Chapter 13

Mingyue returned to class with all the confidence of a woman carrying a volatile magical firebird in the birdhouse in her soul and pretending everything was fine.

Her cauldron was still there. Her classmates looked mildly confused but not suspicious. The instructor raised an eyebrow as she slipped back into her seat like she hadn’t just sprinted out of the building muttering about internal combustion.

“Ah. Shen Mingyue,” he said, deadpan. “Back from your… crippling cramp?”

“Recovered,” she said brightly. “Qi flowed. Bowels remained intact. All good.”

A few students nearby edged their cauldrons slightly farther away from hers.

She sat down, centered her breathing, and reached for the next set of ingredients: powdered Goldenleaf, two drops of Ghostshade tincture, and a dusting of spirit salt. Simple enough. The exercise was basic refinement—heat regulation, internal qi infusion, and maintaining flame equilibrium.

Easy. She’d done harder things with a Bunsen burner and a dislocated shoulder.

She guided her qi into the flame beneath her cauldron, keeping it steady.

And that’s when she felt it.

A little wiggle.

In her meridians.

A pulse of… not-her fire qi.

Her eye twitched.

Inside her dantian, Xiao Zhu chirped helpfully, then promptly sent a surge of warm, golden qi spiraling directly into the flame array.

The fire beneath her cauldron flared just a little too high.

The tincture hissed.

Mingyue hissed louder.

“No,” she whispered under her breath. “Stay in the nest. No playing with my alchemy settings.”

The chick responded with a swirl of happy heat that made her palm tingle.

Another pulse.

The salt scorched.

“Stop it!” she hissed again. “You are not certified to operate cauldron temperatures!”

From across the room, the instructor sniffed the air. “Someone’s tincture is overheating.”

Mingyue forced her qi down, trying to overpower the excitable blast of heat spiraling from within.

Xiao Zhu, undeterred, sent another cheerful wave of fire qi straight into her cauldron.

The tincture flashed bright orange. Her cauldron wobbled ominously. A faint pop! echoed.

Mingyue slapped both hands over the rim, channeling cold qi from her Ice variant root to stabilize it.

Steam billowed.

The instructor looked over, frowning.

Mingyue smiled through the haze. “Experimental technique. Cross-element modulation. All under control.”

The instructor muttered something about “rash innovation” and returned to his scrolls.

Inside her core, Xiao Zhu chirped triumphantly, then curled into a fluffy ember ball and promptly fell asleep.

“You little pyromaniac,” she muttered, flicking her sleeve. The cauldron’s contents had stabilized—barely—but the resulting powder was tinged faintly orange. Not textbook perfect. But definitely potent.

She bottled it anyway and labeled it: “Sun-Spiked Goldenleaf – May Contain Bird Energy.”

After class, she made a quiet detour to the outer sect’s rear courtyard, found a shady corner behind the herb greenhouse, and sat cross-legged on the mossy stones. With a deep breath, she dropped into meditation.

“Okay,” she said inside her mind. “We need to talk.”

Xiao Zhu stirred in the Beast Space—a little flame puffed like a hiccup. Then the chick materialized in her mental sea, blinking innocently with those too-bright garnet eyes.

“You cannot randomly push qi into my body while I’m trying to make medicine,” she said firmly.

Chirp.

“No, I don’t care if it made it ‘spicier.’”

The chick fluffed up, then strutted in a circle in her birdhouse soul-space like a fashion show model who just discovered spiritual prestige.

Mingyue buried her face in her hands.

She had a beautiful, rare spirit companion—probably a firebird variant, possibly something even rarer—and it had the attention span of a toddler on spiritual caffeine.

But.

She also felt it: beneath the ridiculousness, a low hum of shared energy. His warmth soothed her Flame root. His instinct seemed to reinforce her qi control, even when it went… sideways.

They were linked now.

“Fine,” she said at last. “You can help. Later. When I ask. No more surprise flames. Agreed?”

Xiao Zhu blinked once. Then sneezed a tiny ember and curled up to sleep again.

Mingyue took that as a yes.

The moonlight dusted the courtyard in silver as Mingyue stepped through the spiritual barrier. Jiang Feng was seated near the koi pond again, robe immaculate, tea cooling beside him. He looked like he belonged in a painting called Exiled Sage Who Has Definitely Killed Someone With Eyebrows Alone.

She flopped onto the bench across from him. “I had a day.”

He looked at her. “You smell like scorched tincture and frustration.”

“You’re not wrong.” She dropped her satchel into her lap. “Alchemy class. My first attempt with a flame-aligned spirit beast actively feeding unauthorized fire qi into my cauldron.”

His brow lifted slightly. “It hatched.”

“Oh yes. In the middle of class. I barely got out before we had a phoenix-themed fireworks display. I had to pretend I had a bowel cramp.”

A long pause.

“I… see.”

“I pushed him into my Beast Space. Cooperative qi structure, remember? Jade slip said it’s for bonding-level companions.” She leaned in. “The kid’s got opinions, Jiang Feng. And fire. So much fire.”

He gestured. “Let me see it.”

Mingyue hesitated. “I don’t think he likes you.”

Jiang Feng blinked. “He’s never met me.”

“Oh, he has. Sort of.” She reached inward, focusing on the small warm presence curled within her dantian. Come out, she coaxed gently. Just for a moment. Be polite.

Xiao Zhu blinked into view in her arms with a puff of shimmering flame. He looked up at her, then across the courtyard—and froze.

The chick fluffed violently, let out a warning chirp, and attempted to wedge its entire head under her elbow.

Jiang Feng tilted his head. “Is it… hiding from me?”

Mingyue nodded. “Yes. Apparently, you’re terrifying.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re also a walking pressure cooker of latent celestial force. He’s still a baby. You’re like… a sun in a suit. He thinks you might eat him.”

“I do not eat firebirds.”

“Good. Because I just got this one. No returns, no refunds.”

Jiang Feng extended a hand—palm open, non-threatening. Xiao Zhu peeked out, tail flickering with anxious heat.

Then he chirped once, suspiciously. Like someone sniffing out a trap.

Mingyue laughed softly. “He’s trying to decide if you’re secretly a predator or just emotionally repressed.”

Jiang Feng retracted his hand. “He’s cautious. That’s good. He’ll need it.”

They sat a while longer, the quiet settling around them like a second mist.

Then Jiang Feng asked, almost absently, “Have you named it?”

Mingyue looked down at the chick, still nestled in her arms like a tiny, furious ember-puff. “Yeah. Xiao Zhu.”

He raised a brow. “You named him ‘Little Red’?”

“I mean, he’s tiny and red. It fits. And it’s cute. I had other options—like Blaze Nuisance or Eggbert—but this one stuck. He seemed to like it.”

Xiao Zhu cracked one eye open and let out a chirp.

Then something fluttered through her thoughts—not words exactly, but a clear, unmistakable sentiment:

I picked it.

Mingyue blinked.

“You picked it?” she whispered.

The chick ruffled proudly and curled tighter against her.

Jiang Feng’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Zhu (朱). You’re sure that’s the name he chose?”

“He’s taking credit for it now.”

“Hm.” He looked at Xiao Zhu for a long moment. “Zhu… the character for vermillion.”

He didn’t elaborate. But something in his gaze sharpened, then softened again.

Mingyue glanced between them. “What? Is that unusual?”

Jiang Feng just said, “It suits him.”

Xiao Zhu let out a sleepy, smug chirp.

By the time she returned to the dorms that evening, she was tired, slightly singed, and still smelled faintly of caramelized tincture. Li Mei took one look at her and asked, “Are you… baking pills now?”

Mingyue flopped onto her bunk. “No. My soul just hatched a firebird. Totally different skill set.”

Li Mei stared at her.

“I was joking,” Mingyue said quickly.

Li Mei nodded slowly. “Right. Joking.”

Mingyue buried her face in her pillow.

Joking. Mostly.