The encounter with the ice-cold businesswoman left a strange aftertaste in Su Yang's mouth—a mixture of frustration and a nagging sense of missed opportunity. The urgent, Yang-induced ache within him was a constant drumbeat, a reminder that his search for a destined consort was not some abstract cultivation goal, but a pressing physiological need. He continued his aimless walk through the affluent district, his senses stretched taut, unconsciously scanning the energy of every woman who passed, hoping for a flicker of the profound Yin essence he so desperately craved. Most were mundane, their spiritual signatures faint and unremarkable. A few had a slightly stronger vitality, but nothing that resonated with the legendary potential of his own body.
It was then that his spiritual perception, honed to a razor's edge, brushed against something entirely different. It wasn't the cool, deep, magnetic pull of primordial Yin. This was something else. Older. Drier. It felt like the scent of ancient paper, of dust motes dancing in a sunbeam that had shone for centuries, of whispered secrets trapped in forgotten wood. It was a mysterious, faint call, not of a person, but of a *place*.
His feet, seemingly of their own accord, guided him off the main thoroughfare and down a narrow, shaded alley that seemed to exist in a different time. The sounds of the modern city faded, replaced by a profound silence. At the end of the alley stood a shop. It was squashed between a gleaming art gallery and a minimalist boutique, looking like a forgotten page from a historical novel. Its windows were cloudy with age, filled with a jumble of objects that had no place in the 21st century: tarnished brass astrolabes, cracked ceramic vessels, bundles of dried herbs that looked more like twigs, and yellowed scrolls tied with faded ribbon.
A weathered wooden sign above the door, its characters almost erased by time and elements, read simply: "Ten Thousand Old Things."
The feeling emanating from within was not one of power, but of profound age and quiet mystery. It felt less like a destination and more like a crossroads where destiny might pause for a moment. Compelled, Su Yang pushed open the creaking door, a bell jingling a tired, tinny sound overhead.
The interior was exactly as the outside promised—a cavern of clutter and dust. Shelves bowed under the weight of unrecognizable artifacts. Glass cases held collections of rusted keys, strange mineral specimens, and delicate instruments whose purpose was lost to time. The air was thick with the smell of old paper, dried herbs, and a sweet, faintly melancholic incense.
Behind a cluttered counter stood the shopkeeper. He was a painfully thin old man, his spine curved with age, his skin like parchment stretched over delicate bones. A pair of round, thick-lensed glasses perched on his nose, magnifying eyes that were milky with cataracts. He moved with a slow, careful frailty, arranging a set of old bone dice. Su Yang's enhanced perception didn't need a medical degree to see the truth. The old man's Qi was faint, flickering like a candle in a draft. His meridians were clogged with the detritus of a long life, his organs slowly failing. He was, quite simply, dying of old age, his life force ebbing away day by day.
Yet, when the man looked up and saw Su Yang, his papery face crinkled into a warm, genuine smile. "Welcome, young man," he wheezed, his voice a soft rustle. "A rare thing, to have a young visitor. Please, look around. There are many stories here, if you have the time to listen."
The kindness, the lack of pretense or avarice, was a balm after the coldness of the businesswoman. Su Yang felt a sudden, unexpected urge to help this man. But how? He was short on mortal cash. The vast wealth in his spatial ring was useless here. He could, of course, easily heal the man. A minor spirit pill, a simple Qi transfusion to clear his meridians, and he could add a decade to his life. But the result would be miraculous, unbelievable. It would shatter the old man's world and draw the exact kind of attention Su Yang needed to avoid.
He browsed the cluttered shelves, his fingers gently tracing the dust from objects that hummed with faint, residual histories. He saw a cracked hand mirror that seemed to hold a sigh within its glass, a compass whose needle pointed not north, but to whatever it was closest to that held emotional weight, a set of wind chimes made of bird bones that sang a silent song of sorrow.
His plan formed, simple and humble. He would pick a few inconspicuous, non-essential items—perhaps the bone dice, a dried gourd, something the old man wouldn't miss. In return, he would secretly slip a crumbled piece of a low-grade vitality herb into the man's tea or food. It wouldn't perform miracles, but it would ease his aches, give him a little more energy, a slightly brighter flame. It was a small act of balance, of giving back a sliver of the kindness he had received from Wei Lan.
He was about to approach the counter, the chosen items in hand, when the shop door burst open with far more force than his own gentle push.
"Grandpa! I told you not to open the shop today! Your cough was so bad this morning!"
The voice was sharp with worry, frustration, and a deep, helpless love. It was a familiar voice.
Su Yang turned.
Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the light from the alley, was Senior Engineer Wang—Lihua—from Celestial Code Innovations. Her usual air of anxious competence was gone, replaced by raw familial concern. She was holding a bag of groceries and a small pharmacy packet.
Her eyes, wide with the stress of chastising her grandfather, scanned the shop and landed on Su Yang.
The recognition was instant and mutual. Her jaw went slack. The bag of groceries slipped from her fingers, hitting the dusty floorboards with a soft thud. A lemon rolled out and came to rest against a stack of old books.
"Su... Su Yang?" she stammered, her voice a mixture of utter confusion and disbelief. "What... what are you doing here?"
The pieces clicked into place with dizzying speed. The new, permanently hired assistant. Her constant state of stress, which he had assumed was from the job. The way she looked perpetually tired. She wasn't just working a demanding job; she was the sole caretaker of her dying grandfather, likely working the insane hours at the office to pay for his medicine and keep this dusty, non-profit relic of a shop from being sold to developers.
The old man, Grandpa Wang, looked between his granddaughter and the strange young man in robes. "Oh? Lihua, you know this young gentleman? He has a very... calm aura."
Lihua seemed to struggle to find her words, her face flushing. She looked from Su Yang's simple, anachronistic clothing to the dusty artifacts in his hands. The Su Yang from the office—the impossibly fast, unnervingly calm coding prodigy—was here, in her grandfather's world of dust and memories. The cognitive dissonance was overwhelming.
"I... he... we work together, Grandpa," she finally managed, bending down to quickly gather the spilled groceries, avoiding Su Yang's gaze.
"Ah! A colleague! How wonderful!" Grandpa Wang beamed, his frailty forgotten for a moment in his delight. "The world of technology! So different from my old things. You must be very smart, young man."
Su Yang looked at Lihua, truly looked at her, for the first time. He saw past the sharp glasses and the professional facade. He saw the exhaustion etched around her eyes, the weight of responsibility on her slender shoulders, the fierce love that drove her to frustration. Her energy signature, which he had never bothered to notice before, was a flickering thing, strained thin by worry and overwork. But beneath that, there was a core of resilience, a stubborn strength that was, in its own way, a form of purity.
The mysterious call he had felt wasn't for a divine consort. It wasn't even about the old shop or its artifacts. It was a call of karmic connection. It was destiny, not in the grand, cosmic sense, but in the small, intricate weaving of human lives. He had been led here, not to find a source of Yin, but to witness a struggle, to see a hidden side of a person he saw every day.
He offered Lihua a small, gentle smile, one meant to convey understanding, not pity. "It's a small world," he said, his voice calm. "Your grandfather has a wonderful collection. Full of history."
Lihua finally met his eyes, her confusion warring with a dawning, bewildered curiosity. Who was this man? The office prodigy, the quiet intern who dressed like a monk and now showed up in the most personal corner of her life, speaking with a strange, ancient wisdom?
The search for a destined consort was suddenly put on hold. A different path, quieter and more complicated, had just revealed itself..