Tapping, tapping, tapping... On the broad official road, three swift horses thundered past. Leading the pack was a sturdy chestnut stallion, its rider a man of about thirty, dressed in a white sleeveless tunic beneath a blue wide-sleeved robe. His waist was adorned with a belt engraved with sapphire jade, his long hair bound high in an elegant jade crown, the strands fluttering gently in the wind. With sharp arching eyebrows and bright eyes, his lips slightly curved, he carried himself aloofly—cold, composed, unyielding. Behind him walked two men: one dressed in a white long robe, with dark hair like ink, smiling softly, exuding refined grace; the other wearing a green robe, his three thousand strands of hair neatly tied at the crown, features sharp and defined, eyes deep as an ancient pool, calm yet poised. Two hours later, the horses halted before the northern gate of the general's manor. The riders dismounted and stepped onto the courtyard path. "General, welcome," said the attendants outside, hurrying forward to guide their horses into stables. The blue-robed man walked silently toward the hall, followed by the green-robed one. The white-robed man—Ruan Yiyin, the military strategist—smiled pleasantly at the attendants before joining them. In the main hall, "Father, you've returned," said Mu Zhaoyun and Ling Yueer, the mother-and-daughter pair, both excited to see General Ling. Yet faced with his reserved demeanor, neither dared to act impulsively; they stood in quiet humility, utterly unlike their usual assertive selves. "May I have the honor of meeting the mistress and lady?" said Ruan Yiyin and Lin Chengqi, the strategist and deputy commander, bowing to Mu Zhaoyun and Ling Yueer. Though inwardly skeptical of these two proud daughters—rarely seen as anything but subordinate—they upheld formal courtesies. "Hmm," murmured Mu Zhaoyun, her tone lofty, viewing them as mere servants despite their high ranks. "General, you've traveled through wind and dust," said the lady, turning to Ling Peiyuan with a warm smile. "Half a year has passed—still as captivating as ever, leaving me breathless." "No need," replied Ling Peiyuan coldly. "The letter from the manor says someone has used magic to harm people here. What exactly happened?" A few days prior, he had received a message claiming that an unseen force had afflicted household members. Initially suspecting it was a scheme by this woman—Mu Zhaoyun—he had hesitated only after Ruan Yiyin insisted on visiting. His deep, frost-laced gaze fixed on her, as if probing to see through her. "Indeed," said Ling Yueer, speaking with reverence and fear toward her father. "The young maid from the northern wing has performed a mysterious spell—she appeared out of nowhere, setting fire to the surroundings and encircling us both, even scorching Mother’s forehead." Ruan Yiyin bit his lower lip, smiling inwardly. Such an occurrence could only be attributed to someone truly remarkable—someone capable of making these two daughters feel utterly embarrassed. He glanced toward Lin Chengqi, noticing that the usually impassive man had lifted a brow with subtle surprise. "Is this accurate?" Ling Peiyuan asked Mu Zhaoyun, who, as always, refused to settle down. Ever since her arrival, no household steward had borne children—yet she remained unmarried and childless. He knew well that it was not mere coincidence. Could it be that this time too, it was her scheme? "The servants can all confirm," said Ling Peiyuan, his skepticism touching Mu Zhaoyun's heart. Her luminous eyes grew wistful as she gazed at him—why had he always treated her thus? Hadn’t he loved her, at least in spirit? "Which maid from the northern wing?" Ling Peiyuan paused, trying to recall. It was hard to remember; after all, women in his mind fell into two categories: useful or irrelevant. "It’s Ling Wanwan," said Ling Yueer, smiling with quiet triumph. "Dad even forgot her name now—what a redundant little maid!" "Ling Wanwan?" Ling Peiyuan seemed to recall having once had a concubine who bore him a daughter three years ago. Was it this one? Yet that child was only three years old now—could she be the very 'spirit child' spoken of by the ladies? "Send someone to bring the young lady from the northern wing," said Ling Peiyuan, remembering only having seen her at birth and now utterly uncertain of her appearance. The mention stirred his curiosity. "Yes, General," replied a household servant outside, hurrying off. Another member of the Ling family—another daughter of the Cold lineage. Ruan Yiyin smiled slightly, feeling a quiet excitement rising within him. He sensed immediately that this young lady was different—he anticipated a significant encounter with her. Northern Wing Ling Wanwan lounged on the roof, one leg curled beneath her, hands cradling an old book, reading intently. The night before, she had discovered several legendary tales stored in the cabinet—almost like modern novels. "Miss Ling, Miss Ling! Something's wrong!" came the servant’s voice, filled with urgency. "What is it now?" Ling Wanwan closed her book and lifted her head from the roof’s edge. "Oh, my dear—how did you manage to get up here?!" The nurse gasped, startled. "You’re growing more fond of high places these days—how very dangerous! I fear for my own life!" "Ahaha," said Ling Wanwan with a chuckle. "It's nothing at all. You always go on about such things." After months of shared routines, she had grown accustomed to her nurse’s dramatic reactions. "The General has returned—he wishes to speak with you personally," the nurse added, frowning deeply. The General had only appeared during her birth and since then, he’d left her behind, scarcely inquiring after her. How could he now suddenly want to see her? "Father is back," said Ling Wanwan, with a composed smile. "That’s wonderful—I’ve been looking forward to meeting him." Her tone held no warmth, only an undercurrent of unusual strangeness. "Nurse—please be reassured," she added, turning toward the nurse. "Where is the messenger?" "He's outside." "Then let us go," said Ling Wanwan, her small figure gliding effortlessly from the roof as if a flying sparrow. "...Oh!" The nurse stood stunned. How could such a petite girl actually *fly*? Her mind blanked completely. Ling Wanwan smiled, knowing full well that while modern people might excel in martial arts like taekwondo or judo, her family—her own clan—had long been renowned for their legendary skills of walking between rooftops and moving without ever touching water. This was one reason the Cold family had maintained its preeminence in the city’s underworld. With soft, supple hands, she gently pulled the nurse to her feet and led her toward the outer courtyard. "Report, General," said the servant outside. "Enter," came a steady, sonorous voice from within. Ling Wanwan arched an eyebrow—how pleasant that tone was. As she stepped into the hall, she immediately spotted the man seated in the main seat: years old enough to resemble her modern father, with sharp features, elegant eyebrows and bright eyes, wearing a blue robe, calm yet aloof. Both Ruan Yiyin and Lin Chengqi raised their brows as they watched—their eyes alight with anticipation for what was surely about to unfold. "Miss Ling," said the nurse, gently tugging at her sleeve, her heart racing. "The young lady is still quite small, not yet fully aware of social manners—please do not take offense." "Nurse, please rise," insisted Ling Wanwan, refusing to be bowed down. Her dark eyes fixed steadily on Ling Peiyuan. "I’ve never met this man—I’m simply asking whether he’s truly my father. Should I find that he is not, then I have every right to question it. After all, I’ve been deliberately trying to make him feel uncomfortable—so as to give the long-overdue voice to my own experiences." Her words hung in the air, and everyone in the hall drew in breath. "Are you saying I’m not your father?" Ling Peiyuan asked, his deep gaze flickering, revealing uncertain emotions. "And are you?" Ling Wanwan lifted her face, meeting his eyes with unwavering resolve. "If you were truly my father—why have you neglected me so entirely? If you were truly my father—why have you allowed servants to treat me with such disrespect? If you were truly my father—why haven’t you fought to avenge the mother I lost, poisoned by someone close?" Her final question carried particular weight. Her eyes chilled, fixed now on Mu Zhaoyun—seeming to point directly at her. Each of Ling Wanwan’s questions drew gasps from those present; even the nurse had grown pale, trembling beneath her own feet. Didn’t she promise never to cause trouble again? Now she was creating such a stir! Brilliantly spirited. Ruan Yiyin and Lin Chengqi both silently admired this daughter—how could one of such character be considered merely a minor figure in the family? Ling Peiyuan watched her, his expression softening. Was she genuinely seeking justice from him—or simply demanding recognition? "If you’re holding me accountable for not being sufficiently attentive—" he paused, letting his gaze linger on her. "Then I agree." "Indeed," said Ling Wanwan, with a clear and confident tone.