The dormitory air hummed with residual heat from the day's training. Lin Hao's fingers traced grooves in his meditation mat—ridges hardened by years of spilled qi condensation fluids. Four Treasures' talons flexed against his collarbone, transmitting surveillance feeds through neural filaments colder than winter streams.

  Yang Chengji's chambers reeked of sandalwood incense and ambition. Through Kung Fu Fly's compound eyes, Lin Hao saw everything—the tiger pelt rug's matted fur still clinging to phantom bloodstains, the jade pendant at Yang's throat glowing like a trapped supernova.

  "Sixth-level warrior. Faster progression than projected."

  Lin Hao's tongue found the metallic aftertaste of recalculated strategies. Kung Fu Fly's wings vibrated at 587 Hz—precisely matching the resonance frequency of dust motes in Yang's chambers to avoid detection. The fly's position between leather-bound copies of Art of Celestial Betrayal and Genealogy of Fallen Houses provided optimal vantage.

  Yang's qi circulation patterns illuminated the room—crimson meridians flaring brighter at his dan tian. The jade pendant's glow intensified rhythmically, synchronizing with his breathing.

  "Defensive artifact confirmed. Energy signature matches imperial guard issue #774-9B."

  Four Treabytes' analysis scrolled through Lin Hao's optic nerves. The characters burned neon green against darkness—recommendations for phased plasma disruption or targeted neurotoxin injection.

  A floor below, Wolf Spider tasted vibrations through eight pressure-sensitive legs. The patrol schedule unfolded in seismic poetry—three guards every 4.7 minutes, their steel-toed boots imprinting unique vibration signatures on stone.

  "Maintain surveillance. Record all movement patterns."

  Lin Hao's command triggered Kung Fu Fly's glandular secretions—biochemical recorders embedding themselves in the bookbinding glue. The fly's digestive tract began manufacturing micro-doses of paralysis venom from ingested paper fibers.

  The scent of night-blooming soulgrass interrupted his focus. Yan Xinyue's frostflower perfume preceded her—a blizzard of contradictions. Her pulse thrummed 12% faster than baseline when approaching, yet her voice remained glacier-calm.

  "Looking for someone?"

  Lin Hao turned, nostrils flaring. "Merely enjoying moonlight."

  "Through closed eyelids?" Her laugh crystallized the humidity between them. "What secrets do blind men see?"

  "Echoes. The way sound warps around concealed weapons. The click of a jade pendant's chain against collarbone."

  Her intake of breath smelled of frozen mint. Four Treabytes logged increased pheromone production—attraction metrics climbing despite logical parameters.

  The collision happened at 23:47:16 campus time. Yan's shoulder struck Lin Hao's with 6.3 Newtons of force—insufficient to bruise but enough to release a cloud of iceflame spores from her hair. The microscopic crystals burned Lin Hao's tongue like candied lightning.

  Qin Yu's laughter carried the bitterness of unripe persimmons. "Already practicing for the couples' sparring tournament?"

  Data cascaded—Yan's body temperature spiking 1.2°C, pupil dilation exceeding romantic attraction thresholds. Lin Hao's own adrenal response surprised him—12% increase despite tactical awareness protocols.

  When Yan departed to summon Zhao Ling'er, her frost trail lingered like comet debris. Lin Hao tasted the afterimage—regret and anticipation alloyed with subzero promise.

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  The confrontation with Zhao unfolded under a moon veiled by soulsteel smog. Her qi stank of burnt gardenias—the cloying sweetness of decaying marital promises.

  "You've changed." Her fingers brushed air where his arm should have been. "The stench of desperation's gone."

  Lin Hao's smile cut through night's fabric. "Blind men don't chase mirages."

  Kung Fu Fly's transmission arrived as Zhao turned to leave—Yang Chengji's jade pendant glowing ultraviolet during secret correspondence with northern warlords. The characters burned themselves into Lin Hao's retinas—a dinner invitation at Vermilion Plume Pavilion tomorrow dusk.

  "Wolf Spider. Prepare neurotoxin payload."

  Four Treabytes projected combat simulations—87% success probability if strike occurred during Yang's third sip of poisoned qingke wine. The remaining 13% risk involved Elder Mo's rumored soul-link to all campus defensive arrays.

  Qin Yu's voice shattered the calculus. "She's royal lineage, you know. Third princess."

  Lin Hao's fingers found the soulgrass petal stuck to his sleeve—Yan's accidental gift. Its edges burned with cryogenic potential. "All flowers wither."

  "Not winterblooms." Qin Yu's smirk carried decades of court intrigue. "Their roots feed on permafrost."

  The scent of Zhao's departing rage mixed with Yan's lingering frost—a cocktail of endings and beginnings. Lin Hao's tongue mapped the chemical composition—44% regret, 32% anticipation, 24% unresolved equations.

  Four Treabytes initiated sleep mode. The last conscious input registered Yang Chengji's handwriting through Kung Fu Fly's eyes—flowing strokes arranging his own assassination.

  Severing the Knot

  Midnight oil lamps cast honeyed light across the lotus pond. Lin Hao's boots crushed frost-limned reeds with surgical precision. Four Treasures' talons dug into his shoulder, analyzing Zhao Ling'er's pheromone cocktail—44% anxiety, 33% regret, 23% decaying gardenia perfume.

  "Speak your piece." Zhao's voice cracked like thin ice.

  Lin Hao's fingers found the sleeve seam. The fabric tore with a sound like splitting glaciers—a ritual severance older than the Yang Dynasty's founding. Zhao's jade hairpin chimed in sympathetic vibration, its carved phoenix momentarily glowing corpse-green.

  "Consider your chains broken."

  His words hung crystallized in air suddenly rich with ozone. The pond's mirrored moon fractured into a thousand silver shards, each reflecting Zhao's widening pupils. Four Treabytes logged her physiological responses—cardiac arrest metaphorically approximated.

  The walk back to dorms tasted of liberation. Lin Hao's lungs expanded fully for the first time since transmigration, inhaling night air flavored with distant smithies and wolf spider pheromones. Kung Fu Fly's latest transmission burned across his optic nerve—Yang Chengji's secret tunnel exit coordinates superimposed over campus maps.

  Yan Xinyue's frostwine laughter greeted him. The courtyard blazed with stolen firestones, their heat warping the laws of thermodynamics. Qin Yu juggled three bottles of Dragon's Breath vintage—'79, '83, and the legendary frostbloom '91.

  "Freedom suits you." Yan's ice-blue hair shimmered with stolen starlight. She pressed a goblet into Lin Hao's hand—the rim frosted instantly.

  The feast unfolded as tactical analysis. Emerald Serpent meat sizzled on skewers rotated with precision engineering. Lin Hao's knife carved through reptilian muscle fibers like a monomolecular scalpel, each slice releasing vaporized essence of lightning peppers and despair.

  "Marriage is a tactical error." Qin Yu spoke through mouthfuls of charred delicacy. "But this...this is strategy."

  Yan's chopsticks hesitated mid-air. "Strategy requires sacrifice." Her gaze lingered on Lin Hao's throat—specifically the pulse point above his collar. Four Treabytes detected a 0.7°C temperature spike.

  The alcohol burned like liquid stardust. Lin Hao's tongue mapped vintage complexities—blackhole-aged grapes, supernova-fermented yeast. Yan's knee brushed his under the table, freezing the hem of his trousers into intricate frost filigree.

  Wolf Spider's alert shattered the revelry—vibration patterns matching Yang Chengji's gait detected 327 meters northeast. Lin Hao rose smoothly, the half-eaten serpent skewer in his hand suddenly a weapon.

  "Retrieving dessert."

  The lie carried just enough truth. Yan's disappointed sigh crystallized a wine droplet mid-fall—a perfect frozen teardrop pendant.

  The hunt began in sewage tunnels reeking of failed alchemy experiments. Yang's cloaking talisman flickered—amateur work, its resonance frequency child's play to track. Lin Hao's boots left no prints in the bioluminescent sludge, each step calibrated to match the tunnel's natural drip rhythm.

  Yang's voice echoed ahead, warped by curved stone. "...third battalion moves at dawn. The old fool's defenses won't—"

  Kung Fu Fly's neurotoxin delivery system engaged with a subsonic hum. Yang's next word became a wet gurgle. Lin Hao's knife found the gap between third and fourth cervical vertebrae—a strike so clean the decapitation looked accidental.

  Four Treabytes initiated memory purge protocols. The last sensory input before extraction registered Yan Xinyue's frostwine still coating his tongue—sweetness undercut by iron.