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A man can see without his eyes, but he cannot see without his heart.
Hua Manlou learned this truth after his sense of sight was taken away from him at a young age. But he's for...
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"Tell me it's not just my imagination—Although he can't see, Young Master Hua has his eyes on you, doesn't he?"
Xiuming's voice was barely above a whisper, yet thick with intrigue as she leaned in, her breath warm against Chief Jiang's ear. Her gaze flitted toward Hua Manlou and Lu Xiaofeng, the latter engaging effortlessly in conversation while the former, ever composed, seemed to let his smiles linger just a fraction longer in their direction.
"There—again. I saw him smiling," Xiuming murmured, tilting her head meaningfully.
Chief Jiang's fingers curled slightly, gripping the silk of her sleeve as she cast a quick glance at her surroundings. The crowd was beginning to flow toward the banquet hall, their movements deliberate yet unhurried, like waves lapping at the shore. Too many ears. Too many eyes.
"Not now," she murmured, barely moving her lips. "He may not hear you, but others might. This is neither the time nor the place."
Xiuming straightened, sensing the tension in Jiang's voice. "Forgive me, Chief Jiang. I won't mention it again."
"It's alright. But try and keep your thoughts to yourself in these places."
Chief Jiang allowed herself a moment to observe the shifting currents of the gathering. The guests parted subtly, not for her or Xiuming, but to maintain a cautious distance from Elder Hu. Though Hua Ruling, a fellow member of the Beggars' Sect, understood his presence and purpose, others were less discreet. She caught the murmurs—hushed but unmistakably laced with disdain.
Her gaze flicked toward Elder Hu. His expression was controlled, yet his jaw tightened imperceptibly, his hands clasped too firmly behind his back. A storm restrained.
She maneuvered carefully through the thinning crowd, stepping close enough for her words to reach him alone. "Pay them no mind," she said, her voice low but steady. "You're here as my guest. No one will dare speak against you."
Elder Hu exhaled slowly, nodding. His silence spoke of practiced patience, but Jiang Qing recognized the simmering anger beneath.
The procession led them to their assigned seats, where the scent of aged wine and delicately spiced dishes mingled with the faint tang of ink and lacquered wood. Jiang Qing, ever strategic, deliberately left the space beside her vacant—a silent invitation for potential allies or influential figures to place themselves within her sphere. Each gathering was an opportunity, a chance to fortify her sect's position.
Yet, when the empty seat was claimed, it was not by a political ally nor an opportunistic martial hero, but by Hua Manlou himself.
She had anticipated his presence at the honored guests' table—his family's status demanded it—but she had not expected him to sit so close to her.
Across the table from her, Long Fei flicked open his fan with a practiced ease, the painted silk fluttering with a soft whisper of air as his lips quirked in amusement.
