Chapter 10

*Sharp Tongue, Soft Heart*
Zhu Yu’s hands felt strange.
They were large—easily circling Bai Shuzhou’s slender ankle—flexible and strong, pressure even on every patch of skin.
Calluses at the knuckles; if you looked closely, the faintest old scars, worn pale by time.
Yet her palms were soft, like someone clumsy who tried to cradle heavy loads on her fingers alone.
Though she knew Bai Shuzhou’s legs were numb and senseless, she still feared hurting her—one hand on the woman’s long calf through the blanket, the other squeezing her own arm to test force before both hands settled.
Bai Shuzhou’s gaze moved slowly from Zhu Yu’s hands to her face.
Gone were the flashy, exaggerated expressions. Clean now—if this was massage, her eyes stayed on the legs with the same focus as when she repaired appliances.
Warm light ran from her fingertips like hot springs, rising, soaking sensitive muscle and bone; where it ached and swelled she pressed a little harder.
Fine current climbed. Bai Shuzhou’s cool mask tightened; she bit her lip to keep a sound from escaping.
“Zhu Yu.”
Not Bai Yu this time—the cool tail of the syllable stretched, anger barely visible.
When mental power gathered it was penetrating; under her hands numb senses woke—strange.
“Get lost.” A harsh word rare for royal breeding—but for Zhu Yu, fitting.
Zhu Yu’s hands had just passed the knee. She paused. “Can’t,” she said gently—and did not let go.
At work her face lost that deliberate smile. At a glance she looked almost fierce—tide out, wet hard reef exposed.
“Lying still too long causes bedsores. Bad for rehab later.”
“Patients shouldn’t hide illness from doctors—well, I’m not a doctor, but this ability should be strong, right?”
She remembered Bai Shuzhou’s shock when the power first appeared—that dreamlike chaos, only the kiss still sharp.
Zhu Yu flushed, coughed, said louder: “Spirit use is like stamina—I can feel the dose now. I can massage and treat you a while every day. You’ll get better.”
Bai Shuzhou’s mental rank was 3S; her control could manifest solid vines. Zhu Yu could not—she had to touch to pass energy.
Bai Shuzhou hated her closeness—but treatment helped. Besides—
She saw the joy at the girl’s lips and pulled a cold smile of her own.
That night Bai Shuzhou slept unusually well.
When she woke, Zhu Yu was already out. Extra bowls were gone; appliances stacked in the corner.
The bedside table had been wiped clean—a lamp added, a few scattered books.
She bit her lip and did not touch the childish flower lamp. Deep green vines silently reached the wall switch—click—light.
Soon keys turned in the lock. Bai Shuzhou’s hand slid toward the knife under her pillow.
“Morning, Fairy Sis! You’re awake!” Backpack-heavy Heming ran in. “Mom and Xiaoyu asked you to watch me do homework. Xiaoyu checks at night.”
She clenched her fists—honorable mission! Zhu Yu had quietly asked her to stay with Bai Shuzhou; leaving a patient alone was unsafe.
Payment was a game console—cleaned, not yet fixed. Helan was not told.
What neither expected: Heming studied here with shocking efficiency.
Homework that once dragged for days—cajoling and scolding alike—she had faced with the spirit of “I laugh at the sky blade in hand.”
At the age for play, a pen or eraser could amuse her all morning. When Helan was busy, she could cross the district east to west and back and drive her mother mad.
Now when friends called, Heming waved them off with proud calm: “I have real work.”
The shack could have inspired the “humble room” poem—but Bai Shuzhou seated there quieted the air like a figure in an oil painting. When she looked down, almost sacred.
She spoke little. Heming was a little afraid; every sneaky little move drew a pale blue glance that made her fur stand on end—only burying herself in work.
When everything was done, one word of praise from the woman—
Highest honor!
If words could be pinned like medals, Heming would wear them on her chest.
Zhu Yu watched that smug little face and felt no envy. She was grown now, employed—a shrewd, cold egoist!
Heming reported: “Four test papers, ten workbook pages, fifty vocabulary words!”
Zhu Yu reported: “The nutrient factory foreman praised my speed. Night tutoring got three named bookings—big bonus at month-end!”
Worried Bai Shuzhou would be bored at home, Zhu Yu loved chattering about work.
So Heming talked by day and Zhu Yu by night; Bai Shuzhou stayed expressionless, fair to both—ignored, eyes on her book.
Zhu Yu talked on her own. Factory coworkers were mostly her age and shared cheap shops; she quietly advertised Helan’s place every chance she got.
Shan’s beast form was a long-tailed tit; at lunch she became a bird napping in a fuzzy hat. Her dream was a band—the biggest underground bar on the imperial star.
A cat colleague shed fur and got scolded often. At first they thought Zhu Yu was a cat too—agile—and brought dried fish asking what she ate to stay so sleek.
Not shedding much was one of Zhu Yu’s small prides.
She passed on Shan’s vitamins; as income rose she added fish oil and calcium—but Bai Shuzhou would not gain weight. Guilt and worry mixed.
Cat colleague: “Buy your sister special chub-face kibble!”
Chub face…?
Did dragons need chub face too?
Wait—Zhu Yu belatedly sensed something off.
Cat colleague: “Shocked! You’re not called Little Fish because you love fish?”
Zhu Yu: “No—Yu as in ‘surplus every year’!”
Illiterate cat: “Surplus every year—Little Fish!”
That night Zhu Yu told the story over hot pot. Heming laughed hard: “Then Fairy Sis really is like a cat! Pretty, elegant—a noble tri-color! Right?”
A certain dragon-‘cat’ sniffed, displeased.
Childhood illness had injured her wings; cold poison in her body had long barred shifting—a royal secret.
And Zhu Yu lately grew stranger still.
She remembered their first meeting—introduction in sunlight, bright smile: “Zhu Yu—surplus Yu. I’m the extra person in this world.”
Little Yu’s Yu, surplus Yu, surplus-every-year Yu—
All one Zhu Yu.
Bai Shuzhou’s gaze darkened, more scrutinizing.
Zhu Yu still performed—exaggeration, fake happiness, easy to see through.
She repaired neighbors’ small appliances for pocket change she once scorned—five, ten credits—sometimes hours on a hard job for almost nothing.
A whole day’s labor might buy one meal.
Secondhand goods were good and cheap; customers grew; she did house calls—good reputation.
Rivals stormed in angry; Zhu Yu only smiled, took the abuse, asked to learn on what she could not fix—“master” on her lips until they floated.
Even called “mongrel” she barely reacted. People said the poor fish with the hard life was a little slow; bullying eased.
Only Bai Shuzhou thought: that man is dead.
Zhu Yu must be waiting for one fatal strike.
She cared fiercely about birth. A noble classmate once called her an abandoned orphan—Zhu Yu befriended him, then before mech-pilot selection, under pretense of solo practice, broke him—shattered bones—ruined his chance.
She visited the hospital with false concern and walked away without punishment.
Yet day by day those who had bullied her still lived fine.
Once the girl sold misery everywhere for advantage.
Now she scraped sweetness from cracks—good news only—while hurt leaked from small places, clearer in Bai Shuzhou’s mind.
What act was this now?
She rarely spoke of the night job—called it tutoring, painted paradise: generous boss, kind coworkers, respectful clients, money easy, occasional days off.
Every line sounded inverted.
Coming home before dawn she often sat at the table staring, counting the savings jar again and again.
The jar hid under the bed corner in plastic wrap; she told Bai Shuzhou the code—factory wages, tutoring, repair—all inside.
From hollow clink to something with weight.
More meat on the table; fewer smiles from Zhu Yu; she often wore a stern, grown-up face.
She stole looks from behind—body forward, eyes only—like a dog ready to wreck the house, a little guilty, ears down, pretending calm.
Sometimes the mirror caught her silly grin; when Bai Shuzhou turned, the smile vanished.
Secret worry in Bai Shuzhou’s chest grew into nameless irritation.
She should be glad when Zhu Yu was unhappy—yet she knew nothing of those nights. Why hide? Why hide from her?
That same night.
Fish-belly dawn. Zhu Yu rushed in, did not even play her beloved console, washed, and collapsed asleep.
The woman on the bed opened her eyes. Deep green vines silently crossed the sleeping girl and drew clothes from the chair.
Outside, fabric flawless—who finished a night shift looking this perfect?
Fine brows knit. Hesitant, she took the clothes and sniffed the collar.
Dragon scent was keen. She found the wrongness quickly.
Perfume outside, pressed and cared for—no wrinkle—while the lining held wine and many kinds of pheromones.
In the same moment her nose itched. From the corner she picked several animal furs—not even from one beast.
Shameless!
So much for paradise. Bai Shuzhou guessed, cold laugh—fine teacher indeed. No wonder she did not play games after work.
But what Zhu Yu did had nothing to do with her. They should have divorced long ago—this fake sister act was Zhu Yu’s goal from the start.
She should die.
On the floor the scolded girl seemed to sense it—small sneeze—curled into a rice ball.
Detestable!
Ice gaze held a moment; fingers flicked in disgust. The coat arced through air.
A piece of seaweed landed on the rice ball—right over the softly rising belly.