Lingyuan City — Old District, Mei's Tranquil Teas — 6:12 a.m.
The fog outside had thinned to a pale gray veil, allowing the first weak rays of dawn to slip through the kitchen window like hesitant fingers testing the edges of a new day. The light was thin, almost fragile, but it was enough to turn the small kitchenette from shadow to soft gold.
Zhao Ming moved through the cramped space with deliberate calm. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, apron tied loosely around his waist, he let the original body's muscle memory guide his hands where the rice cooker sat on the scarred wooden counter, which drawer held the good knife with the slightly chipped blade, exactly how many pinches of salt Lin Mei preferred in her congee. But the precision, the intent, the quiet calculation behind every motion belonged entirely to the man who had once closed nine-figure deals over breakfast meetings in glass towers overlooking Yunjin City.
He was finished with introspection for the moment.
The world's rules had been studied during the pre-dawn hours. The stagnation, the tiers, the qi monopoly all noted, filed, ready to be dismantled and rebuilt in his image. The city of Lingyuan was a machine running on ancient code: inefficient, rigid, begging for someone ruthless enough to rewrite it.
First things first.
He would begin with her.
The rice bubbled softly in the pot, a low, soothing rhythm that filled the silence. He added a generous handful of dried goji berries, their deep red color bleeding into the white grains like tiny drops of blood. A few thin slices of fresh ginger followed, releasing a sharp, clean scent that cut through the steam. A careful drizzle of sesame oil, then a pinch more salt small touches the original Zhao Ming had absorbed from years of watching her cook on exhausted nights when the shop's profits barely covered rent.
He cracked two eggs into a separate pan, tilting it just so the whites crisped into delicate lace around the edges while the yolks remained soft and golden, exactly the way she liked them. The sizzle was a quiet symphony, the aroma rising warm and comforting, laced with the faint sweetness of jasmine tea leaves he had already steeped for her morning cup ninety seconds, no more, no less.
He plated it with care: steaming congee in her favorite blue-rimmed bowl, eggs arranged neatly beside it, a small dish of pickled radish cut into perfect half-moons, a final sprinkle of chopped green onion for color and bite. Simple. Perfect. A calculated offering disguised as filial piety.
He carried the tray to the living room table, set it down quietly, then returned to pour the tea into her favorite porcelain cup thin-walled, painted with faint plum blossoms. The steam curled upward like incense offered at an altar.
Only then did he walk to her bedroom door and knock gently two soft taps, polite, restrained.
"Mother? Breakfast."
A soft rustle of silk. A sleepy murmur.
The door opened a moment later.
Lin Mei stood there in a thin silk sleeping robe the color of midnight plum, hair loose and spilling over her shoulders like spilled ink. Her crimson eyes were still heavy with sleep, lashes long and dark against pale skin that seemed almost luminous in the dawn light. The robe clung softly in places, hinting at the elegant curves beneath curves he had already begun to map in his mind with possessive, unrelenting detail.
She blinked slowly, taking in the sight of him: apron still tied, sleeves rolled, hair slightly tousled from the steam rising around him. Then her gaze dropped to the tray waiting on the table.
Her lips parted.
"You… made breakfast?"
Zhao Ming leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed casually, expression mild but his eyes held a faint, deliberate spark of ownership, a quiet promise that this was only the beginning.
"Someone has to take care of you for once," he said, voice low and smooth, each word measured. "You've been doing it alone long enough."
Lin Mei's cheeks warmed, a faint flush creeping up her neck and spreading to the delicate hollow of her throat. She stepped closer, peering at the food as though it were something miraculous.
"Congee with goji… and the eggs just right…" She looked up at him, confusion and something softer mingling in her crimson gaze. "How did you know I like the yolk soft like this? I never told you."
He shrugged one shoulder, the motion lazy, almost playful.
"I pay attention."
A small lie wrapped in truth.
She hesitated, then reached for the tray. Their fingers brushed as she took it deliberate on his part, seemingly accidental on hers.
The contact lingered half a second too long.
Lin Mei's breath caught faintly, a tiny sound that sent a dark thrill through him.
Zhao Ming didn't pull away immediately.
Instead, he tilted his head, letting a slow, teasing smile curve his lips—the first real one since waking in this body.
"You look surprised," he murmured. "Did you think your son was only good for coming home bloody and bruised?"
She laughed softly, nervous, the sound like wind chimes caught in fog.
"I… I didn't expect this. You've never—"
"Never what?" He stepped closer, voice dropping to velvet. "Never cooked for you? Never noticed how tired you are? Never wanted to see that pretty smile when you're not worrying about bills?"
The word "pretty" landed like a quiet claim gentle, but weighted with possession.
Lin Mei's crimson eyes widened. The flush deepened, spreading to her ears and down the elegant column of her throat.
"Ming'er…" she whispered, half-scolding, half-flustered. "Don't tease your mother."
"Who's teasing?" He raised a brow, expression innocent. "I'm just stating facts."
She ducked her head, trying to hide the smile tugging at her lips, but he saw it small, shy, genuine. A crack in the armor she had worn for years.
She carried the tray to the table and sat, robe slipping slightly off one shoulder as she moved. The exposed skin was flawless, pale as moonlit porcelain, begging for a mark only he would ever place there.
Zhao Ming watched for a heartbeat longer than necessary, cataloguing every detail: the way the silk clung to her collarbone, the faint tremor in her fingers as she lifted the spoon, the soft exhale when the first taste hit her tongue.
A soft, involuntary hum of pleasure escaped her.
"This is… really good," she said quietly. "Better than mine."
He glanced over his shoulder, smirk faint.
"Don't get used to it," he said lightly. "I might start charging."
Lin Mei laughed again this time freer, brighter, the sound cutting through the morning quiet like sunlight breaking fog.
"You're impossible this morning."
Zhao Ming dried his hands on a cloth, walked over slowly, and leaned down just enough to meet her eyes at her level.
"Only impossible if you keep looking at me like that," he murmured, voice velvet-soft and edged with something darker. "Like you're seeing me for the first time."
Her spoon paused mid-air.
Their gazes locked.
The air thickened again warm, charged, dangerous in its sweetness.
Lin Mei swallowed, the motion visible in her throat.
Then, softly: "Maybe I am."
The words hung between them like smoke.
Zhao Ming straightened slowly, letting the moment stretch, letting it burn.
He didn't push.
Not yet.
But the seed was planted deliberately, carefully, irrevocably.
He turned back to the sink, giving her space to breathe, to process, to feel the first stirrings of the obsession he intended to cultivate in her as carefully as he would cultivate any future empire.
Behind him, Lin Mei stared at his back, fingers tight around the spoon, heart beating just a little too fast. She took another bite, slower this time, savouring not just the food but the strange, unfamiliar warmth that had entered the room with him this morning.
The congee was perfect.
The eggs were perfect.
The tea was perfect.
And for the first time in years, she didn't feel quite so alone.
Zhao Ming rinsed the pan with slow, methodical motions, his mind already moving three steps ahead.
The shop would not open today.
He had decided that the night before, in the quiet after the cage fight, while the fog swallowed the streets. The shelves were still half-empty after yesterday's meager sales. The suppliers were late again clan-controlled deliveries always came with excuses and inflated prices. Opening now would only burn through what little inventory remained and show the neighborhood the same tired routine: Lin Mei smiling through exhaustion, customers haggling for pennies, another day of slow bleed.
No.
Today would be different.
Today, he would begin reshaping the foundation.
He dried his hands, removed the apron, and turned.
Lin Mei was still watching him, the bowl half-empty now, her expression soft and curious.
He met her gaze without flinching.
"No shop today," he said simply, as though it were the most natural decision in the world.
Lin Mei blinked, spoon hovering.
"What? But… the regulars—"
"They'll survive one day without their weak green tea," he replied, tone calm but final. "We need to restock properly. Negotiate with the suppliers. Fix the pricing. You've been running on fumes for too long."
She set the spoon down slowly, brow furrowing.
"I… I can't just close. The rent—"
"The rent will be paid," he cut in, voice quiet but carrying the weight of certainty. "With interest. I'll handle it."
Lin Mei stared at him, something flickering in her crimson eyes surprise, relief, and a trace of something deeper, something she didn't yet dare name.
"You sound so sure," she said softly.
"I am."
He walked over, stopping just behind her chair close enough that she had to tilt her head back slightly to look up at him.
"Finish eating," he told her, voice low. "Then we'll talk about how we turn this place from a dying shop into something the clans will fear."
Lin Mei swallowed again, the flush returning to her cheeks.
She nodded, small and almost obedient.
"Yes… Ming'er."
He smiled—thin, patient, predatory.
The day had only just begun.
And the shop would remain closed.
Because today was not for customers.
Today was for laying the first true claim.
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