Chapter 17
Chapter 17: Chaos Wraith Mystery (Part 1)
The room was quiet enough to make the ears ring. The candle on the table had gone out at some point, leaving only darkness and the faint trace of cooled wax.
Song Wei Chen had been certain she wouldn’t sleep after everything that happened. Or if she did, she’d drown in nightmares.
Instead, she slept so deeply it felt like sinking into warm water.
Near dawn, Mo Ting Feng returned, and she never even stirred.
He stepped inside and saw the bowl on the side table—empty to the last drop. His expression softened, just slightly. Then his gaze shifted to the bed: the blanket was kicked halfway off, the little figure sprawled in a mess.
He almost laughed. What kind of young lady slept like this?
His hand rose to pull the blanket over her.
Halfway there, he stopped.
He shouldn’t.
This kind of concern was dangerous.
He turned away, lit the lamp, then thought better of it and dimmed it to a gentler glow. He took up a dossier, propped his head on one hand, and read in silence.
The sky gradually paled to fish-belly white.
A bird chattered on the window lattice. Wind chimes rang softly when the breeze found them. The air carried bamboo leaf and wildflower, clean as morning itself.
Song Wei Chen stretched with her eyes closed, smiling. She’d slept so well she almost didn’t want to open her eyes.
That big ice block still wasn’t back, was he?
She opened her eyes and glanced at the chair by the bed out of habit.
Empty.
Something tugged at her. Thinking back, he really had been there every time she woke up before.
She pulled her gaze away—and froze. The blanket was tucked over her properly.
How was that even possible? Unless she passed out cold, she always kicked the blanket away in her sleep. Had she suddenly turned into a different person?
Still bewildered, she sat up and ran a hand through her hair.
That was when she saw him.
Mo Ting Feng was dozing behind the desk, head propped on one hand. A book lay loose in his other, as if he’d fallen asleep mid-line.
Without meaning to, she felt a little safer.
Quietly, she got up and crept closer.
Even asleep, his brow was drawn tight, as if he carried his burdens into dreams. For the first time, Song Wei Chen realized how tired his life must be.
No wonder his temper was awful. No wonder every word came out like a jab. His KPI targets had to be brutal.
It made sense. A capable subordinate had vanished into a cold case. And then this ridiculous robe had chosen an utterly useless replacement. Not only was the replacement no help at all—he was also the prime suspect in the very case they were chasing.
Add in other cases with no leads, and a big boss above breathing down his neck… who wouldn’t be on edge?
If she were in his position, she’d probably be losing her mind daily.
Before she could stop herself, she lifted a hand toward his brow.
To smooth it. Just once.
But Mo Ting Feng had woken the moment she sat up.
Hearing her creep closer, he simply kept his eyes shut, feigning sleep. He didn’t trust her. If she had intentions, better to let her reveal them.
When he sensed her fingers nearing his forehead, his hand shot out and seized her wrist.
“What are you trying to do?”
His eyes opened—cold, sharp, completely awake.
Song Wei Chen was leaning over the desk. That sudden pull sent her off-balance. Her elbow slammed into the desk edge, right on a nerve.
“Hiss!” Pain flashed hot and sharp.
Mo Ting Feng released her at once. His other hand twitched as if to steady her—then withdrew, rigidly.
He deliberately avoided looking at her.
“What is wrong with you?” Song Wei Chen rubbed her elbow, face scrunched up. “Why are you so defensive? You were frowning in your sleep. I just wanted to smooth it out—show a little care, that’s all.”
“A little care?” Mo Ting Feng cut in. “You have no sense of vigilance. A grown man could enter your room in the middle of the night and you’d sleep through it. If someone came with ill intent, what then?”
“This is your room,” she shot back, offended. “If someone comes with ill intent, it can only be you.”
Mo Ting Feng’s mouth tightened. He picked up his dossier and didn’t look at her. “You sleep like a dead pig.”
Song Wei Chen nearly choked. “Who are you calling a pig?”
“Your sleep posture speaks for itself.”
She took a step, fury rising. “You’re a great master, sneaking into a girl’s room in the dead of night—what were you planning? If I’m a pig, you’re a wolf. A big pervert wolf!”
Mo Ting Feng let out a low chuckle, as calm as if nothing in the world could touch him. “Song Wei Chen, if I remember correctly, this is my room.”
She almost spat blood.
Fine. Fine.
“Whatever!” she snapped. “I’m leaving. Stop choking me with words every other sentence. Honestly, I’m not even afraid of you. If you’ve got the guts, kill me—worst case I’ll reincarnate and be human again!”
She stormed out.
The room became so quiet it felt unnatural. Even the bird on the window lattice seemed to vanish.
Mo Ting Feng sat alone at the desk, and for the first time, the silence felt heavy.
He hadn’t meant to upset her. He didn’t understand it, either. Whenever he was near her, his words turned harsh the moment they left his mouth, sharp enough to wound. That wasn’t him.
He was not a man who brought strange women into his own residence. Not a man who let her sleep in his room. Not a man who hid her gender with a restriction so others wouldn’t suspect. Not a man who kept someone riddled with doubts in the position of White Robe.
Every decision baffled him.
And he didn’t know why.
From the very first time he saw her, something had been there—distant, sour, aching. A longing and resentment tangled together, hard to name.
It felt like someone who had waited for an impossibly long time, fear clenched tight in the chest. When the person finally appeared—when she stood there, undeniable—what came out of the waiting one’s mouth was not “I missed you,” but blame.
A complicated emotion. Ugly and tender all at once.
But who was he waiting for?
He had no one to wait for.
Was he waiting for mountains to become seas, for seas to become peaks, for all things to reach the end of time?
Or was he waiting for a tree that would never bloom—waiting for the one who would never enter his dreams again?
Mo Ting Feng closed his eyes.
He could feel it again.
He dong.
And he hated himself for it.