Chapter 899: Convenient for Movement

She meant that "not here" referred to Ling not being in this carriage, um, actually it didn't seem to matter.

But the two people opposite clearly took it to mean something else.

She saw the sparkle in Ling's light‑blue eyes dim for a moment, then quickly glanced at her sister, pursed her lips, as if wanting to say something but not daring to.

Bachongying slightly lowered her eyelashes, placed the magazine on her lap, and unconsciously ran her fingers along the edge of its cover.

Ah.

Ling's voice was much lighter than before, the excitement in it seemed turned down like a volume knob, but her eyes still stared earnestly at Bachongying, with an extra layer of careful seriousness, "Th‑That Hiying sister, next time you see her, could you bring her a list of characters I recommend? I have lots of manga magazines in my backpack; if you like them, I can lend you some!"

She said the three words "next time" with an especially light bite, as if carefully stepping around a puddle.

Bachongying watched Ling's eyes, which strained to stay bright, and was silent for a second.

Then she nodded.

"Alright. I'll bring it to her next time."

Bachongying quietly watched the scene from across.

She didn't interject, just unscrewed her thermos, poured a cup of hot tea, and pushed it onto the tabletop in front of Bachongying.

The tea was a pale gold, floating a few tiny jasmine petals; the steam rose in lazy spirals within the sunlight streaming through the train window.

Her movements were natural—pouring tea, setting the cup, nudging it forward a few inches—a seamless flow as if she had done it countless times; in fact she probably had, since a sister who constantly drained energy was always nearby, and she had developed the habit of constantly replenishing those around her with water and calories.

But her gaze lingered briefly when Bachongying took the cup.

She noticed Hiying used her right hand to take the cup, while her left hand stayed pressed against the bag at her waist, fingers unmoving, as if guarding something important inside.

Moreover, she saw that when Hiying said "Ling is not here," her voice was steady, but the fingers on the bag tightened slightly.

The gesture was so subtle that Ling didn't notice at all, but Bachongying did.

She said nothing, just screwed the thermos lid back on, and smoothly introduced a new topic to lift the atmosphere from the brief heaviness.

"Miss Hiying, this outfit is very tasteful."

Her voice remained a gentle rhythm, but her tone added sincere admiration; as a woman with her own sense of fashion, her attention to color matching and tailoring was instinctive: "White paired with a red bow—a classic combo. The black waistband nicely tames the overall hue; the whole look is crisp and spirited. Which school's uniform is this? Or did you put it together yourself?"

Bachongying lowered her head to glance at the white stand‑collar uniform she wore, her fingers unconsciously nudging the bright red bow at the collar.

School uniform.

Work uniform.

Combat attire.

The identity of this outfit was already hard for her to define, but she couldn't tell the person opposite, "I've been wearing this since I woke up; I don't even know which school it belongs to."

Saying that would instantly collapse the "ordinary cosplay enthusiast" persona she had painstakingly built.

"I put it together myself."

She chose the safest excuse, then lifted the cup and took a sip; the jasmine tea's fresh fragrance slid over her tongue, warm just right, letting her tense nerves relax a little.

Bachongying set the cup down and added, "I usually like this style. Convenient for movement."

The statement wasn't entirely false; the uniform truly allowed easy movement. When she previously leapt and sliced a giant python, the skirt never hindered her, even more flexible than her old outfit.

"Convenient for movement"—that phrase must have hit some trigger for Ling; she snapped out of the "carefully protecting Hiying sister's feelings" mode, her eyes sparkling again.

"Exactly! The most important thing about a cosplay costume is mobility! I once saw a coser at a convention wearing an ultra‑lavish armor—looked great, but they couldn't even walk; they needed two people to help up and down stairs. I still remember that coser's expression, face full of 'I sacrifice myself for art,'"

She said this while mimicking the trapped coser's expression, eyes wide, mouth pursed into a bitter curve, frozen in her seat like a turtle accidentally turned over, causing Bachongying to tilt her head, cover her mouth, and let out a soft laugh.

Bachongying also laughed.

She didn't cover her mouth; the laugh needed no restraint, spilling out unguarded.

But she quickly realized her slip, lowered her head, lifted the cup for another sip, and used the rim to shield the lower half of her face.

Ling was clearly encouraged by the laughter she herself had provoked, and launched another round of topic bombardment—jumping from convention cosers to anime genres, to games, to weapon design, to why she always thought a long sword looked cooler than a short sword. The switches were forced, linked only by phrases like "by the way!" and "oh, also!" with no logical transition.

Bachongying occasionally interjected from beside, saying "Ling, let someone have a sip of tea," "Ling, your volume," "Ling, if you keep propping your hand on the table I'll confiscate your milk tea," but each time Ling brushed her off, citing "Miss Hiying doesn't mind."

Bachongying truly didn't mind.

She held the cup, listening quietly, occasionally nodding when Ling got excited, and replying "mm" when Ling asked "right?"

Most of the time she was just listening, hearing Ling's endless stream from the aesthetic of a long sword's curve to the transformation storyboard of a Magical Girl, from that storyboard to whether a holy light should appear during transformation, and from holy light to last week's anime that was heavily censored and collectively mocked by viewers.

When Ling got excited, her speech sped up, gestures multiplied, her sleeves slipped off her wrists revealing a strip of skin pale to translucent, and she traced various shapes in the air.

While gesturing a villain's ultimate move, Ling accidentally knocked the magazine on the table; it slid down, and Bachongying bent over to pick it up, brushed the dust off the cover, and when she set it back, tapped Ling's back of the hand with her fingertip.

"Be gentle."

"Got it—"

Ling elongated the ending, stuck out her tongue at her sister, then redirected her gaze to Bachongying, about to continue describing how absurd the anime's ending was, when she suddenly noticed the edge of the half glove exposed on Bachongying's left hand back.

"By the way, Hiying sister, you haven't answered me yet—does wearing this glove for a long time get stuffy?"

She pointed at Bachongying's glove, her eyes still showing pure technical curiosity, just like when she asked about ears and swords earlier.

Bachongying lowered her head to glance at her own hand back.

A black‑red spliced half‑finger glove; the leather on the back had fine ventilation holes, the fingertips protruded from the front, and the nails were trimmed short and clean.

She turned her hand over, palm up, so Ling could see the glove's construction clearly.

"It's fine. The back has ventilation holes. The palm is open. Not too stuffy."

"What about winter then? Wearing this in winter would be cold, right? This skirt—"