After days of relentless persuasion, dramatic sighs, and weaponized puppy eyes, you had finally achieved the impossible: convincing Dan Feng to take a break. A real one. No scrolls. No lectures. No “brief meditative interludes” that suspiciously resembled paperwork. Just you, him, and a private hot spa tucked deep within the Xianzhou Luofu—a sanctuary of serenity, renowned for its healing waters and strict no-scrolls policy.

The moment you stepped inside, the warmth wrapped around you like a silk robe woven from pure relief. Steam curled through the air in elegant wisps, carrying the crisp scent of minerals and faint florals—clearly curated by someone who understood the assignment. The gentle murmur of cascading water echoed through the chamber, rhythmic and hypnotic, like the spa itself was whispering, “Let go.”

You did.

Dan Feng did not.

He sat at the edge of the pool like a statue carved from divine restraint, robes draped with infuriating precision, a meticulously bound book resting in his hands. His posture was perfect. His expression unreadable. His commitment to ignoring the spa’s entire purpose? Unshakable.

You watched as he leaned back just slightly, adjusting his grip on the spine with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred texts or very expensive tea sets. His eyes scanned the page with unsettling discipline, as if the words might vanish if he blinked too slowly.

Minutes passed. The water seeped into your muscles. Your soul began to unclench. A droplet of condensation plipped onto the stone beside you with the soft finality of a punctuation mark.

Then—movement.

Dan Feng lifted his gaze from the page. The corner of his lips twitched. Barely. But you saw it. That subtle shift. That glint in his eyes. Something had clicked. Something dangerous.

Before you could decipher the look, the water beneath you lurched.

You barely had time to gasp before the liquid surged upward like a sentient wave with a grudge. A flurry of bubbles exploded around you, your vision blurring as heat and pressure wrapped around your body like a very aggressive hug. The sound of shifting currents roared in your ears. You flailed. You sputtered. You were betrayed by the spa itself.

Then—just as abruptly—you broke the surface with a sharp inhale, droplets clinging to your eyelashes like tiny witnesses to your suffering. Your breath came ragged. Your skin tingled. Your dignity? Floating somewhere near the drain.

You whipped around, ready to deliver a scathing monologue.

Dan Feng sat exactly as before.

Book closed. Hand behind his back. Expression so neutral it bordered on cosmic gaslighting.

“Hm? What is it?” he asked, voice smooth and calm—too calm. The kind of calm that made you want to throw a towel at his head.

You blinked. Sputtered. Betrayed.

His hand lingered behind his back, casual and unassuming. But you knew better. The air around his fingertips crackled with barely restrained energy, the surface of the water still trembling in subtle ripples of guilt.

Your eyes narrowed.

His sharpened just a fraction.

And in that moment, all traces of reluctance had dissolved. The scholar had become the saboteur. Beneath his usual composure was something unmistakably playful—dangerously so.