The following morning, in a corner of the East District of the Amber Corridor.
Xue Yin and Jin stood before the vacant storefront.
Sunlight streamed through the clean glass windows, illuminating the polished stone floor.
It was a well-located, sturdy brick and stone building.
However, because the previous tenant had been gone for a long time, the interior felt somewhat empty and desolate.
The walls were white, the beams and pillars were stable, and only a few rows of idle iron racks were covered in thin dust.
In the corner sat a slightly old but intact workbench.
Ryan had certainly not been dismissive.
The shop had excellent natural lighting and even featured a dedicated ventilation shaft, making it perfect for an alchemist’s use.
“It seems there is more to do than I imagined, but this shop is indeed quite good,” Jin said as he looked around, a hint of admiration flashing in his eyes.
“The sign needs to be custom-made to showcase our specialty, a full set of alchemy equipment must be purchased, and we need to start procuring the materials for the potion recipes in Master’s ledger. Still, the shop has a good foundation. It will be ready for work after a bit of cleaning.”
Xue Yin did not speak.
She recalled the line she had seen when flipping through the old pages of the ledger the previous night: ‘Zhou Yao, senior year push, goal: get into A University’s Physics Department.’
Now, she wore high-collared linen clothes and was called “Master,” with even her gender becoming a blurred boundary.
She often felt like a stranger in the mirror, as if her soul were trapped in a gorgeous but incorrect shell.
Yet the person before her never asked if she was Zhou Yao or Xue Yin.
He only recognized her for who she was.
“Jin,” she suddenly spoke, her voice somewhat dry.
“Yes?” Jin turned his head immediately, his gaze focused.
Xue Yin remained silent for a moment, as if she had made a firm decision.
Her gaze fell upon the black silk on his left wrist.
“When you became my disciple, I told you that regarding the seal, I would wait until you were willing to tell me yourself. Now, are you willing to speak?”
Jin’s body stiffened.
Beneath the black silk of his left wrist, the crimson-gold patterns suddenly blazed bright, like a branding iron searing into flesh.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his dark red pupils were swirling with pain and relief.
“I am a fallen angel-demon hybrid—a cursed bloodline harboring a murderous nature that could lose control at any time. So, from the time I was young, I lived a life where both humans and dogs detested me,” he said in a low voice, as if finally unloading a heavy burden.
“That is the truth about me. Does Master regret taking me as a disciple now?”
Xue Yin did not answer.
She took a step forward, reached out both hands, and firmly grasped Jin’s hands, which were slightly cool from tension.
The warmth of her palms transferred through his skin, instantly dispelling the chill in his heart.
It was a silent declaration: no matter who you were, she could accept it.
“Is there a way to break that curse?” Xue Yin asked softly.
Jin gave a bitter smile, a hint of gloom crossing his eyes.
“There is a way, but it is essentially impossible.”
He raised his head, his expression complex.
“Master, if one day I lose control and hurt you, destroy this place, or even kill someone…”
“Then let me break your wings with my own hands,” Xue Yin interrupted him without a hint of hesitation.
She tightened her grip, her strength firm.
“But until then — live well, and do not think too much. Jin, you are my beloved disciple.”
Having said that, she released one hand and reached up to gently ruffle Jin’s slightly curly black hair.
Her fingertips ran through his hair, her movements so gentle they were unlike those of the usually cold and stiff elf, full of doting and tolerance for Jin.
“I am sorry, Jin.”
She looked into his eyes, her voice soft but solemn.
“I could not make it to your regret-filled childhood, and I could not appear when you were at your loneliest. But from now on, I will use every remaining day to compensate you for all the warmth you lacked in the past.”
Jin’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
Instead of pulling his hand back as he had originally intended, he gripped hers even tighter.
He lowered his head to hide the bitterness welling up in his eyes, his voice sounding a bit hoarse.
“Alright, Master.”
He did not let go of her hand, and just like that, he led her into the spacious and bright shop.
For the rest of the day, the two of them were busy in the shop.
Xue Yin directed Jin to wipe the iron racks clean and rearrange them to catch the light; Jin utilized his agility to climb up and down, cleaning the accumulated dust from the ventilation shaft.
“Should the sign hang on the left or the right?” Jin asked while standing on the ladder.
“Hang it in the middle. We want everyone passing by to see it,” Xue Yin said as she handed him a rag from below, a rare hint of a smile on her lips.
“As for the name, let us decide when we are truly ready to welcome our first guest.”
They planned the product sections together.
Dust danced in the sunlight before being swept away; the empty rooms gradually showed signs of life.
When the last ray of the setting sun stained the window frames red, the shop finally had the look of a “home.”
Although it was still far from the official opening and many things needed to be purchased — and even the shop’s name had not been set — at least it was no longer a cold, empty building.
***
As night fell, the Amber Corridor sank into tranquility.
Deep within the Lord’s manor, candlelight flickered.
Over the past few days, Ailia had noticed Ryan’s gaze following her like a shadow.
Deep within those crimson pupils swirled a longing she could read, yet he forcibly suppressed it behind the dam of his reason.
She knew he was restraining himself — refraining from touching her, not forcing her, only using that almost pious gaze, like someone waiting for a flower to bloom on its own.
But tonight, the atmosphere was different.
He stood behind her, his breath hot, carrying the sweet, metallic scent of roses and ancient blood, enveloping her entirely.
“Ailia,” he said in a deep voice, carrying a trace of imperceptible hoarseness.
“Turn around.”
She did not move, but her body remembered the temperature of his fingertips and the faint touch when he draped clothes over her.
“My Lord, I am still busy,” she said, her voice tight, attempting to use work to build a final line of defense.
“So busy that you do not dare look at me?” Ryan laughed softly, but there was no mirth in it.
He circled around to face her, his crimson eyes behind the glass monocle locking onto her.
“What are you afraid of? Are you afraid I will drink your blood? Or are you afraid that you want it yourself?”
Ailia looked up abruptly, tears shimmering in her eyes.
“I am a nun! The first chapter of the scriptures clearly states — one must not go near men, and one must not be moved by passion! You are knowingly committing a crime; it is sacrilege!”
His voice was as low as a prayer, yet every word pierced the heart.
“Ailia, tell me — if God truly exists, why did He allow you to be humiliated? Why did He let you kneel in the Sin Purge Court and listen to the nonsense about how ‘the recovery of the Demon Rose is an honor’?”
Ailia trembled all over, tears falling.
She could not answer.
Because she knew that Lina’s Demon Rose had been sewn into the Holy Face Veil, becoming a trophy for the powerful to flaunt.
“I… I do not know…” she sobbed.
“Perhaps God’s silence is precisely to test our adherence to faith.”
“No.”
Ryan cupped her face, his thumb wiping away the tear tracks.
His movements were as gentle as if he were touching a fragile treasure.
“If God is silent, then humans must fill the void. And I choose to love you with my true heart.”
He leaned down, his fingertips lightly stroking the side of her neck, revealing a section of porcelain-white skin.
Blue veins were entwined like vines, revealing an alluring vitality under the candlelight.
“A vampire only recognizes one consort in their lifetime,” he said, his voice as husky as honey, his eyes swirling with the loneliness he had suppressed for eighty-seven years.
“She will share my eternal life, embrace my youth, and become the other half of my soul.”
He gazed at her, his eyes burning as if he wanted to draw her into the depths of his soul.
“And you are the only person I have wanted to bite in eighty-seven years.”
Ailia took a step back, but he lightly pinned her wrist, leaving her with nowhere to retreat.
“No… I can’t. I cannot betray my faith.”
“Why can’t you? You should have faith in your own heart.”
Ryan gazed at her, the crimson depths of his eyes swirling with longing and restraint.
“Is it because of the scriptures, or is it because you are also afraid of this heartbeat? Afraid that once it begins, you can never return to being that ‘martyred icon’?”
Ailia was speechless.
She was indeed afraid — afraid of this drum-like heartbeat, afraid of her rising body temperature, and afraid that she was actually looking forward to his approach.
What she feared even more was that she had already begun to long to be treated as a “woman” rather than a “nun.”
“Just one sip,” Ryan’s voice was almost a plea, carrying the fragility settled over long years.
“Let me taste whether that soul, tempered repeatedly by faith and lies, is still as pure as when it was first born.”
Ailia closed her eyes, and tears rolled down. “Will it hurt?”
“No,” Ryan’s voice was as light as a sigh.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if gathering his last remains of reason.
Only then did he slowly lean down, his lips lightly touching the side of her neck.
“It will only make you more awake.”
In the next instant, his fangs pierced her.
There was no tearing pain, only a strange numbness that surged through her body like an electric current.
Ailia tilted her head back, her fingertips digging into her palms and her nails sinking into her flesh.
A sense of immorality entwined around her heart like vines — she was betraying her faith, betraying her vows, and betraying that “martyr who walked out of the icon.”
Yet her body was responding.
Her blood was slowly sipped, and her soul felt as if it were being gently stripped away and reshaped.
She heard her heartbeat synchronize with his breathing, heard the light ringing of wind chimes like a requiem, and heard a voice in her heart screaming: ‘It is worth it.’
After three breaths, Ryan stepped back.
The tip of his tongue lightly licked the wound — the bloodstain healed instantly, leaving only a small red mark like a rose imprint, seductive and sacred.
Ryan did not let go of her immediately.
He leaned against the edge of the table, his chest heaving violently.
His originally elegant and composed posture now showed a hint of disarray.
His hands were trembling slightly; it was the aftereffect of power and desire pulling at the very limit.
He stared fixedly at the red mark on the side of Ailia’s neck, a hint of lingering fear flashing in his eyes — for a moment just now, he had almost lost control, almost completely devouring her because of his craving for that sweetness.
“Whew…” He exhaled a long breath, as if he had just surfaced from the deep sea, his voice carrying a tremor that had not yet dissipated.
“Fortunately, you are still here.”
“How do you feel?” He forced down the waves in his heart.
His voice was still hoarse, but he strove to maintain its stability.
Ailia opened her eyes, which were glistening with tears yet filled with struggle.
“I feel as if I ascended once,” she sobbed.
“But have I fallen?”
Ryan took a deep breath and cupped her face again, his thumb once more wiping away the tears at the corners of her eyes.
This time, his movements were much steadier, and his gaze was full of the cherished feeling of having found something lost.
“No, Ailia. You have simply come alive at last,” he said softly, his tone certain and gentle.
“God loves the world. He does not want you to be as withered as wood, but as vibrant as a flower.”
Ailia leaned against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, which had not yet fully calmed, thumping like a drum.
At this moment, the nun’s precepts were still roaring in her mind, but she chose to believe — his sincerity was closer to God’s love than the scriptures.
Outside the window, moonlight spilled onto the rooftops of the Amber Corridor.
On one side was the shop that had just been cleaned, nurturing hope; on the other side were the lovers embracing in the night, having completed the salvation of their souls.
Two previously broken hearts were quietly pieced back together in this cycle of day and night.