The streets of Chang’an were buzzing that spring night, lanterns painting the city in crimson and gold. Laughter spilled from wine houses, music drifted from the Lefang brothel, and rumor always rumor ran swifter than the evening breeze.

And at the heart of every rumor stood the same name.

“Wu Zhen.”

The Duke of Henan’s only daughter, younger sister to the queen herself. A woman born to silk and jade, yet better known for scandal than grace.

That evening, Wu Zhen lounged at the head of a table in Lefang’s largest chamber, one boot propped carelessly on a chair. She was dressed in men’s attire indigo robes embroidered with golden clouds, a jade pendant hanging loosely at her chest. Her black hair, bound with a scholar’s crown, gleamed in the lamplight.

Around her, a half-dozen young aristocrats laughed too loudly, wine spilling freely. The air was thick with perfume, incense, and the chatter of courtesans.

“Zhen-ge, your aim is terrible!” cried one of the youths as Wu Zhen attempted to flick a peanut into a goblet. The peanut bounced off the rim and struck the boy in the forehead.

Wu Zhen threw her head back and laughed, a sound rich and unrestrained. “And yet, still better than your poetry, Fang Yuan!”

The courtesans giggled behind silk sleeves. Everyone adored Wu Zhen. Everyone feared her, too her sharp tongue, her reckless courage, her unshakable confidence in a city that bowed to propriety.

But while laughter filled the room, Wu Zhen’s gaze occasionally flicked to the shadows in the corner. To most, it was empty air. To her, it was not.

A spirit crouched there, pale and gaunt, eyes glowing faintly red. It hissed, unseen by all but her.

Wu Zhen raised her cup, drinking deeply, and let her smile linger. Yet beneath the table, her fingers moved subtly, tracing a warding sigil against her thigh. The spirit recoiled, vanishing like mist.

Only she had seen. Only she always saw.

Later, when the revels broke and her companions stumbled into the night, Wu Zhen stepped onto Lefang’s roof. The city sprawled before her, its thousand lanterns reflecting the stars. The spring wind tugged at her robes.

She closed her eyes.

The feline presence stirred within her, sleek and powerful. Since that fall years ago when the former Cat Master had saved her and passed on his power she had belonged not only to the human world but also to the hidden Demon City beneath Chang’an.

Her ears caught a sound that was not of this world. A whisper. A plea.

“Cat Master…”

Wu Zhen opened her eyes, and they glowed faintly gold.

A figure stood across the rooftop. A man in Taoist robes, tall, with a calm expression and a gaze sharp as a blade. His presence was quiet yet commanding, like the stillness of a mountain before a storm.

Mei Zhu Yu.

Wu Zhen arched an eyebrow. “And what wind blows a temple prodigy to a brothel’s roof?”

He bowed slightly, though his lips curved in faint amusement. “The same wind that guides spirits. I followed one here and found you instead.”

Wu Zhen smirked, hands clasped behind her back. “Then fortune smiles on you, Taoist. But beware. I bite.”

For the first time, Mei Zhu Yu’s composure faltered his eyes flickered with something unspoken.

And so began the partnership that would change Chang’an forever.

The rooftop wind tugged at Mei Zhu Yu’s sleeves as he regarded Wu Zhen. Lanternlight flickered faintly below them, but here, suspended between heaven and earth, the world felt oddly hushed.

Wu Zhen tilted her head, amber eyes narrowing like a cat’s. “You followed a spirit, did you? Or were you just curious to see me disgrace myself at Lefang?”

Mei Zhu Yu’s lips curved faintly, but he said nothing. Instead, he reached into his sleeve and drew out a small copper mirror etched with runes. Raising it, he angled the glass toward the air beside Wu Zhen.

There it was again the pale, gaunt spirit, its mouth opening in a silent scream. In the reflection, it flared brighter than moonlight, visible at last.

“Ah,” Wu Zhen murmured, her voice low with amusement. “So you do see them.”

His dark eyes met hers. “And so do you.”

The moment lingered, taut as a bowstring. For years Wu Zhen had hidden this side of herself, even from her closest companions. Yet here stood a stranger who peeled back her mask with a single gesture.

Wu Zhen broke the silence with a grin, masking her unease. “Well, aren’t you clever, Taoist prodigy. What now? Do you plan to banish me along with the spirit?”

Mei Zhu Yu’s expression remained unreadable. He murmured a chant, and the copper mirror flared, drawing the spirit toward its surface. The thing shrieked soundlessly as it was absorbed, leaving the night still once more. Mei Zhu Yu lowered the mirror, sliding it back into his sleeve.

“I do not banish people,” he said evenly. “Only demons.”

Wu Zhen barked a laugh, her voice echoing against the tiles. “Careful. I’m not sure which side of the line I fall on these days.”

She expected him to falter, to recoil at the implication of demonic power. But instead, Mei Zhu Yu studied her with that same calm, almost detached gaze.

“You carry something,” he said quietly. “Something that doesn’t belong to mortals. And yet, it hasn’t consumed you.”

Wu Zhen’s smirk faded just a little. “Sharp eyes, Taoist. But perhaps too sharp for your own good.”

Before Mei Zhu Yu could reply, the air around them thickened. A chorus of whispers rose, icy and discordant, as if dozens of voices pressed against the veil of the world.

Wu Zhen straightened instantly. Her golden eyes flared. “More of them.”

From the shadows between rooftops, shapes began to crawl spectral figures, distorted and restless. Their faces were blurred, their limbs jerking unnaturally as they surged toward the two.

Wu Zhen cracked her knuckles, the demonic energy within her stirring eagerly. “Finally. Something to sink my claws into.”

She leapt forward with feline grace, her robes billowing like wings. With a sweep of her arm, golden talons of energy erupted, slashing through the nearest spirit. It wailed and disintegrated into fragments of light.

Mei Zhu Yu moved as well, his chant flowing like water, each word a thread of power. Sigils glowed around his fingers, forming a radiant barrier that repelled the shrieking phantoms.

The battle unfolded like a dance Wu Zhen striking fast and wild, Mei Zhu Yu steady and precise. Where her claws shredded, his incantations bound; where her laughter rang, his silence grounded.

Within moments, the last spirit dissolved into mist. The rooftops fell quiet again, only the night breeze whispering through the tiles.

Wu Zhen exhaled, brushing dust from her sleeves. “Not bad, Taoist. You almost kept up.”

Mei Zhu Yu adjusted his robe, unfazed. “You are reckless. Had I not been here, you would have been overwhelmed.”

She grinned, leaning closer with mischievous spark in her eyes. “Oh? Concern already? Careful, Mei Zhu Yu, or I might mistake you for someone who cares whether I live or die.”

For the first time, something flickered in his gaze quick, fleeting, like a spark under ice. He turned away before she could catch it fully.

“The disturbance is unusual,” he said instead. “So many restless spirits gathering at once. Something stirs in Chang’an.”

Wu Zhen leaned back on her heels, eyes glinting. “Well then, lucky for Chang’an it has me. And now, it seems, you.”

Their eyes met, and though no words passed, an unspoken agreement formed in the stillness between them.

Whatever was awakening in the shadows of Chang’an, they would face it together.

The morning sun gilded the tiled roofs of Chang’an, chasing away the shadows of the night. By dawn, the city was already alive with movement vendors shouting prices in West Market, scholars hurrying to the academies, soldiers marching in neat rows past the watchtowers.

Wu Zhen strolled through it all as if she owned the streets. Which, in a sense, she did.

Dressed once again in men’s robes this time a jade-green set embroidered with silver cranes she strutted past the stalls with her usual swagger. Children pointed, women whispered, and men quickly averted their eyes. Everyone in Chang’an recognized her.

“Zhen-lang, another scandal last night?” one vendor called boldly, emboldened by familiarity.

Wu Zhen flashed him a grin. “Would it even be dawn in Chang’an if there wasn’t?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd, but beneath it she felt the faint tug again the pull of something not quite mortal. Spirits were restless today.

She stopped at a stall selling candied hawthorn skewers. The old man tending it blinked nervously when she pointed. “Three sticks.”

As he wrapped them, Wu Zhen’s sharp eyes caught the shimmer at his shoulder. A faint outline, like smoke curling into the shape of a child’s face, clung to him. It whispered in a language of sighs, almost drowned by the bustle.

Wu Zhen leaned in, her voice low and casual. “You’ve had a loss recently, haven’t you, old one?”

The man’s hands trembled. “My grandson… last month. Fever took him.”

Wu Zhen’s smile softened for the briefest second. She pressed the coins into his palm, then turned away, biting into the first skewer. The taste was sharp, sweet, alive.

From the crowd, a calm voice spoke. “You see them even in daylight.”

Wu Zhen didn’t need to turn. “Following me already, Taoist? Careful, people will think you’re one of my admirers.”

Mei Zhu Yu stepped beside her, his robes neat, his presence utterly composed despite the bustling chaos. He glanced at the old vendor, then at the shadow clinging faintly to his back.

“That spirit doesn’t belong here,” he murmured.

Wu Zhen licked syrup from her lips, unconcerned. “It belongs where grief is strongest. You want to rip it away? Let the poor man mourn his own blood?”

Mei Zhu Yu’s brow furrowed slightly, but he said nothing. Together they walked deeper into the market, their silence threaded with something heavier than words.

They stopped at the central square, where storytellers drew crowds with tales of generals and poets. Today, however, the crowd buzzed with unease.

A woman stood in the center, hair unbound, eyes vacant, her voice a hollow chant.

“The river runs red, the lanterns fall, Chang’an burns beneath heaven’s wall…”

People shuffled back, frightened murmurs spreading. Children cried, vendors abandoned their stalls.

Wu Zhen’s golden gaze sharpened. She stepped forward, Mei Zhu Yu at her side.

The woman’s limbs jerked as if pulled by invisible strings. Her lips moved faster, the chant twisting into a scream. Then, with a guttural cry, she lunged at the nearest bystander.

Gasps rose. The crowd scattered.

Wu Zhen caught the woman by the wrist, twisting her arm behind her back with effortless strength. “Not so fast, sister.”

The woman thrashed, but her eyes glowed with a sickly green light no mortal madness, but possession.

Mei Zhu Yu drew a talisman from his sleeve, pressing it to her forehead. The paper burned instantly, releasing a hiss of smoke. The woman shrieked and collapsed, unconscious.

The spirit that had ridden her form burst free a twisted shape of claws and teeth, shrieking as it tried to flee.

Wu Zhen’s pupils narrowed to slits. With a flick of her fingers, golden claws slashed through the air, severing the thing’s escape. It howled before dissolving into nothing.

The market stood silent, stunned. People stared at the unconscious woman, then at Wu Zhen and Mei Zhu Yu.

Wu Zhen dusted her hands, smirking. “Well. That was lively. Who’s next?”

No one answered.

The two exchanged a glance. For Wu Zhen, it was a grin of reckless delight. For Mei Zhu Yu, a sober weight pressed on his features.

He murmured, almost to himself, “This isn’t random. Something is stirring the dead, sending them into the streets.”

Wu Zhen bit the last of her candied haw, eyes glinting like a predator’s. “Then let it stir. I was getting bored anyway.”

And with that, the Cat Master of Chang’an and the Taoist prodigy walked side by side through the unsettled city, unaware of the storm that was only beginning.