Chapter 3: The Dinner and the Dragon’s Announcement

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Part One — Dressing the Part (While Internally Screaming)

The robes were a problem.

Yuebai stood in front of a full-length bronze mirror, flanked by three servant girls who kept touching him. They were adjusting his collar, smoothing his sleeves, pinning his hair. His bunny ears kept twitching away from the pins, which made the servants cluck their tongues like he was a misbehaving child.

I’m a grown man, he thought desperately. I’ve deboned a chicken with my eyes closed. I’ve stitched a man’s arm back together in the middle of a beast tide. I can survive dinner.

His reflection disagreed.

The robes were ridiculous. Layers of pale silver silk, embroidered with crescent moons and scattered stars. The outer robe was a deep midnight blue, almost black, with silver thread that caught the light. The collar framed his throat — which was currently covered in a faint sheen of frost that he kept wiping away.

“Young Madam is so beautiful,” Chunhua sighed, pinning a jade hairpin into his pink waves. “Lord Wei won’t be able to look away.”

He’s never looked before, Yuebai thought. Why would tonight be different?

His ears twitched. The servants misinterpreted it as excitement.

Xuětuán sat on the bed, watching the proceedings with the expression of a creature who had seen empires rise and fall and found this no more interesting than any of them. Bìyù the jade crab was perched on the headboard, clicking its claws in rhythm with the servants’ chatter.

“You’re not coming,” Yuebai told the rabbit.

Xuětuán’s ear twitched. Watch me.

“You’re not.”

The rabbit hopped off the bed and sat on Yuebai’s foot. His expression said: I am coming. This is not a negotiation.

Yuebai looked at the servants. “The rabbit comes with me.”

Chunhua blinked. “To a formal dinner, young madam?”

“The rabbit goes where I go.” His voice was flat. Final.

The servants exchanged glances but said nothing. Xuětuán’s tail twitched in smug satisfaction.

Bìyù clicked sadly from the headboard. What about me?

“You stay here and guard the room,” Yuebai murmured. “Click twice if anyone enters.”

The crab clicked twice. Understood.

At least someone listened to him.

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Part Two — The Husband Prepares (And Has No Idea What He’s Feeling)

Across the estate, in the guest quarters reserved for the Wei clan, Wei Hanzhao was also dressing.

His robes were simpler than Yuebai’s — dark charcoal silk, unadorned except for the Wei clan crest embroidered in black thread on his chest. His hair was pinned with a single dark jade ornament, neat and severe. A sword hung at his hip — not decorative. He’d killed men with that sword.

His valet, an older Beta named Feng, adjusted his collar. “My lord seems tense.”

“I’m not tense.”

“My lord’s jaw has been clenched for the past hour.”

Wei Hanzhao consciously unclenched his jaw. Then clenched it again.

It’s just dinner, he told himself. A political dinner. The Liang clan wants to discuss trade routes and military alliances. Yuebai will sit there, silent and cold, and I will sit there, silent and cold, and we will exchange approximately four words, and then I will leave.

Except yesterday I watched him make soup for a dragon.

And his ears turned pink.

And I felt… something.

He didn’t have words for the something. It wasn’t desire — not exactly. It was… attention. The kind of attention you pay to a sword you’ve owned for years but never used, only to discover it’s been sharp this whole time.

“My lord,” Feng said carefully, “perhaps you should speak to the young madam tonight. More than usual.”

“I speak to him.”

“You ask if he’s well. He says yes. That’s the end of the conversation.”

Wei Hanzhao had no response to that, because it was true.

He pinned his sword to his hip and walked toward the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

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Part Three — The Dragon Crashes (Because of Course He Does)

The dining hall of the Liang estate was a masterpiece of cultivation-era architecture: high ceilings painted with celestial scenes, lanterns that floated without strings, a long table of polished blackwood that could seat thirty. Tonight, only a dozen places were set — family and delegation only.

Yuebai arrived early, as instructed. He took his seat at the left hand of where his mother — the Liang matriarch — would sit. The seat on the right was empty. That was for Wei Hanzhao.

Xuětuán sat on the floor beside Yuebai’s chair, invisible under the tablecloth to anyone who wasn’t looking. His red eyes glowed faintly in the shadows.

Yuebai arranged his face into the cold mask. His hands were hidden in his sleeves, clenched into fists. His ears were perfectly still — a triumph of willpower.

The other guests filed in. Liang Suyin arrived first, wearing crimson robes that practically screamed look at me. She smiled at Yuebai — a knife’s smile — and took her seat across from him.

“Brother,” she said sweetly. “You look pale. Are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your ears are very still. That’s unusual for you.”

She’s testing me, Yuebai realized. She wants to see me slip.

“I’m focusing,” he said flatly.

“On what?”

“On not saying something rude.”

Suyin’s smile flickered. Good.

The Liang matriarch — a severe woman with the same pink hair and bunny ears as her children — entered and took her seat. The clan elders filed in behind her, old men and women with cold eyes and colder hearts.

Then Wei Hanzhao arrived.

Yuebai had seen him before — in memories, in the mirror (the original’s memories were fragmented, but the husband’s face was clear). Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair, dark eyes, a face that seemed carved from stone. He moved like a soldier, even in formal robes.

Their eyes met for a brief moment.

Wei Hanzhao’s expression didn’t change. But something in his gaze lingered — a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Yuebai looked away first. His ears twitched. Damn it.

Wei Hanzhao took his seat. The distance between them was less than an arm’s length. Yuebai could smell him — clean, like cedar and cold water, with an undercurrent of Alpha musk that made his hindbrain sit up and pay attention.

Suppressants, he reminded himself. I need suppressants. This is not the time.

The dinner began. Dishes were brought out — elaborate, beautiful, and utterly boring. The food was technically competent but spiritually dead. No love in it. No intent.

Yuebai picked at his plate. His nose twitched in disappointment.

Wei Hanzhao noticed. He noticed the way Yuebai’s eyes flicked to each dish, cataloged it, and dismissed it. He noticed the tiny downturn of Yuebai’s lips — so small that anyone else would have missed it.

He doesn’t like the food, Wei Hanzhao realized. He made soup yesterday that made a dragon beg, and now he’s eating this… slop.

He felt a sudden, irrational urge to demand the kitchen staff be replaced.

Then the garden door opened.

Mo Cangyue walked in like he owned the place.

He wasn’t dressed for dinner. He was dressed for existing — loose black robes that hung open, revealing the pale skin of his chest and the faint scale markings climbing his throat. His ink-black hair was loose, spilling down his back. His white-fire eyes swept the room with the lazy confidence of someone who had never been told “no” in his entire immortal life.

“Good evening,” the dragon said. “I heard there was food.”

The room went silent.

Liang Suyin’s eyes widened. The matriarch’s hand tightened on her chopsticks. The clan elders exchanged alarmed glances.

Wei Hanzhao’s jaw clenched so hard he heard his teeth creak.

“Mo Cangyue,” the matriarch said coldly. “You were not invited.”

“I’m never invited.” The dragon pulled out the empty chair beside Yuebai — the one next to him, not across — and sat down. “And yet, here I am. Strange how that keeps happening.”

He turned to Yuebai and smiled. It was a real smile, warm and slightly feral. “Young Madam. You look beautiful tonight. The frost suits you.”

Yuebai’s ears went pink. He slapped them down mentally. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“And yet.” Mo Cangyue gestured to the empty space in front of him. “Where’s my bowl?”

“You don’t get a bowl. You’re crashing.”

“I’m attending. There’s a difference.” The dragon leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. “Also, the food they’re serving is terrible. I can smell it from here. Bland. No spiritual energy. Cooked by someone who doesn’t care.”

He looked at Yuebai with those white-fire eyes. “You should have cooked.”

Wei Hanzhao’s hand tightened on his chopsticks. He’s sitting next to my wife. He’s sitting next to my wife and talking about food like they have a private language.

They don’t have a private language.

Do they?

“Lord Mo,” Wei Hanzhao said, his voice flat and cold. “The young madam is not your personal chef.”

Mo Cangyue turned to look at him. His smile didn’t waver. “Lord Wei. How nice to see you. I didn’t realize you’d be here. I thought you were always away on important business.”

The emphasis on “important” was a slap.

Wei Hanzhao’s eyes narrowed. “I’m here now.”

“How fortunate for the young madam. Three years of absence, and now — a visit.” The dragon’s voice was light, almost friendly. The words were daggers. “I’m sure he’s overwhelmed by your attention.”

Yuebai, caught between them, felt like a dumpling being squeezed from both sides. His ears were flat against his head — a clear sign of distress. His nose twitched. He wanted to crawl under the table with Xuětuán.

Why are they fighting over me? I just make soup.

“Both of you,” the matriarch said sharply, “are guests in my house. Behave.”

Mo Cangyue inclined his head. “Of course, Lady Liang. I am the soul of courtesy.”

He was not the soul of courtesy. He was the soul of chaos in a very pretty package.

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Part Four — The First Course (And the Dragon’s Revelation)

The servants brought out the next dish — a clear broth with floating lotus seeds. It was pale, watery, and smelled of nothing.

Yuebai’s nose twitched in disgust. He didn’t mean to. It just happened.

Mo Cangyue noticed. Of course he noticed. “You hate it.”

“I don’t—”

“Your nose is twitching. Your ears are flat. You’re holding your chopsticks like you want to stab someone.” The dragon leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Yuebai could hear. “I’ve been watching you for three days. I know your tells.”

Yuebai’s heart stuttered. “You’ve been watching me?”

“Observing. There’s a difference.” Mo Cangyue’s breath was cool against Yuebai’s ear — like winter air, not unpleasant. “The food you made yesterday — the soup — it had spiritual properties. Did you know that?”

Yuebai blinked. “What?”

“The soup. It enhanced my cultivation base. Just a little — but I haven’t felt a spiritual boost from food in three thousand years.” The dragon’s eyes were intent, searching. “How did you do it?”

The stat window didn’t mention that. Yuebai’s mind raced. My cooking has healing properties? Spiritual enhancement?

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I just… cook.”

“You just cook,” Mo Cangyue repeated, as if tasting the words. “And yet, the soup also healed the small wound on my hand. The one your rabbit gave me.”

Yuebai looked down. The dragon’s hand was resting on the table, palm up. The bite mark from Xuětuán was gone. Completely healed.

“That’s impossible,” Yuebai whispered. “Rabbit bites don’t heal that fast.”

“They do when you eat soup made by a Heavenly Yin Constitution.” Mo Cangyue’s voice dropped even lower, barely a breath. “Your body is waking up. And whatever you cook — it carries that awakening. It heals. It enhances. It changes people.”

Yuebai’s ears went pink. Then red. Then practically glowing.

I’m a walking, cooking, healing apocalypse.

Across the table, Wei Hanzhao watched them — watched the way the dragon leaned in, the way Yuebai’s ears colored, the way their heads were almost touching. His Alpha instincts roared.

Mine. That’s mine. Why is the dragon touching mine?

He didn’t understand the feeling. He’d never felt it before. But it burned in his chest like a coal fire.

“Young Madam,” Wei Hanzhao said loudly, cutting through the private moment. “A word.”

Yuebai looked up. His face was the cold mask again, but his ears were still pink. “Yes?”

Wei Hanzhao opened his mouth. He had no idea what to say. I don’t like you talking to the dragon. I don’t like the way he looks at you. I don’t like that he knows your tells and I don’t.

What came out was: “You’re holding your chopsticks wrong.”

The table went silent.

Mo Cangyue’s eyebrows rose. Liang Suyin’s smile sharpened. The matriarch looked like she wanted to bury her face in her hands.

Yuebai looked down at his chopsticks. He was holding them perfectly. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’ve been cooking for twenty years. I know how to hold chopsticks.”

“You’re holding them like a chef. Not like a noble.”

“I’m a—” Yuebai stopped himself. Almost said “I’m a chef.” He regrouped. “I’m holding them correctly.”

Wei Hanzhao had no response. Because Yuebai was right. His ears went red — not pink, red — and he looked away.

Mo Cangyue laughed. It was a low, warm sound that filled the dining hall.

“Lord Wei,” the dragon said, “if you’re going to flirt with your wife, you might want to try something less… critical. Perhaps compliment his soup?”

“I haven’t tried his soup.”

“I have.” Mo Cangyue’s smile was insufferable. “It’s exceptional. You should try it. Oh wait — you can’t. Because you never eat with him.”

The barb landed. Wei Hanzhao’s jaw tightened.

Yuebai, caught in the middle, felt his soul leave his body. I just wanted to open a restaurant. Why is this my life?

Xuětuán, hidden under the table, bit Mo Cangyue’s ankle again. The dragon didn’t even flinch.

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Part Five — The Innocent’s Realization

After the third course — more bland, lifeless food — Yuebai excused himself to “freshen up.” He needed air. He needed to not be between a jealous husband and an annoying dragon.

He walked to the garden, Xuětuán at his heels. The moon was full, casting silver light over the koi pond. He sat on the edge and put his head in his hands.

“I don’t understand,” he said to the rabbit. “Why is the dragon so… much? Why is the husband staring at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve? And why does Suyin keep smiling at me like she knows something I don’t?”

Xuětuán hopped onto his lap and thumped his foot once. You’re an idiot.

“I’m not an idiot.”

You are. They’re fighting over you. Both of them.

“They’re not fighting over me. They’re fighting about… territory or something. Dragon things. Alpha things.”

Xuětuán stared at him. His red eyes said: And you don’t know why Alphas fight over territory?

Yuebai paused. His ears twitched.

Oh.

Oh no.

“They’re not…” He swallowed. “They can’t be…”

Xuětuán thumped again. Yes.

“But I’m just a cook! I’m a dead man from another world in a borrowed body! I have bunny ears and frost coming out of my fingers and I’m about to go into heat if I don’t get suppressants and —”

Xuětuán bit his sleeve. Breathe.

Yuebai breathed.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. So maybe the dragon is… interested. And maybe the husband is… noticing me for the first time. That doesn’t mean anything. I’m not here for romance. I’m here to survive, figure out this constitution, and open a restaurant.”

Xuětuán’s ear twitched. Sure.

“I mean it.”

The rabbit’s expression was deeply skeptical.

From the shadows near the plum tree, a low voice said, “Talking to your rabbit is a good habit. At least he listens.”

Yuebai jumped. His ears shot up. His hand went to his belt — no knife, he’d left it in his room.

Wei Hanzhao stepped into the moonlight.

He looked different in the silver glow — less severe, almost… uncertain. His dark eyes were fixed on Yuebai’s face.

“You’re avoiding the dinner,” Wei Hanzhao said.

“The food is terrible.”

“I noticed.”

A pause. The koi pond rippled.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Wei Hanzhao said. “In three years, I never… I never asked.”

Yuebai’s ears drooped slightly. “You never asked anything.”

“I know.” Wei Hanzhao’s voice was rough. “I’m… not good at this.”

“At what?”

“At being married.” He stepped closer. Not threatening — tentative, like a man approaching a rabbit he didn’t want to scare. “I was raised to see marriage as a transaction. Alliances. Politics. I didn’t think about… the person.”

Yuebai looked up at him. In the moonlight, Wei Hanzhao was beautiful — sharp angles and dark intensity, the kind of face that belonged on ancient coins. But his eyes were troubled.

“The original Yuebai,” Yuebai said carefully, “didn’t expect you to.”

“The original.” Wei Hanzhao’s brow furrowed. “You speak as if you’re not—”

Careful. Yuebai’s mask snapped back into place. “I’m the same person. I just… changed. After the illness.”

Wei Hanzhao studied him for a long moment. Then he said, quietly, “I’m glad you changed.”

Yuebai’s ears went pink.

Stop that, he told them. Stop betraying me.

They did not stop.

From the dining hall, a crash sounded — followed by Mo Cangyue’s voice, loud and amused: “My apologies. I dropped my chopsticks. Carry on.”

Wei Hanzhao’s jaw tightened. “That dragon.”

“He’s… persistent,” Yuebai said.

“He’s interested.” The husband’s voice was flat. “In you.”

“I noticed.”

“And you?” Wei Hanzhao’s dark eyes bored into his. “Are you interested in him?”

Yuebai blinked. His ears twitched. “I… I don’t… he’s a dragon. He’s ancient. He’s annoying. He stole my soup.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I have.” Yuebai stood, brushing off his robes. Xuětuán hopped to the ground. “I’m not… I don’t understand any of this. The politics. The… whatever this is between you two. I just want to cook. I just want to survive.”

Wei Hanzhao stared at him. Something shifted in his expression — recognition, maybe. Or regret.

“You really don’t know,” he murmured. “About heats. About Alphas. About any of it.”

Yuebai’s ears went flat. “I know some of it.”

“Your sister,” Wei Hanzhao said slowly, “told me once that you were… sheltered. That you didn’t understand the dynamics. I thought she was exaggerating.”

Suyin. Of course. She’d been controlling the narrative for years — making sure the original Yuebai stayed isolated, ignorant, easy to manipulate.

“I’m not as naive as she thinks,” Yuebai said. But even as he said it, he realized: maybe he was. In this world, at least. He knew cooking. He knew medicine. He knew cultivation. But he didn’t know this — the dance of Alphas and Omegas, the politics of heats and bonds, the way a single glance from a powerful man could make a room hold its breath.

Wei Hanzhao took a step back. Giving him space. “Then let me tell you something straight. Mo Cangyue is not just ‘interested.’ He’s claiming. Every time he sits next to you, every time he talks to you in that low voice, every time he smiles — he’s marking territory. He’s telling everyone in that room that you’re his.”

Yuebai’s heart hammered. “But I’m not.”

“I know.” Wei Hanzhao’s voice was rough. “But he doesn’t care. And the more he pushes, the more I want to—” He stopped. Swallowed. “The more I want to push back.”

“Why?”

The question hung in the air.

Wei Hanzhao looked at him — really looked, for the first time in three years. At his pink hair. His dark eyes. His bunny ears, still slightly pink at the tips. His small, delicate frame that somehow contained a will of iron.

“I don’t know,” the husband admitted. “But I’m going to find out.”

He turned and walked back toward the dining hall, leaving Yuebai alone in the garden with a rabbit, a moon, and a growing sense that his simple plan — cook, survive, open a restaurant — had just become infinitely more complicated.

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Part Six — The Dinner Ends (But the War Begins)

When Yuebai returned to the dining hall, Mo Cangyue had moved.

He was now sitting in Wei Hanzhao’s chair.

The husband stood beside the table, looking like he was two seconds from drawing his sword. The matriarch had her face buried in her hands. The clan elders were pretending to be invisible. Liang Suyin was watching everything with the bright-eyed glee of someone who lived for drama.

“Lord Mo,” Wei Hanzhao said through gritted teeth. “That’s my seat.”

“Is it?” The dragon examined the chair. “It doesn’t have your name on it.”

“It’s beside my wife.”

“Ah.” Mo Cangyue nodded sagely. “But he’s not your wife. He’s his own person. And he doesn’t seem to mind sharing.”

He looked at Yuebai. Yuebai’s ears were flat, his face frozen in the cold mask. Inside, he was screaming.

I just want soup. Why is no one letting me make soup?

“Young Madam,” Mo Cangyue said, “would you like me to move?”

Yes. No. I don’t know. “I don’t care.”

“He doesn’t care,” Mo Cangyue told Wei Hanzhao triumphantly. “See? No problem.”

Wei Hanzhao’s eye twitched.

Yuebai sat down — in a different chair, far away from both of them. Xuětuán hopped onto his lap. The rabbit stared at the two Alphas with an expression that clearly said: I’ve lived for millennia, and you two are the most pathetic creatures I’ve ever seen.

The rest of the dinner passed in tense silence, broken only by Mo Cangyue’s occasional comments (“This fish is overcooked,” “Who seasoned this rice?” “Has anyone here tasted salt?”) and Wei Hanzhao’s increasingly strained responses.

When it finally ended, Yuebai fled to his room. He closed the door, leaned against it, and slid down to the floor.

Xuětuán sat beside him. Bìyù the crab crawled onto his knee and clicked sympathetically.

“Two of them,” Yuebai whispered. “Two Alphas. Fighting over me. And I don’t even know how to flirt.”

Xuětuán thumped his foot. You’ll learn.

“I don’t want to learn! I want to cook!”

The rabbit’s expression was unsympathetic.

From the window, frost crept across the glass — thicker now, more intricate. The Heavenly Yin Constitution was waking up faster than the stat window had predicted.

And somewhere in the garden, two Alphas were still glaring at each other under the moonlight, each one silently vowing to be the first to claim the pink-haired, bunny-eared, soup-making mystery who had no idea he was even being fought over.

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End of Chapter 3

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Next Chapter Preview:

The frost spreads. Yuebai discovers the healing properties of his cooking. Suyin makes her first real move. And Mo Cangyue brings a gift — a very annoying, very persistent gift.

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