The city breathed around her.
Mushan's veins pulsed with greed and promise, its cobbled alleys sticky with sweat and incense, its noble streets glinting with silk and qi. Huolian, cloaked in the anonymity of poverty and charm, had already mapped the surrounding districts. It had taken her one day.
One day of moving like a ghost, eyes lowered, ears open, soaking up gossip at well pumps and temple courtyards. She trailed food carts, eavesdropped on hawkers, and slipped into open patios under the guise of a beggar girl.
By the next day, she had her target.
The Jiangs. Not a noble family, but not commoners either. They ran a modest chain of supply stalls along Mushan's eastern trade strip. Well-dressed, reputable and respected. But not so rich that they'd attract too much attention.
It was perfect.
They lived in a three-tiered house near the quieter end of Eastern Hill Street. Its front was guarded by two minor cultivators from the city's inspection unit, barely at Qi Formation.
Men who passed their time sipping herbal wine and flirting with passersbyes. They didn't even sense the pressure she briefly released from a distant alley that night.
Just enough for the father to wake up in cold sweat.
Fear was a seed. She would water it soon.
At dawn, she smeared the inside of her collar again with the blood-ink and dragon ash. This time, she added soul-salt. The mixture shimmered like oil in sunlight and held a cloying warmth that made most mortals lightheaded.
The scent wasn't overpowering. It was delicate and almost pleasant. But to the soul? It was an invitation.
She entered through the servant's side after slipping past a delivery wagon.
By the time anyone saw her, it was too late.
"Miss? You shouldn't be in here-" a maid began, but her words trailed off as Huolian walked past her, her eyes gentle, her voice soft.
"I... I think I'm lost. This house... It feels like a dream I had." Huolian's words flowed like lullabies. The dragon-blood mixture had begun its work.
The woman blinked. "You... You look just like her."
Exactly. That was how the technique worked.
Within the hour, Huolian stood in the drawing room with four people seated around her. The father, Jiang Wei was a tall, barrel-chested man with salt-and-pepper hair and weary merchant's eyes.
His wife, Meilin, was shorter and sharper, her gaze a balance of maternal instinct and shrewd suspicion.
The children, Lan and Xun were teenagers barely older than Huolian's current body.
She sat still, back straight, wrapped in modest silks and a faint glow of demonic charm.
"I saw her," Meilin said suddenly, voice tight. "In my dreams. That night after our daughter vanished in the storm at White Cliff. I saw this girl."
"No, she didn't just vanish," Jiang Wei murmured, eyes locked on Huolian. "She drowned. But..."
"I didn't die," Huolian whispered. Her voice cracked perfectly. "I don't remember much... but when I saw this city... this house... it all came back."
Soul Succumb was a subtle technique. It didn't shatter minds. It simply rewrote the layers of belief, nudging them into soft surrender. Combined with the dragon mixture and Huolian's Qi-masked presence, the family was already caught in its web.
As a non-dao or cultivation practitioners, they were simply goats for slaughter under her technique.
She let a tear slip. "I've wandered for so long... I didn't know if you would even remember me."
Xun, the son, stood up. "Sister?"
Lan burst into tears. "We always prayed! Mama never stopped!"
That night, Huolian ate at their table. She told stories she made up on the spot, simple tales of survival, minor injuries and faint memories. Jiang Wei drank tea with trembling hands.
Meilin stroked her hair for hours, whispering her old daughter's name between breaths.
The net had closed.
A week passed.
Huolian slept on embroidered sheets and wore silks stitched by skilled tailors. She even attended the Jiang family's stall twice, playing the dutiful daughter, silent and modest. She never let the other vendors see her too clearly.
Then, over breakfast one day, she struck.
"Father," she began, using the word with practiced ease. "I've been thinking about the fair."
Jiang Wei raised an eyebrow, sipping his soup. "Oh?"
"Your business is strong, but your brand, it does not stand out. People remember feelings more than products."
He chuckled. "We sell utility items, child. Rope, reinforced scrolls, cauldron covers. Not feelings."
"Exactly," she said. "But what if every customer got something more? A small token. A talisman of good luck, hand-made. Something that shows our family cares."
Lan's eyes lit up. "Like fortune slips?"
"Yes." Huolian smiled. "We can say they're blessed by monks or traveling alchemists. Make them just pretty enough to hang near a door or wear as a necklace. They won't cost much to make."
Xun nodded. "Might bring more repeat customers."
"It's superstition," Meilin muttered, but her voice lacked conviction.
"No," Huolian said. "It's tradition. It shows we value harmony."
Jiang Wei stared at her for a long moment. Then he laughed. "You are more clever than you look. Fine. We'll start tomorrow. One per customer."
He didn't even question where the talismans would come from.
By nightfall, Huolian was in the attic, surrounded by silk paper and demonic tools. Her hands moved quickly, painting with crimson brushstrokes as delicate as spider threads.
Each charm bore a faint symbol, a layered knot of demonic runes hidden under poetic calligraphy. Phrases like "Heaven bless the path ahead", "Luck flows where gratitude grows", and "The lost are never alone."
Each charm bled a single thread of Huolian's soul imprint.
She made fifty that night.
Fifty hooks.
Fifty seeds.
When morning came, Jiang Wei's stall gave them away for free, tucked with each purchase, tied with ribbon or silk.
Some merchants laughed. Some customers grinned.
A wandering cultivator from the Northern Sect tied one to his belt and bowed politely to Huolian.
By the end of the day, the Jiangs had sold 40% more than usual.
Jiang Wei was thrilled. Meilin smiled more. The twins began calling her "Jia'er", the name of the sister they had once lost.
But Huolian didn't smile with them.
She smiled alone, on the rooftop, watching Mushan glitter in the distance, her talismans already fluttering from belts and robes and carts like leaves in a wind she had summoned.
The city didn't know it yet.
But it had already begun feeding her.