The golden light of the afternoon sun filtered through the lush, weeping branches of the ancient tree, casting long, skeletal shadows across the emerald robes of the Willow Spirit.
Shen Haoran did not let go of her chin; instead, his grip tightened slightly, his thumb grazing the soft line of her jaw as he watched the flickering emotions behind her green eyes.
He could feel the fine tremors running through her spiritual essence—a resonance of pure, unadulterated fear that had been marinating for tens of thousands of years.
He stared at her, watching the way her resolve warred with her survival instinct, and finally, he let out a low, melodic chuckle that lacked its usual edge of cruelty.
"Good," Haoran murmured, his voice softening. "I think I like you more now. A creature that knows when to bite even while trembling is far more entertaining than a mindless slave."
