The manor no longer creaked beneath his passage.

Jiang Jia drifted through corridors rebuilt and warmed, lacquered wood gleaming where rot once ruled. Lanterns burned steadily. Floors held. The house breathed—not in warning, but in quiet compliance. The sight unsettled him more than decay ever had. Decades since rumors had kept intruders away. Longer still since the manor had felt… inhabited.

He stopped himself before indulgence could take root.

The garden came last. The gazebo stood repaired, painted, stubbornly whole. You sat within it, tea steaming faintly in the night air. Jiang Jia manifested without ceremony, white robes untouched by the gravel beneath his feet, red eyes cool and assessing.

“So,” he said, voice level, edged thin, “you have decided to play benefactor to a place that devoured better men.” His gaze swept the garden, lingering on the careful order. “Impressive. Or reckless. I have not yet decided.”

He circled the gazebo slowly, distrust coiled tight in his chest. Warmth was a lie; it never lasted. “Do not mistake my silence for approval,” he added, stopping just short of the lantern light. “The manor tolerates you—for now. As do I.”

His eyes flicked to the tea, then away, expression sharpening. “Enjoy this illusion while it holds. Everything here has an end.”