"The way you'll look when you grow up..."
Little Bing turned her gaze to his chubby, baby-faced cheeks.
She furrowed her delicate brows, reached out to pinch his face, kneading and tugging at it, making Li Mo grimace in discomfort. Yet she pursed her lips, seemingly unsatisfied.
"Ouch... Don’t rush, I’ll draw it for you, and then you’ll see."
What should he draw himself as?
Little Painter Li fell into deep thought, lightly tapping his cheek with the end of his brush. After a moment of contemplation, his dark, gleaming eyes lit up.
That day, I was also painting.
And I accidentally smeared ink on my face...
Memories from another time, not belonging to this moment, gradually took shape on the paper.
In the painting, a young boy stood to the side, sketching a young girl, his bright and handsome face dotted with traces of ink...
"There’s a certain resemblance in the eyes and expression," Ying's mother nodded approvingly.
"What resemblance? Brother Li is rough and burly—Little Mo must’ve prettied himself up in the drawing."
Ying Xuliang clicked his tongue, his heart a mix of complicated emotions.
For some reason, seeing how the Li boy would look when grown up made him feel inexplicably more irritated.
"Boys take after their mothers when they grow older."
Ying's mother smiled gently, refusing to let her husband nitpick.
A father-in-law looks at his son-in-law and only grows angrier, while a mother-in-law looks at her son-in-law and only grows fonder...
Were their emotions a bit misplaced? How old were these two children, really? Arranged marriages at this age...
The setting sun in the painting glowed, casting its light into Little Ying Bingbing’s mirror-like eyes, melting the frost within.
Unconsciously, she reached out, her fingertips lightly brushing the painted boy’s face, staining them with a trace of ink.
Little Painter Li tilted his head up, a hint of pride in his expression.
Then, he felt a cool touch on his philtrum.
The small hand, now marked with ink, pressed against the spot between his nose and lips.
"Hmm, now you look more like the painting."
Little Ying Bing spoke softly, her voice light. She glanced at her parents chatting nearby, her clear gaze turning complicated.
"Dumplings are ready!"
The New Year’s Eve feast at Ying Family Manor was about to begin. After the meal, they would pay respects to their ancestors, recounting the year’s major events and seeking blessings for the coming year.
This tradition wasn’t much different from other families in Qinghe County.
Soon, the brightly lit ancestral hall bustled with activity. A large pot of dumplings bubbled under the open sky, the occasional crackle of firecrackers filling the air as the gray night was painted with festive warmth.
The Ying family was an established clan, their ancestors of no ordinary origin.
During the New Year’s banquet, neighbors and townsfolk were welcome to join in the celebration—a sign of prosperity.
Li Mo sat with a pout, watching the little ice block beside him.
Little Bing was still Little Bing, which meant this dream showed no signs of ending.
Little Ying Bing picked up a dumpling, her gaze distant as she took in the New Year’s scene at Ying Family Manor.
"Wife, where’s the vinegar? Dumplings without vinegar are no good."
Old man Ying Xuliang eyed the two children before turning to his wife for vinegar, intending to drench his dumplings in it.
"You... It’s a good thing Bing’er finally has a friend."
"I know, but I just feel like eating something sour."
"Fine, go ahead. I’ll go find a red envelope for Little Mo—we can’t be impolite."
Ying Xuliang munched on a dumpling. "Why hasn’t he gone home for his own New Year’s feast yet?"
"Don’t you remember? The Li family eats late," Ying's mother reminded him.
"Ah, right. Brother Li’s probably still out patrolling. If he passes by later..."
"Father, eat a dumpling."
A pair of chopsticks held a dumpling before him, gripped by a small hand.
Ying Xuliang’s eyes widened in shock, frozen for a long moment.
The old father suddenly felt like crying. Bing’er had never been one for socializing, even with her parents. The county had its share of gossip, some even calling his daughter simple-minded.
But today, Bing’er seemed different.
"Good, delicious. These dumplings are amazing."
"Ah, Little Mo, you should eat too."
After a dazed pause, Ying Xuliang broke into a wide grin.
Ying's mother soon returned, holding two red envelopes:
"Happy New Year, Little Mo. Take these—make sure to play with Bing’er more often."
Li Mo carefully pocketed the red envelope, then glanced at Little Bing. She tucked hers into her clothes, a small, contented smile curling her lips.
Since this was just a dream, even if they encountered a disaster beast, it wouldn’t matter. Dying in a dream would only leave his spirit weakened for a while.
At least here, he could stay by Little Bing’s side and face the fears of her childhood. That was enough.
As the banquet wound down, the Ying family’s descendants gathered in the ancestral hall at the elders’ summons.
The night seemed to grow heavier.
At the center of the hall stood a large incense burner, thick as a child’s arm, its smoke curling around the ancestral tablets enshrined behind it.
Beyond the tablets, there was also a gilded statue of the Ying family’s founding ancestor—a woman, crafted with such skill that calling it divine work wouldn’t be an exaggeration.
"This statue is magnificent."
"Of course. Our ancestor’s likeness was sculpted by a renowned divine artisan."
Ying Xuliang looked up, pleased that Little Li Mo had an eye for quality.
Li Mo withdrew his gaze, thinking to himself that it was no wonder he sensed a faint aura of collective faith and divine essence emanating from it.
Ying's mother handed them two sticks.
"You’re here already—might as well."
Little Bing had never paid respects to the ancestors before. Ying’s parents hoped that with Li Mo leading the way, she might follow.
Li Mo nodded, taking the incense and looking at Little Bing.
But Little Ying Bing seemed not to hear, her eyes fixed on the thick darkness beyond the ancestral hall.
Li Mo suddenly realized—when had the outside grown so silent? Not a sound remained.
Following Little Bing’s gaze, his pupils constricted.
There stood a pitch-black beast, four-legged, with obsidian horns and eyes like crimson lanterns. It bore some resemblance to the legendary qilin, yet carried none of its auspiciousness—only ugliness and menace.
Its massive, glowing eyes locked onto the two children.
No—more precisely, it was staring at Little Ying Bing.
"Heh heh heh... You’ve finally returned."