Hui stood outside Orlando’s room, clutching the day’s schedule in his hand.
He knocked twice.
No answer.
He knocked twice more.
Still no answer.
Hui pulled the spare key from his pocket, slid it into the lock, turned, and pushed the door open.
Morning light streamed through the window, casting a bright rectangle at the center of the room.
Orlando stood in that patch of light, having just pulled his shirt over his head, the buttons still undone.
His belt was half-unfastened, his trousers hanging loose on his hips.
From head to toe, there was nothing left to the imagination.
The morning sun painted a pale golden halo on his skin, like the saints’ nimbus in a stained-glass church window.
The two of them stared at each other for a moment.
Hui’s hand was still on the doorknob.
Orlando’s hand was still pinching a button.
“Sir. You.”
“Hui. You.”
Orlando’s voice pitched up half an octave.
He grabbed the shirt he’d just taken off and held it to his chest—
But it wasn’t big enough, covering the top meant exposing the bottom.
He yanked the shirt down.
Then the top was exposed again.
He pulled it back up, and the lower half was left vulnerable.
“You… get out… just get out for a second… look again and I’ll——!!!”
Hui closed the door.
His movements were as gentle as ever, the door panel slipping into the frame without a sound.
“Sir, once you’ve finished changing, please head to the mess hall. I’ll wait for you there.”
The truth of the matter was this.
Earlier that morning, Olivia had woken up.
Prunier’s arm was wrapped around her waist, her red twin-tails spilled across the pillow, her breathing steady, a glistening string of drool at the corner of her mouth.
Olivia didn’t dare move.
Her silver pupils slid to the side—Prunier’s sleeping face was less than a palm’s width away.
A red dragon’s body temperature was much higher than a silver dragon’s; Prunier clung to her like a breathing furnace.
Prunier’s arm tightened, pulling her closer, and she mumbled something indistinct in her sleep.
“Little Olivia… hehe…”
Then her arm loosened.
Now or never.
Olivia slithered out of Prunier’s embrace like a silver-furred fox escaping a trap, slid off the edge of the bed, and stepped onto the floor in her bare feet.
The hem of her white nightgown caught on the corner of the bed.
She tugged, but it wouldn’t come loose, so she just slipped out of it.
Grabbing a shirt from Prunier’s wardrobe—
Whose, she had no idea—
She pulled it on.
It was two sizes too big, the collar sliding off her shoulder.
Then, still barefoot, she pushed the door open.
The hall was empty.
She tiptoed past the dark-red door, dashed into her own room, and turned the lock behind her.
With her back pressed against the door, she gasped for breath.
Her silver hair was a tangled mess, and goosebumps covered her bare legs.
Then she closed her eyes and suppressed her draconic bloodline.
The silver light faded from her skin.
Her silver hair began to shorten from the tips, the color shifting from silver-white back to dark brown.
Thirty seconds later, Orlando stood in the room and looked down at himself—
Completely naked.
The oversized shirt had slipped off his shoulders during the transformation and lay crumpled on the floor.
He picked it up and looked at it.
Prunier’s.
He decided to wash his face first.
And then Hui opened the door.
In the mess hall, Orlando set his tray down across from Hui.
Three plates of potato stew, two plates of boiled vegetables, five slices of dark bread.
He bowed his head and shoveled food into his mouth, chewing rapidly.
Hui had a glass of plain water in front of him and was flipping through a ledger.
“Hui.”
Orlando pulled half a slice of dark bread from his mouth.
“Hey. Prunier didn’t say anything to you yesterday, did she?”
Hui’s fingers paused on the ledger.
“No.”
“Good.”
Orlando stuffed the dark bread back into his mouth, chewing a little slower than before.
Close call.
Really close call.
If Prunier had revealed Olivia’s identity—
The silver-haired, silver-eyed girl, the Silver Dragon Queen’s daughter, who’d been held all night by the Red Sun Company’s captain—
If Hui found out—
This vice-captain who made no sound when he walked, whose memory never faltered, who could recite Prunier’s drunken rambles word for word—
Then he probably wouldn’t be able to stay anymore.
Not that Hui would kick him out.
Hui would just look at him with those mismatched eyes, the same look he gave the captain’s little sister, and say nothing.
That kind of gaze was far more unbearable than Prunier’s tickling.
“Sir.”
Hui turned a page in the ledger.
“The captain asked me to inform you. There are no missions today.”
Orlando’s fork froze midair.
Is this a privilege?
Because Prunier knows he’s Olivia.
Is this the best-friend privilege?
“No. There really are no missions.”
Hui took a sip of plain water.
Orlando shoved the potato on his fork into his mouth.
In the afternoon, the hallway was dim.
Orlando came up from the stairwell, a wooden sword slung at his waist, the hilt swaying slightly with each step.
He passed the dark-red door and slowed down.
A faint light seeped through the gap in the door.
It wasn’t lamplight;
It was natural light from the window—
The curtains were probably drawn inside, and the light squeezed through the edges, falling onto the gap beneath the door.
A sound came from within.
The sound of a pen scratching across paper.
Scratch, scratch.
Very soft, rhythmic, like some small animal burrowing in wood shavings.
After a while, the scratching stopped.
Then the rustle of paper being turned.
Then the scratching resumed.
Scratch, scratch.
He remembered last night when Prunier had pulled him past this door.
Who lived in there?
“Yo.”
A voice came from behind him.
Wei was leaning against the corridor wall.
Her white short hair, with that streak of dark red at the tips, looked like pigment that hadn’t been washed off in the dim light.
Her red pupils were scanning him from head to toe, her lips curled in that smile that made it impossible to tell if it was friendly or hostile.
Her tactical jacket was unzipped, and she was holding a metal ball, the fuse wrapped around her index finger.
“Still alive, huh.”
“What about it.”
“Hmph.”
She tossed the metal ball up and caught it.
“You didn’t die today. Not bad.”
“You’re pretty optimistic.”
“You betcha.”
Wei spun the metal ball between her fingers, the fuse tracing an arc.
She tilted her head, her white short hair sliding past the corner of her eye.
“You know what that thing was?”
“What thing.”
“Never mind.”
She stuffed the metal ball back into her pocket and brushed off the nonexistent dust on her hands.
“A madman who sold himself to a demon.”
Orlando stared at her.
The Beast Eater.
That iron can covered in black mist in the church.
The one who’d slapped him into a wall, knocked Wei unconscious, and then been yelled at by him in his Olivia form and actually taken damage.
She hadn’t asked any questions when she woke up, and he hadn’t said anything.
But she couldn’t have missed it.
“So what’s a demon?”
“Newbie.”
Wei raised her eyes.
Her red pupils reflected the light coming through the window at the end of the hall.
“Some things, the later you learn about them, the better.”
“That’s just telling me nothing.”
“I did tell you. ‘The later you learn about them, the better’—that itself is information.”
“Then you might as well have said nothing.”
“Fine, I take it back.”
Wei reached into her pocket, rummaged around, and pulled out the metal ball.
She unwound the fuse from her index finger and shoved the ball into Orlando’s hand.
“Here. It’s yours. The fuse is removed, so it won’t explode. Keep it as a souvenir.”
Orlando looked down at the pitted metal ball in his palm.
Slightly smaller than an egg, its surface covered in hammered marks, cold to the touch.
“What’s this for?”
“Think of it as a prize for still being alive today.”
Wei shoved both hands back into the pockets of her tactical jacket, turned around, and walked toward the other end of the hall.
The hem of the jacket swayed gently with each step, and her white short hair grew smaller and smaller in the dim light.
“Don’t expect it to be this cheap next time, rookie.”
Her voice drifted back from the end of the hall.
Then her figure disappeared around the corner.
Orlando stood there, holding the metal ball up to his eyes.
On its dented surface, the distorted reflection of the fluorescent light on the corridor ceiling stared back at him.
He stuffed the ball into his pocket and kept walking.
Behind him, from behind the dark-red door, the scratching of a pen continued.