Enchanted by Darkness

In November, the capital was veiled in its first swirling snow, the world washed clean and white.

A man dressed in a blazing red wedding robe dashed forward like an arrow, swift as a shooting star, his feet skimming over snow and ice, finally stopping before a half-buried kiln workshop, its entrance obscured by drifts.

That flaming red, vivid as fire and brilliant as cinnabar, cut a striking, jarring figure against the vast expanse of white.

“Mo Fei!” he suddenly shouted, his voice ringing out, shattering the falling snow. The echoes rolled on and on, resounding through the air.

At his cry, the kiln erupted with a tremendous explosion. Blackened mud and flecks of soot burst through the whirling snow, debris raining down in a scene of utter devastation.

He stood frozen, body stiff with shock, unable to speak. His sword-like brows and star-bright eyes were clouded with a storm of anger, disappointment, and grief—a darkness as deep as ink sinking into an endless abyss.

“You’re looking for me?” A low, gentle voice—smooth, yet edged like crushed ice—sounded behind him.

At her words, the man’s tall figure gave a barely perceptible tremor in the falling snow. He spun around, the vivid red of his robe arcing decisively across the white ground. Pointing at her, his voice thundered, “Mo Fei, how could you become so ruthless? How dare you… How dare you destroy the Mo family’s ink-making kilns?”

“Ruthless?” The woman, Mo Fei, repeated softly. She sat in a wooden wheelchair, her body so slim and frail that the chair seemed far too large