Ruan Zhitong’s vision swam. Granny Yao. The kindly old woman who had held her twins, whose comforting presence had been a balm in her darkest days. A viper in a grandmother’s shawl. The carved prayer bead, warm and dark in He Tingye’s palm, was irrefutable proof. Her gut twisted, a nauseating mix of betrayal and raw terror for Xiaobo and Xiaoxue. Her fingers went numb against her sleeves. “Granny Yao,” Zhitong whispered, her voice a reedy rasp. Her eyes, still hard from the confrontation with Madam Fang, now held a new, chilling resolve. “Take me to her home. Now.” He Tingye nodded, his expression grim. He waved a hand, and his men, disciplined and silent, dissolved into the evening shadows. Only his lead driver, a stocky man named Gao Li, remained, quickly bringing a sleek black sedan to the curb. Zhitong barely registered the speed at which they traversed the familiar lanes of Qingshui Port. Each turn brought her closer to the house that had once represented a safe haven, now a den of treachery. Granny Yao’s small cottage, usually neat and unassuming, stood dark under the pale moonlight. The door was ajar, a faint, metallic scent lingering in the air. Zhitong burst inside, He Tingye close behind. The living room was disheveled, cushions tossed, a low wooden table overturned. It was not the scene of a struggle, but of a frantic search. “She left in a hurry,” He Tingye observed, his gaze sweeping the room with professional precision. “Looking for something specific, perhaps.” Zhitong’s eyes landed on a loose floorboard near the small clay stove. It wasn’t quite flush. She knelt, her bare knuckle rapping against it. The sound was hollow. “Here,” she said, her voice tight. “This is new.” He Tingye knelt beside her, his powerful shoulders brushing her own. With a practiced ease, he worked his fingers into the gap and lifted the board. Beneath it, a crude wooden latch secured a smaller trapdoor. A hidden cellar. The metallic scent intensified, mingling with the musty odor of damp dirt and burning tallow. They descended into the damp, subterranean space. A single oil lamp, still smoldering, cast dancing shadows across shelves laden with peculiar objects. Dust-covered scrolls tied with faded silk ribbons, jars containing dried herbs, and an array of tarnished bronze artifacts lined the walls. But what truly stole Zhitong’s breath were the items on a central workbench: familiar porcelain vases, intricate jade carvings, and a set of Ming Dynasty celadon bowls – all pieces she recognized as having gone missing from various smaller antique stalls in the district over the past few years. Stolen. Amidst the clutter, an open leather-bound journal lay splayed. Its pages were filled with archaic script and intricate diagrams. He Tingye carefully lifted it. “These are not ordinary antiques,” he murmured, his brow furrowed. “And this… this is not typical research.” Zhitong peered over his shoulder. The drawings depicted a swirling vortex, a shimmering gate, and crude sketches of a human figure. Below one diagram, a specific character caught her eye. ‘时空之门’ – ‘Threshold of Eras’. Her portal. Her throat locked shut, nausea rising fast. This was no ordinary thief. This was a mystic, an occultist. He Tingye turned a page. The next entry was in a different hand, a more modern, hurried script. It detailed a theory: *“The Nexus Core. A fragment of primordial energy. Imbued into the very fabric of the world, but accessible through rare gateways. Once absorbed by a living vessel, its essence can be extracted through a blood ritual. The children, having consumed the enriched produce, are now vessels. Their blood holds the key.”* Zhitong’s mind collapsed into a black void of horror. Her twins. Xiaobo. Xiaoxue. They had eaten the fruit, the vegetables, the grains from her magical courtyard. The vibrant, life-giving essence of the portal had nurtured them, and now it was a poison, a beacon for this monster. Granny Yao wasn’t stealing the portal; she was stealing *from* her kids. She was going to drain their life force to power her own dark agenda. A strangled cry tore from Zhitong’s throat. Her knees buckled. The journal slipped from He Tingye’s grasp, landing with a soft thump. The sheer, overwhelming terror, the betrayal, the ruthless calculated cruelty of it all, threatened to shatter her. She felt herself hyperventilating, her lungs burning, her vision blurring at the edges. In an instant, He Tingye was there. His strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her against his solid chest. His embrace was fierce, anchoring her against the rising tide of hysteria. She buried her face into his shoulder, her body wracked with silent sobs. She could feel the steady beat of his heart, a stark contrast to the frantic drum in her own chest. “Zhitong,” he said, his voice a low growl, vibrating through her. It was laced with a chilling fury she had never heard from him before. “I swear to you. If that old hag has laid a single injurious hand on your kids, I will burn this entire city down to find them. And then I will burn her.” The raw intensity of his promise, the sheer depth of his conviction, pierced through her despair. She clung to him, finding a sliver of strength in his outrage. He was her anchor, her sword in this sudden, unfathomable darkness. They found a discarded, bloodied rag near the cellar entrance, confirming their worst fears. A trail of small shoe prints alongside dragging, heavy strides led away from the cottage, toward the desolate outskirts of the district. The heirloom prayer bead, now clutched in Zhitong’s palm, pulsed faintly, a cold comfort. It was a tracer, not just a clue. They followed the path, sometimes running, sometimes walking at a frantic pace, their steps driven by a shared, urgent dread. The trail led them past dilapidated warehouses, through overgrown fields, and finally, towards the jagged, windswept coastline. There, perched precariously on a rocky outcrop, stood an abandoned temple, its stone walls weathered by centuries of salt and wind. Its wooden doors, thick and weathered gray, were barred from the inside. A faint, rhythmic chanting emanated from within, a low, guttural sound that raised the hairs on Zhitong’s neck. He Tingye didn’t hesitate. He kicked the heavy doors, once, twice, with crushing force. The aged wood groaned, splintered, and then burst inward with a deafening crack. Dust billowed. The chanting stopped abruptly. Inside, the air was thick with incense and the metallic tang of fresh blood. The temple’s main hall was dimly lit by a ring of flickering candles. In the center, on a crudely fashioned altar, lay Xiaobo and Xiaoxue, their small bodies limp, their faces pale and streaked with tears. Above them, Granny Yao stood, her face contorted into a malevolent mask Zhitong had never seen, her eyes glowing with an unholy light. In her hand, she held a short, wickedly curved dagger, its blade shimmering with an unnatural, sickly green luminescence. With her other hand, she held a dark, pulsating crystal, its surface absorbing the faint, silvery tendrils that snaked from the twins’ barely open mouths. Granny Yao resumed her chanting, a guttural incantation, and the dagger began to glow more fiercely as the crystal thrummed with increasing power.

The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing