Chapter 742: Completely Gray‑White

Qingque's brain is currently in an extremely special state: neither fully awake nor completely asleep, but somewhere in the gray zone between the two.

Her consciousness feels as if immersed in a vast lapis‑blue ocean, the water hasn't fully drained from her ears, and external sounds arrive muffled, watery, as if filtered through a membrane.

She can see a road ahead, and her feet move forward on their own; she sees steps, and her legs lift up by themselves; she sees a door, and her hand reaches out to push it by itself.

Yet all this happens without any participation from her awareness, like sitting in the audience watching a silent film in which she herself is the protagonist.

Beyond the second door lies the interior corridor of the Shen Ce Fu.

The corridor pillars are made of dark, dense wood, each carved with entwining branch‑and‑cloud patterns; sunlight streams through the hollowed, carved wooden windows, dividing the hallway into alternating light‑and‑dark squares.

She steps forward on these patches of light, and a gray‑white trace silently spreads along her hair from the tips toward the roots; with each step, the brownish hue recedes a little, like the water line on a beach at low tide, silently dropping down.

The officials passing on either side of the hall instinctively halt when she passes, turn to glance, then huddle together to whisper.

A clerical staff member clutching documents nearly collides with a pillar, the scrolls scattering with a rustle, but he doesn't bother to pick them up, swivels his head to stare at the receding figure, his mouth open and forgotten to close.

A maid carrying a tea tray walks up from opposite Qingque; as they pass, she almost knocks the teacup off, stops, looks back at Qingque's silhouette for several seconds, then leans toward the person beside her and whispers, "Qingque miss's hair—"

"Seen it, don't point."

The person beside her presses her finger down, but his own eyes remain glued to the back of Qingque's head as she walks away.

That brown‑tinted twin‑tail is fading at a visibly rapid pace; the gray‑white spreading from the roots has already swallowed most of the strands, leaving only a few brown threads at the ends, like the last autumn leaf that hasn't fallen yet.

Qingque hears nothing.

Even if she did hear, she probably wouldn't react.

All of her attention—if she still possesses such a thing—now focuses on how to make her two feet alternate stepping forward.

At the far end of the corridor, turn left, pass through a moon‑gate, then walk along a stone‑slab path; straight ahead is the main entrance of the Council Hall of the Shen Ce Fu.

Her muscle memory tells her: arrived.

The great doors of the Council Hall stand half‑open.

Inside, a meeting is in progress.

Fu Xuan stands at the main seat, one hand resting on the table, the other holding an unfolded scroll; her pink double‑ringed hair bun tilts slightly forward from the posture of leaning over the documents, and four golden hairpins sway gently in the candlelight.

The fine line on her brow left by consecutive all‑nighters remains, her lips pressed tight, and her pink‑gold pupils are filled with fatigue.

Beside her, Yan Qing's waist‑long sword's tassel hangs at his side, his light‑brown hair neatly tied.

He tilts his head slightly, watching the scroll in Fu Xuan's hand, his brows lightly furrowed.

Further to the side stands Yukong.

She stands upright, her teal‑green hair fashioned into an exquisite bun, her violet pupils bearing their usual composure and a hint of barely perceptible fatigue.

She folds her arms across her chest; the metal shoulder guard on her left shoulder reflects a cold glint; she says nothing, merely listening quietly to Fu Xuan's points.

Bai Lu sits on a chair against the wall, both legs suspended in mid‑air, not touching the ground; a purple plait hangs over her chest, and she cradles the gourd medicine pouch in her arms.

She occasionally steals a glance at the doorway with her peripheral vision, her small face writing "When will this end? I really want to go out."

Han Ya stands in the corner, silver hair cascading to her waist, her expression as cold as usual, her gray‑black attire almost merging her into the shadowed corner.

She occasionally flips a page of the book she holds, the rustle of paper strikingly clear in the quiet hall.

There are also a few officials in charge of important mechanisms.

On the other side stand Walther and Xing.

Walther stands tall, the hem of his long gray coat hanging to mid‑calf, a black scarf wrapped twice around his neck, and his brown eyes behind black‑framed glasses are steady and focused.

He leans his staff on the ground, whispering something to Xing beside him.

Xing stands next to him, her gray hair slightly lifted, amber eyes fixed on a small stain on her left‑hand glove that she can't recall where it came from, clearly her attention has drifted to something unrelated to the meeting.

When footsteps echo from the doorway, Xing turns her head to look.

Qingque waddles in, swaying.

Fu Xuan lifts her head at the sound of footsteps, her brows already reacting before Reason String, furrowing.

She recognizes the newcomer as Qingque, and the first thought that pops in her mind is a string of fiery insults.

"Fine, you Qingque."

"The Giant Tree has revived, Luofu is bustling so much that feet don't even touch the ground; this Acting General has processed more scrolls these few days than in the past month, and you, you're goofing off again."

"If I don't give her a lesson, this Acting General will look utterly disgraceful."

"This is no longer goofing off; it's outright ignoring her."

Fu Xuan places the scroll on the table, inhales deeply, adopts the cold expression reserved for reprimands, her lips already parted, ready to unleash the two‑day‑brewed scolding in one breath.

Then she sees Qingque's hair.

Fu Xuan's mouth is open, the prepared rebuke stuck in her throat, not a single word escaping.

Her pink‑gold pupils suddenly contract, and the Divination Eye on her forehead flashes for an instant.

In her view, the petite girl who just shuffled in from the doorway bears a head of entirely gray‑white hair from root to tip, with no trace of brown at all.

The strands drape over her shoulders, reaching waist‑length, swaying gently with her soft steps.

In the light they resemble a silk cloth soaked in moonlight.

Qingque's own expression remains that half‑asleep, bewildered look, her emerald eyes half‑drooping, a faint trace of drool at the corner of her mouth, likely from the dream she just had.

Xing's eyebrows lift.

She reaches out and pulls at Walther's sleeve, lowering her voice: "Yang Shu, is she the one who received us yesterday?"

Walther pushes his glasses up; the reflection on the lenses hides most of his face.

He remains silent for a moment, then his voice, steady as usual, says, "Probably."

"Yesterday she had brown hair."

Xing's observational skill is especially sharp when she doesn't have to think.

"…Indeed, brown hair." A subtle hesitation tinges Walther's tone.

The others also glance oddly at Qingque, but Qingque registers none of those looks.

Her feet, following muscle Memory, carried her to the exact center of the hall, then stopped.

The spot where she stopped was subtle, neither left nor right, exactly the place where she usually stands at the very back during meetings to listen to instructions.