The 18th day of the Weeping Moon Festival.
Outside, the silver rain whispered against the window panes. The faint drizzle soaked the city in quiet longing. Lanterns flickered softly in the mist.
But inside the Misty Pavilion, Room 407?
There was warmth.
There was softness.
There was tit!
Specifically, Huo Lingxue's massive pair, one pressed under Su Xiaobai's palm, the other smushed against his chest like it belonged there.
They were entangled like lovers... Peaceful...Dreaming.
Until—
"Sniff..." Su Xiaobai's nose twitched.
His eyes stayed closed, but his spiritual sense prickled.
Rotting Qi.
The stench of death, laced with floral perfume.
Not decay—ritual bloom.
Unholy botany.
Rustle~
A silhouette slithered out from under the floorboards like a whisper of fungus and lust.
A woman.
Long, elegant limbs.
Bare feet that didn't step—they grew.
And from her shadow… flowers bloomed.
