Yan Shuo was not a man easily startled.
He had crossed battlefields soaked in blood, faced down Zerg Queens, even dueled traitors with death in their eyes.
But nothing — absolutely nothing — prepared him for the sight that met him when he quietly pushed open the door of the small backroom to report to the Marshal.
Silver hair like moonlight.
Ruby red eyes that shimmered with life.
Pale skin soft as fresh snow.
A ger — no, not just any ger — an ethereal beauty wrapped in loose, oversized robes, barefoot and blinking up at him with sleepy confusion.
Yan Shuo stopped dead, hand still on the doorknob.
"..."
"..."
For one long, awkward moment, the two simply stared at each other.
Then Xiao Lin tilted his head slightly, curious but unafraid.
"Are you... one of the Marshal's people?" he asked softly.
His voice was light and clear, like the first spring rain.
Yan Shuo's brain, hardened by years of war and duty, completely blanked.
Beautiful.
Dangerously beautiful.
A man could lose battles — even lose empires — to a face like that.
He opened his mouth, trying to remember what words were, when a low, cold voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Yan Shuo."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
The Marshal appeared from the adjoining hallway, armor half-unbuckled, hair still slightly damp from a rain-soaked patrol.
And he was scowling.
Hard.
Yan Shuo snapped to attention instinctively.
"Marshal!" he barked, saluting sharply.
Xiao Lin flinched a little at the sudden volume, his fox-like ears — not visible, but almost tangible in their sensitivity — twitching.
The Marshal's scowl deepened.
Without a word, he crossed the room, inserted himself neatly between Xiao Lin and Yan Shuo, and laid a possessive hand on Xiao Lin's shoulder.
It was an utterly casual, utterly territorial move.
He didn't even seem aware he was doing it.
Xiao Lin blinked up at him, a bit confused, but didn't pull away.
Yan Shuo, seasoned warrior and deputy commander of the elite Black Dragon Corps, felt sweat bead on the back of his neck.
The message was clear:
Look too long and I'll break your fingers.
He cleared his throat hastily.
"I brought reports," he said, thrusting a data pad at Sheng Long like it was a live grenade.
"And supplies. We're holding position at Point Delta. No movements from the capital yet."
Sheng Long nodded curtly, barely glancing at the tablet.
Instead, he guided Xiao Lin gently back toward the low couch by the hearth.
"Sit. You're still recovering," he said, voice softer than usual.
Xiao Lin obeyed, still a little dazed by the sudden shift in atmosphere.
Yan Shuo watched them interact, feeling a strange mix of confusion, admiration... and something like pity for whoever would dare try to get between those two.
Later, after Yan Shuo had made a very strategic and very rapid exit, Xiao Lin leaned back on the couch, feeling strangely restless.
"Marshal..." he said cautiously.
"I think... something is changing in me."
Sheng Long, who was sorting weapons across the room, paused.
"In what way?" he asked without turning around.
Xiao Lin hesitated, then cupped his hands together.
Slowly, shakily —
a soft white glow began to shimmer over his skin.
His body blurred, shifted —
and suddenly, where a slender ger had sat, there was a small, silvery fox curled up awkwardly in the too-large robes.
The fox blinked up at Sheng Long with wide red eyes, tiny paws scrabbling at the fabric.
Sheng Long stared.
He blinked once.
Twice.
Then, incredibly, a soft chuckle escaped him.
It was low and rough, like rocks tumbling in a dry riverbed.
"You transformed," he said, voice filled with rare warmth.
The fox let out a confused, squeaky yip.
"Control will come with time," Sheng Long explained, crossing over and crouching beside the fox.
"But it's a good sign. Your mental power is stabilizing."
He reached out, letting his fingers lightly brush the silvery fur between Xiao Lin's ears.
Xiao Lin leaned into the touch instinctively, purring faintly.
Sheng Long coughed and pulled his hand back sharply, ears faintly pink.
"Ahem. Right," he muttered, all business again. "You'll need training."
As Xiao Lin clumsily shifted back into human form — collapsing half-naked into a pile of robes and squeaking in embarrassment — Sheng Long turned away, pretending to focus on the fire.
He began explaining the basics to cover the awkwardness:
"In the empire, ability ranks are everything.
F-ranks work menial jobs.
D and C are foot soldiers.
B and A become officers.
S and above... we are weapons."
Xiao Lin listened quietly, pulling the robes tighter around himself.
"And gers?" he asked softly. "How are we seen?"
Sheng Long's jaw tightened.
"Gers are... complicated," he said finally.
"Some revere them. Some... exploit them. Many see them only for their ability to bear heirs."
He didn't say it, but Xiao Lin heard the bitterness in his tone.
He thought of the marriage he had been forced into.
The sneering faces.
The bruises.
He bowed his head.
"I see."
Sheng Long crossed the room again and crouched in front of him, catching his gaze.
"But you," he said quietly, fiercely,
"are not weak.
You are not a tool."
Xiao Lin's throat closed painfully.
No one — no one — had ever said that to him before.
He nodded, unable to speak.
For now, the conspiracies, the politics, the blood and betrayal swirling around the empire — all of it could wait.
First, Xiao Lin would learn to stand.
And Sheng Long would make damn sure that when he did,
no one would ever chain him again.