, and tucked his face deeper into Niam Niam’s sleeve, trying to disappear into her scent of snow and distant blizzard.
"Bǐ'àn Huā Fēi," Niam Niam said, her voice so cold it might have frozen the wine in the lady’s cup - a tone that hovered on the edge of rudeness but never quite crossed the line. Perfectly controlled, yet sharp enough to cut. "This Venerable sees that Bǐ'àn Huā Fēi finally trapped Jiuchong Jun with child," she continued, each word dropping like frost-heavy petals to the ground.
The southern lady let out a silvery, tinkling laugh, her bells jingling softly in her hair as though applauding her own triumph. "After a century of scheming and countless tea fertilizing blossoms," she said airily, one elegant hand brushing her swollen belly as though it were a prized jade ornament, "this concubine finally did it. The honored husband’s children all fell terribly ill - what a sudden tragedy! And now… mine is the sole heir." She tilted her head, her red eyes shining with glee as she leaned closer. "Such a pity, no?"
Hanchen, perched silently in Niam Niam’s arms, nearly let out a sigh.
Do demons always announce their entire evil strategy out loud? he wondered dryly, fighting the urge to slap a small, pudgy palm to his forehead. It was as if they believed the universe itself was a grand stage, and they were duty-bound to share every nefarious plot point with anyone within earshot, especially the victims. Stupid Airplane, that hack author. He pressed his nose deeper into Niam Niam’s arms, closing his eyes in long-suffering resignation. Truly… peak villain behavior.
Niam Niam didn’t even blink. Her expression remained as placid as ice. Slowly, she tilted her head, leaning in so close their foreheads almost touched, her cold breath brushing against Bǐ'àn Huā Fēi’s painted lips. "The Frost Chrysanthemum Turning Flower helped?" she whispered, her voice so soft it might have been mistaken for the rustle of silk.
Then, as if someone flipped a switch inside the southern demon, she straightened her back and transformed her face into a genuine joyous warmth where no one would see it. Bǐ'àn Huā Fēi’s crimson eyes brightened at once, and she nodded eagerly, like a young girl about to share a scandalous secret. With a bright, almost childish glee, she slipped a small qiankun pouch into Niam Niam's sleeve, fingers moving so gracefully they barely disturbed the bells in her hair.
"The pillar is gone, and all that bloomed is a pretty flower," she said, eyes glinting with satisfied triumph.
Niam Niam’s lips twitched into the faintest ghost of a smirk. She exhaled a thin puff of cold air - so sharp it felt like it might freeze the edges of the lady’s robes. "Congratulations on being a demoness," she said simply, her words as elegant and lethal as a blade hidden in snowy sleeves.
Hanchen, listening quietly from the safety of her arms, stared blankly at the two women, his tiny mouth hanging slightly open. What the fuck are they talking about? He felt the words swirl around him like stray snowflakes: pillars, blooming flowers, Frost Chrysanthemum... He couldn't piece together a single coherent thread.
Well. It seemed that Niam Niam had helped Bǐ'àn Huā Fēi with something rather... transformative. Yay, you go mother, he thought weakly, patting her sleeve in silent, resigned support, even as his tiny baby brain scrambled uselessly through dozens of cultivation manuals in his mind.