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The sound of her sneeze cracked through the stillness—sharp, unceremonious, and completely graceless.

From the shadows where the broken walls leaned beneath the weight of years, he laughed.

It wasn’t often he saw his mother in such disarray, and for a fleeting moment, joy swelled in his chest at the sight of her familiar form. In this godforsaken place, it felt like a small mercy—a blessing only the Celestial Dragon could grant him.

天龍一定聽到了我的祈禱。 (The Celestial Dragon must’ve heard my prayers).

His voice slipped through the ruin like sunlight through mist, low, familiar, threaded with humor that only barely hid his concern. He stood a short distance away, framed by what used to be an archway, fur gilded in the fractured light filtering through the cracks. Even in the gloom, Shēnléi had a way of commanding the room simply by being in it.

He didn’t rush to her side, for he never did. Instead, he approached with the unhurried poise of a man who believed time itself bent around him. 如果你在這裡 (If you’re here), he mused aloud, 也許梅或我的女兒們會跟隨。甚至可能連叔叔也會。 (perhaps Mei or my daughters will follow. Maybe even Uncle.) He paused, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. 天啊，別讓我妻子出現——你可不會放過我。 (Heaven forbid my wife appears — I’d never hear the end of it from you.)

His tone softened as he came closer, the teasing fading just enough to let the warmth bleed through. 也許天龍希望我殖民這片悲慘的土地 (Perhaps the Celestial Dragon wants me to colonize this miserable land), he said wryly, before the humor dimmed. 哦，媽媽……你怎麼來到這裡？發生了什麼事？ (Oh, Mother... how did you get here? What happened?)

When he finally reached her side, the playfulness ebbed into something gentler. His gaze softened — not with pity, but with the quiet warmth reserved only for the woman who had raised him.

這個地方真糟糕。 (This place is indeed terrible.), he murmured lightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

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