Lin Qian pressed the pen to the page, staring at the contract as though it were a death sentence.
"Just sign it," his cousin urged, voice dripping with fake sincerity. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime!"
"Opportunity?" Lin Qian snorted. "This looks less like employment and more like a blood pact. What does 'until the Lord releases you' even mean?!"
His cousin leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, "It means job security."
Lin Qian glared. "It means I'll never escape. I wanted a desk job, not a death sentence. Who even is this Phoenix Lord? Some washed-up noble with a pet bird complex?"
The room went silent. Even his cousin winced.
Later, after a heated lecture from his parents about "family honor" and "once-in-a-lifetime chances," and a mysteriously ink-smeared contract that just happened to include his name, Lin Qian found himself bumping along in a carriage headed straight for the capital.
---
The palace was less a building and more a furnace disguised as architecture. Black obsidian walls shimmered with veins of molten gold, phoenixes carved into every surface. Heat radiated from the stones as if the building itself was alive.
Lin Qian adjusted his collar nervously. "Wonderful. First day on the job and I'm already medium rare."
The steward at his side gave him a pitying look. "Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't look His Lordship directly in the eyes. Don't—"
"—get set on fire. Got it," Lin Qian muttered.
The palace doors groaned open. A wave of heat swept over him, scorching his lungs.
And then he saw him.
Seated on a throne of flame-touched jade was Feng Lianhua. His robes were crimson silk embroidered with gold, his hair a dark cascade lit with faint embers at the tips. His eyes—bright as burning coals—narrowed in measured curiosity as they fell on Lin Qian.
Lin Qian's heart stopped.
So this was the Phoenix Lord? He'd expected some aging bureaucrat with feathers in his hat—not… whatever this was. Regal. Dangerous. Inhumanly beautiful.
"Step forward," Feng Lianhua commanded, his voice smooth yet sharp, like silk hiding a blade.
Lin Qian stumbled closer, bowing awkwardly. Don't look him in the eyes. Don't look him in the—
He looked. Instantly.
Feng Lianhua smirked, as though amused by the failure. "So you are Lin Qian?"
"Uh—yes. Present. Alive. Hopefully for a long time."
The smirk widened just slightly. "You will serve me. Your duty is simple: obey my orders. Do not question me. Do not disappoint me."
Lin Qian swallowed. Too late for that.
"And if I… accidentally… do?" he asked cautiously.
The Phoenix Lord leaned forward, eyes glowing brighter. "Then I burn you."
Lin Qian forced a weak laugh. "Haha. Joking, right?"
Silence. The air grew hotter.
Lin Qian's legs nearly gave out. His first thought? I wonder if fainting counts as insubordination.
---
Fireproof Is Not in My Contract
Lin Qian was beginning to suspect the job description had left out a few minor details.
Like the fact that the Phoenix Lord's "morning routine" involved sparring with fire dragons in the courtyard. Or that said dragons occasionally decided to spit flames at innocent bystanders—namely, Lin Qian.
"Move faster," Feng Lianhua said lazily, lifting his arm as a dragon made of molten flame reared its head.
"I'm moving as fast as I can!" Lin Qian yelped, diving behind a pillar as the dragon's tail whipped dangerously close. "What happened to personal attendant? This is battlefield fodder!"
The Phoenix Lord didn't even look winded, his crimson sleeves swirling as he summoned another wave of fire. "An attendant must adapt."
Lin Qian poked his head out from behind the pillar. "Adapt?! I signed up for carrying tea trays, not dodging incineration!"
The dragon roared, flames licking toward him. Lin Qian shrieked and bolted across the courtyard, arms flailing. Somewhere behind him, he heard a soft chuckle—low, amused, and completely at odds with Feng Lianhua's cold reputation.
"Pathetic," the Lord murmured, snapping his fingers. The dragon dissolved into sparks.
Lin Qian collapsed onto the ground, panting. "Oh, thank heavens—"
A shadow fell over him. He looked up to see Feng Lianhua standing tall, firelight curling around him like a second skin. Those coal-bright eyes regarded him with faint curiosity.
"You didn't faint," Feng Lianhua observed.
"Was… was I supposed to?!" Lin Qian gasped.
"Most do, the first time." His lips curved in a smile that was all sharp edges. "Perhaps you'll survive after all."
Lin Qian blinked, still trembling. Then his sarcasm finally caught up with his fear. "Oh good. Surviving my job. That's always reassuring."
---
Later that day, Lin Qian discovered another missing detail from the job description: Feng Lianhua had a very specific tea preference.
"Brew it again," the Lord said flatly.
Lin Qian stared at the discarded cup. "What's wrong with this one?"
"It's lukewarm."
"It's scalding!" Lin Qian protested, shaking his reddened fingers.
"Then make it hotter." Feng Lianhua leaned back in his chair, utterly unconcerned. "Surely you can handle a little heat."
Lin Qian resisted the urge to throw the teapot over the Lord's head. Barely.
---
That night, collapsed on the hard guest bed provided for him, Lin Qian groaned into his pillow.
Day One, and he was already:
1. Nearly roasted alive.
2. Mocked by a dragon.
3. Ordered to brew tea that could double as lava.
He turned his face to the ceiling. "I should've just worked at a noodle shop."
Outside, the wind carried the faint sound of laughter—low, amused, and unmistakably belonging to Feng Lianhua.