Night, clear and bright. A slender crescent moon hangs high above the night sky, its gentle halo radiating soft light. Stars scatter irregularly around it—some bright, some dim—like thousands of eyes blinking softly. Under the moon’s glow, trees sway gently in the breeze, casting shifting shadows across the path. In the flower beds, roses, orchids, and hyacinths bloom passionately under a silver mist of moonlight, as if draped in an exquisitely woven gown of elegance. Cold Wanyuan’s humble quarters have been relocated from the quiet northern wing to the master hall of her father, General Li. Her nursemaid still rests in the outer room beside her bedchamber, but starting today, Yichen—though he doesn’t really need to—is now officially assigned as her guardian. Since he has nothing else to do, it makes sense to give him a purpose rather than have him constantly distract others with his deep purple eyes. After some thought, Cold Wanyuan’s quarters were arranged right beside his. A soft flick of her fingers extinguishes the dim candlelight. As she lowers the bed curtains, moonbeams slant through the window cracks, illuminating the room—still bright and warm. Perhaps from being too tired during the day, Cold Wanyuan has drifted off without realizing it. At that very moment, a dark silhouette emerges from behind the general’s estate, crossing over the wall. Under the moonlight, he stands tall and graceful—a swift, nimble figure like a hare. Dressed in nightwear, his black headband veils his face, revealing only two deep pools of cold black eyes. Skirting past the patrolling servants, he leaps onto the roof and swiftly moves toward the main hall. Upon arrival, he crouches on the rooftop, watching intently as the candlelight fades from inside—the stillness in his gaze turns faintly luminous. He holds his breath, waiting silently. Past midnight, the night grows hushed. Only the murmurs of unseen insects rise and fall with quiet rhythm. Finally, the dark figure stirs—lighter than a swallow, he descends gracefully from the roof, moving quietly toward the window. With his fingers moistened by saliva, he gently pokes through the paper pane, then leans his face close to the opening, observing the interior. Satisfied that everything remains peaceful inside, he draws his blade and carefully lifts the door latch. His dark form glides past the outer room, moving steadily toward the inner chamber. As he passes beneath the bed curtains, his silhouette shifts slightly on the fabric. With quick motion, he lifts the curtains aside—his sword gleams with cold radiance—and suddenly strikes downward at the person lying on the bed. Cold Wanyuan feels a flash of light—a sudden burst of illumination—her dark eyes snap open. A fierce chill pours from her gaze, pressing against the air. The black figure is momentarily startled. He hadn’t expected such alertness in this young girl. More than that—the cold intensity radiating from her eyes stirs a deep sense of unease within him. His blade veers slightly off course as he hesitates. Seeing the opening, Cold Wanyuan rolls swiftly to one side, narrowly avoiding the strike. “Who are you?” she asks, her gaze steady and cool. "...?" Silence. Then the black figure raises his sword again—quickly advancing, launching another series of strikes at her. Cold Wanyuan grows angry. With agile rolls and spins, she dodges each attack, deftly evading every cut. Thud— The edge of the blade hits the bedpost with a sharp sound. “Miss,” murmurs the nursemaid as she stumbles into the room, her voice blurry. “What’s happening?” “Nursemaid!” Cold Wanyuan gasps, suddenly realizing that the black figure has now turned his sword toward her. “Ahh—!” With the angled moonlight slicing through, the nursemaid sees the swift blade descending and screams in alarm. Clang— A sword intercepts the falling blow just before it lands—then Nightchen steps into view, shielding the nursemaid with a graceful stance. “Who are you?” asks Cold Wanyuan. Nightchen’s deep purple eyes, backlit by the moonlight, seem mysterious and profound. Since he was captured in a plot and turned into a servant, his sleep has always been restless. The moment he hears the nursemaid's cry, he instantly senses something is wrong—now here it is, unfolding before him. “Nightchen,” Cold Wanyuan says, “seize that man.” She realizes immediately—he’s a hired assassin. In the tradition of such assassins, they never reveal their client. So asking who sent him will require careful inquiry. Upon hearing her words, Nightchen swiftly pushes the nursemaid gently out of danger and steps forward with his sword in hand, drawing nearer to the black figure. The black figure watches the young man—his eyes narrowing with a touch of disdain. How could such a slender youth possess any real strength? The true key lies in the person he’s protecting—the seemingly naive, innocent child. Yet there is something sharp and defiant in her gaze—a quiet intensity that even this seasoned killer, whose hands are stained with blood, finds unsettling. With slanting beams of moonlight, blade against sword, movement becomes more mysterious and vivid. “What’s wrong? What happened?” A series of footsteps echoes from outside—the guards have come, drawn by the nursemaid's cry. The black figure’s expression darkens. Tonight, he will not complete his mission. With a firm motion, his blade glides across Nightchen’s upper arm—cutting sharply. Clang— Nightchen’s sword falls to the floor as he steps back. His hand presses gently against his wounded right arm—the blood flowing from him like blossoms opening in a dark garden, vibrant and elegant. In that brief moment when Nightchen stumbles, the black figure moves swiftly—his form vanishes through the room, disappearing into the hall beyond. Nightchen clutches his arm, intent on chasing after him. “Stop,” Cold Wanyuan commands. If he pursues, how could the man escape? As she watches the direction in which the assassin departed, her mind already forms a clear picture of who lies behind this plot. Besides her—who else would have commissioned such an assassination so urgently? Is it to take away everything she holds dear? Or perhaps—to prevent her from seeking justice against them? A cold glint appears beneath her dark eyes. “Miss knows the identity,” Nightchen says, sensing the depth of emotion in Cold Wanyuan’s gaze. He is certain—he has not mistaken her at all. “That’s right,” Cold Wanyuan nods with a pleased expression—confirmed once more: he truly possesses sharp insight. “Miss, are you unharmed?” asks the nursemaid, still uncertain about what they’ve been saying. She rushes to Cold Wanyuan’s bedside, touching her gently over and over, as if fearing even a slight wound. “I’m fine, Nursemaid,” Cold Wanyuan replies, watching the nursemaid’s worried gestures—the coldness in her eyes softening into warmth. “Good. Good,” the nursemaid murmurs, then turns to Nightchen. “What about you? How are you?” With sudden urgency, she reaches for a white cloth and begins to tend his wound. “What happened, Miss Wanyuan?” asks the head guard, stepping forward with his men outside. The young lady is now a rising star in the household—her status matters. “The man who just attacked us,” Cold Wanyuan explains, “was an assassin. He has been sent to eliminate me.” “Ah!” nods the guard. Nightchen watches as Cold Wanyuan gently extends her soft fingers toward his arm wound—the wound still pulsing with blood. After a brief moment, she withdraws them—then smiles. “Done.” Nightchen stares at his now perfectly intact right arm—still dripping with fresh blood, yet undamaged. How is this possible? Does she truly possess an unseen art—or perhaps, is she the very fairy tale spoken of in the household—the girl who holds magic? A quiet sense of wonder stirs within him. “Don’t think too much,” Cold 30 says, glancing at him with a firm gaze. “The fact that you were injured means you’re still weak—yet you must grow stronger.” When he’s told to be weak, Nightchen cannot help but grip his hands tighter. True—he has lost in battle against the assassin—but it stings deeply within him. He wants to become strong—to no longer be treated as someone who is easily overwhelmed. His deep purple eyes shine with unwavering resolve—he will grow into a man of strength and dignity. Watching the depth of thought in Nightchen’s gaze, then remembering tonight's assassin—Cold Wanyuan realizes that such events may happen again and again. While she herself remains calm, she grows anxious about protecting her nursemaid from harm. Perhaps it is time to build a strong foundation—a reliable shield—to stand beside those she cherishes. “I give you six years,” Cold Wanyuan says, gazing steadily at Nightchen. “No matter what method you use—study, training, travel—you must grow strong enough to one day stand beside me.” “Agreed,” Nightchen replies, nodding firmly. “I will not let you down.” “I look forward to the powerful man you’ll become in six years,” Cold Wanyuan says, her deep-black eyes shining like polished jewels. “Tomorrow morning, you begin your journey—I shall provide the funds.” “Confirmed.” With one simple voice and a quiet promise, a young boy and a young girl have sealed their bond at this moment. Outside, the moon is full, trees sway gently—witnessing this turning point in time. Chapter Two of *The Nine-Year-Old Fairy Queen* officially begins—six years from now—in the story’s ninth year, when the tale unfolds once more.