The sound of the spatula in the kitchen stopped.
Heavy footsteps came from the wooden stairs, one step at a time.
The door was pushed open, and Enrique walked in carrying a coarse ceramic tray with a bowl of oatmeal and two slices of toasted black bread.
He set the tray on the nightstand, then sat back down in the wooden chair, picking up the newspaper from the backrest and unfolding it again.
Olivia picked up the bowl of oatmeal and took a spoonful.
There was no sugar or salt in it—just plain oatmeal, a little burnt at the bottom.
She chewed, swallowed, then put the spoon down.
“So, this uncle, you saved me?”
Enrique turned a page of the newspaper, not lifting his eyes from it.
“Mm.”
“Can you tell me what that black mist was?”
“…”
“Hey.”
Enrique lowered the newspaper a little, revealing half his face.
His dark brown eyes looked at Olivia for a moment, then he raised the newspaper again.
“Little princess, some things… you’re too young to know.”
Olivia’s spoon stopped midair.
She stared at the face hidden behind the newspaper, thinking, ‘What can’t I know? I’m twenty years old, don’t mess with me.’
Then she bit into the black bread with displeasure.
The bread was outrageously cold and hard enough to be used as a weapon.
She broke it into small pieces and soaked them in the oatmeal, poking at it with the spoon.
‘Well, in someone else’s house, I shouldn’t be too picky.’
“Hey, I can’t know?”
“No. If you know, you’ll get curious.”
Enrique’s voice came from behind the newspaper, flat and slow.
“And if you get curious, you’ll go looking for it.”
He turned another page.
The newspaper rustled.
“Stop, stop, stop, stop. And if I find it, my life’s gone, right?”
Olivia stabbed the spoon into the bowl, splashing a bit of oatmeal onto the nightstand.
“If you find it, you—”
Enrique would definitely start that tongue-twister again like last time—
“If you find it, you probably can’t beat it; if you can’t beat it, you probably can’t run; if you can’t run, you probably still die.”
She’d already experienced that pattern.
But from Enrique’s reaction, she probably knew what that thing was.
The aura was nearly identical to the Shishouzhe’s.
What else could it be but an evil demon?
“Pretty much.”
Enrique’s tone didn’t change at all.
Olivia pulled the spoon out of the bowl, took another mouthful of oatmeal, then put the bowl back on the nightstand.
“I have another question.”
“Ask away, but I probably won’t answer.”
Birds chirped outside the window.
Sunlight squeezed through the cracks in the window, drawing a long, thin bright line on the floor.
“You—”
A knock interrupted her.
Knock, knock, knock.
Three times, not too loud, not too soft.
Enrique folded the newspaper and placed it on his knee, then stood up from the chair.
“Huh? Did the match finally end?”
He walked to the door and pulled it open.
Masiweiluo stood at the door.
Her brown hair was tied in a low ponytail, wearing a dark gray long-sleeved top and black trousers, with her lance shrunk into a short rod tucked at her waist.
Her face was flushed with heat, a thin layer of sweat on her forehead—she had probably just come back from the arena.
The silver-white plate armor was off, likely left downstairs.
Enrique’s voice was still flat.
“You’re back.”
“Mm, I’m back.”
Masiweiluo walked in, unclipped the short rod from her waist, and leaned it against the doorframe.
“Not yet.”
“Is the finals list for the day after tomorrow out yet?”
“Not yet.”
Masiweiluo sat down in Enrique’s chair.
It was a bit too low, so her knees bent higher than usual.
She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, then looked up and suddenly noticed Olivia on the bed.
Olivia was wearing a cat-ear hoodie, sitting on the blanket, holding the bowl of oatmeal in both hands.
Her silver-white high twin tails hung down in front of her shoulders.
The black bread was still not fully swallowed, puffing one cheek out a little.
“Huh? Who’s this little girl?”
Masiweiluo tilted her head.
Her brown eyes lingered on Olivia’s silver-white hair.
“I rescued her.”
Enrique stood at the door, arms crossed.
He paused.
“As for the rest, don’t ask me, ask her yourself.”
Masiweiluo looked at Olivia for a while, as if matching her to a shadow in her memory.
“Aren’t you the one from that night—”
Masiweiluo stood up from the chair and walked to the bedside.
She looked down at Olivia—the black bread still not swallowed, cheek puffed out, silver eyes looking up at her from below.
One of the cat ears on the cat-ear hoodie was still flat.
“Um… I…”
Olivia hurriedly swallowed the bread in her mouth.
She didn’t know how to introduce herself.
After all, she’d been saved twice by these people.
She owed their family two favors already.
Masiweiluo sat down on the edge of the bed.
Then she reached out, scooped Olivia out of the blanket, and lifted her into her lap.
The motion was natural, like something she’d done many times before.
She wrapped one arm around Olivia’s waist and slipped the other into the silver-white hair.
Her fingers combed from the roots down, gently untangling any knots, then continued downward.
“Your hair is such a mess.”
The strands slipped through her fingers.
The ends still bore traces of last night’s gray mist erosion—a few gray-white strands hadn’t fully turned back to silver, clearly visible in the light.
Masiweiluo’s fingertips paused there for a moment, then continued combing down.
“Um… I…”
Olivia sat on Masiweiluo’s lap, her back against her chest.
She wasn’t sure where to put her hands.
Usually, it was the maids of the Silver Dragon King’s Palace or Astrid herself who took care of her hair.
Being held in someone’s arms while having her hair combed was a daily routine for Astrid, but this was the first time it happened outside the palace.
Now Masiweiluo was combing her hair, and Enrique was leaning against the doorframe watching.
What was with this family?
Masiweiluo undid her right ponytail as well, using her fingers to even out the hair again.
‘Her movements were gentle, even more comfortable than the maids’.
The silver-white hair spread out across her back, from her shoulders down to below her waist.
“So, you and this uncle…”
Olivia turned her head, looking at Masiweiluo sideways.
Silver eyes met brown.
Masiweiluo smiled.
It was completely different from the polite nod she’d given in the arena.
It was a smile that also crinkled the corners of her eyes.
“He’s my uncle.”
Enrique stood at the door, rolling the newspaper into a tube and stuffing it into his coat pocket.
He looked at the two on the bed, said nothing.
Then he turned and walked toward the stairs.
He seemed to be deliberately giving the two girls some private space.
The wooden stairs creaked once, then again.
The sound of a pot lid hitting the stove came back up from downstairs.