The Mad Ҡìղց

Present time

Ayana and Wangji spent a quiet week at the beach house, their days filled with the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the scent of salt in the air. The house itself was an oasis of calm, far from the pressures and responsibilities they usually faced. They'd come to the beach house to get away, to take a breather from the complexities of life. For Wangji, it was more than a vacation—it was a chance to recover, both physically and mentally. Ayana, always the vigilant protector, watched over him with a keen eye, aware that the peace they found here was only temporary.

When they returned to the Lan residence, Lan Qiren greeted them with a relieved smile. His nephew, Wangji, had been through a lot recently, and seeing him standing tall, alive, and well, filled the older man with joy.

"Come, tell me all about your trip," Lan Qiren gushed, eyes twinkling as he observed Wangji. He kept his gaze on Ayana a little longer, a silent hope crossing his mind—*Please tell me she didn't bring different men to the house*.

But it wasn't the time for doubts or worries. Wangji, seemingly restored by the tranquility of the beach, excused himself to join his father at the poolside, while Ayana stayed behind. She settled beside Wangji's grandmother by the large glass window that overlooked the garden. It was an unusually quiet afternoon; the only sound was the gentle clink of their teacups as they sipped their drinks in a comfortable silence.

Then, the older woman broke the silence with a question that had been hanging in the air since Wangji's return. "Did he remember?"

Ayana nodded, her expression unreadable. "Yes. A black shadow with purple eyes."

Wangji's grandmother's hand faltered, the teacup pausing in mid-air. Her eyes widened slightly, and she looked at Ayana, searching for any sign of uncertainty. "Zane Digby? No, that can't be," she said, her voice trembling slightly.

But Ayana didn't waver. "He wasn't mistaken about what stabbed him."

There was a long pause before Wangji's grandmother spoke again. "I need to see Mr. Shaun Delan," she said decisively, standing up from her chair as if the very act of sitting had become unbearable.

Without another word, Ayana joined her. With a flick of her hand, the world around them dissolved, and when the air cleared, they stood in front of the Delan family farm. The fields stretched out before them, golden in the afternoon light, and the scent of fresh earth filled the air.

Shaun Delan appeared shortly, an elderly man in his late seventies who didn't look a day over sixty. His movements were spry, but when he saw Ayana, a flicker of fear passed over his face. He knew her reputation—calm and friendly, but with a brutal side if provoked.

"To what do I owe this visit?" Shaun asked, his voice polite but edged with wariness.

"Zane stabbed my grandson," Wangji's grandmother said, her voice cold, devoid of the warmth it had held just moments earlier.

Shaun's eyes widened, shock flooding his features. "Zane? No, he can't have—"

"He did," Ayana interjected, her voice cutting through Shaun's disbelief like a blade. "Wangji remembered exactly what stabbed him."

Shaun's gaze flickered to Ayana, and then back to Wangji's grandmother. "I swear, Zane Digby didn't stab Wangji," Shaun insisted. His tone was pleading now, as if trying to convince not just them but himself.

"Why can't he?" Wangji's grandmother asked, her voice sharp.

"Because aside from me and my ex-wife—who is long gone—no one knows the spell to summon him," Shaun replied, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Ayana. He didn't trust her presence there, nor the weight of the accusations she carried.