The Lin family steward’s stomach dropped.

He could accept that the magistrate’s hired expert knew Shen Yi. But the young man the mistress had brought home knowing him too?

Everyone knew everyone here. The idea of hunting a demon when it was apparently a social gathering was absurd. He half-expected the lot of them to sit down for tea and quietly eat the Lin family alive.

Chen Ji’s expression had quietly shifted.

If he’d been seven or eight parts certain before, that one sentence had finished the job. The young man in the black robe was a demon wearing a person’s face — he’d stake his career on it.

The reason was simple.

The tone. Chen Ji knew that tone in his bones. It dragged up memories he’d have preferred to leave buried. Every demon that had come into the city these past few years had spoken to Shen Yi exactly like that — before making requests for fresh meat, or asking which family had a daughter worth taking.

He glanced sideways.

Shen Yi’s face held nothing in particular. He didn’t appear to have registered any offense.

He stood with his hands at his sides, looking quietly at Liu Qi’s remains. After a moment: “Everyone out.”

The steward wanted to slap himself. What were you thinking, bringing these people in? As if things weren’t complicated enough.

The rumors outside were one thing. But he’d managed the Lin household for years. How had his judgment failed him this completely?

This is not a demon-hunting yamen. It has never been a demon-hunting yamen.

He shuffled out, deflated. Chen Ji said nothing — looked at Shen Yi once more to confirm this wasn’t some deliberate strategy to lower the demon’s guard so Chen Ji could strike on the way out — found nothing to read either way — and bowed.

“Your subordinate will wait outside.”

The two of them stepped out of the side room. The Gaunt Monk and Zhang Tuhu had come to a stop ahead of them, close enough to have caught the steward’s unhappy face. The Monk’s own expression improved considerably.

“You see? I said as much. Too young. Too much fire. Gets a lucky encounter and loses all perspective — had to go and embarrass himself before he’d pull back.”

“Every one of us has had an encounter. Every one of us was a talent in our day. How many of us carried on like this ungrateful fool?”

“Dead wood cannot be carved.”

Zhang Tuhu, crouched on the ground with a blade of grass between his teeth, listened to his elder brother’s running commentary with the expression of someone waiting for it to be over. The gloom had settled back over him like a familiar coat.

The words drifted into Chen Ji’s ears. He looked at the Gaunt Monk with cool eyes, and felt something deflate — all that youthful admiration for the jianghu, meeting the actual article. What was left was faintly nauseating.

Whatever Shen Yi’s faults, he’d ridden alone to Liuli Temple village and come back with thirteen demon heads. Salary: two taels and four qian.

This man had been in Baiyun County for some time now and hadn’t raised a hand once. He was drawing six hundred taels a month to stand in courtyards complaining about people behind their backs.

“What are you looking at, boy?”

The Gaunt Monk turned, as if something had tugged at him. The gaze that landed on Chen Ji was cold and narrow.

He could tolerate Shen Yi — that man had genuine Threshold Realm cultivation. But since when did a minor constable earn the right to look at him like that?

The long black coat stirred without wind. A hand like bundled wire extended from the sleeve, fingers curling into a claw.

A surge of pressure closed around Chen Ji like a fist.

The color drained from his face. His jaw locked.

In ordinary circumstances, he knew the value of bending — he’d have dropped his gaze, offered a word of apology, let the moment pass.

But something had lit in his chest without asking permission.

The hand on his hilt tightened. Silver flashed as the blade came free.

“This is official yamen business. When did it become a jianghu swordsman’s place to pass judgment?”

“Constable Shen serves the court. Who are you, exactly, to stand here making noise? Close your mouth.”

The Gaunt Monk stood absolutely still.

He stood still for a long time.

When he finally spoke, the words came out hollowed. “Very well, very well. Invoking the court against me…”

The steward’s legs were shaking. He was pressing his knees together without realizing it.

These sect people — what they feared above everything else was the weight of the Demon Suppression Division. The anger had drained from the Monk’s face, yes. But something had replaced it, thin and patient and cold, that was worse.

This little constable will shed that uniform eventually. He doesn’t actually think Shen Yi can protect him, does he?

Only Zhang Tuhu reacted differently. He spat out the grass, mouth opening in a broad, silent laugh.

He glanced sideways at the doorway, something genuinely curious entering his eyes.

Interesting. He didn’t reach for the blade when the demon was speaking. But let someone say something unkind about his superior — and there it is, drawn against a Threshold Realm practitioner without a second thought. What kind of person commands that kind of loyalty?

Compared to the noise outside, the side room was entirely still.

The young man in black shook out his wrist, strolled to Liu Qi’s body, pulled off the remaining half-arm with mild distaste, and began eating.

“I thought I’d have to do a lot of talking. But it’s you — saves me the trouble.” He chewed without hurry. “No need for formalities. I understand how these things work. Just call me Seventh Lord from here on.”

Shen Yi watched him eat. His expression was level.

These past few days had given him a thorough education in scenes like this one. Whatever feeling stirred in him was mostly because Liu Qi had been a martial practitioner — and this was what happened to people who couldn’t match a demon.

“Not criticizing you,” the young man went on, a trace of irritation entering his voice, “but she told me — anything you need, find Shen Yi. I waited and waited and you never came. Had to handle things myself.”

He bit down again. “Come every three days from now on. Don’t make that face — I won’t be here long. A few months at most.”

The only reason Shen Yi had cleared the room was for one question.

“Where is she?”

“What, Seventh Lord’s word isn’t good enough for you? She has to say it herself?” The young man’s brow furrowed. He swallowed, wiped the corner of his mouth, and walked toward Shen Yi with an air of mild impatience. “She’s been out playing too long. Went back to Beiya to see her mother. She’ll be back in a day or two. If you leave Seventh Lord hungry, I won’t need her — I’ll sort you out myself.”

Then something made him pause.

Shen Yi’s brow had drawn together — barely, but perceptibly. It had a specific quality to it. The closest thing Yin the Seventh could compare it to was the expression of a child who’d reached into a rabbit burrow expecting a whole litter and pulled out one.

Then Shen Yi looked down at him.

Something was building in those eyes. Cold, and rising.

Without any clear reason, Yin the Seventh felt his heart begin to pound. The muscles across his body drew tight — the instinctive, animal brace of a body that had recognized danger before the mind caught up.

He hadn’t felt that since crossing into the Threshold Realm.

“…”

Outside, Chen Ji had gone stiff, white-knuckled around his hilt.

The Gaunt Monk stood expressionless on the other side of the courtyard. The steward was caught between them, face crumpled, desperately wishing he could run.

Then a detonation split the air of the courtyard.

CRACK.

The solid redwood door exploded outward. Through the cascade of splinters, a dark shape flew backward, spraying crimson, and hit the stone paving with enough force to crack it — tumbling several times before the momentum finally bled out.

Zhang Tuhu got to his feet at a leisurely pace. The steward yelped and threw his arms over his head.

The Gaunt Monk snapped around, every muscle rigid. Chen Ji stood frozen with his sword out. All of them stared at the ruined doorway.

Through the wreckage of the door.

Shen Yi stepped out, straightening his cuffs, expression unhurried, bearing utterly composed.

(End of Chapter)