The night settled quietly around the villa, the faint chirping of insects drifting in through the window, while the lights inside glowed warm and gentle.
Han Ling sat at his desk, his expression as calm as ever, fingertips turning through an ancient scroll. His focus was so complete it seemed as though he had shut out the world entirely. The books he had brought back from the cultivation world carried archaic handwriting, with faint traces of spiritual energy lingering between the pages. One by one, he organized them, his brows serene, his presence as aloof and cold as always.
On the sofa, Leander lounged lazily, idly spinning a spirit jade between his fingers. His gaze lingered on Han Ling's profile, so absorbed and serious, and a smile tugged at his lips. That look of concentration—icy as it was—always stirred up the mischievous urge in him to cause trouble.
