Chapter 76: Business Formal
If anyone could explain modern fashion, it was Li Xiu. With that in mind, Su Yao phased into the Li family’s heiress walk-in closet. The space was immaculate, filled with neatly organized rows of elegant dresses, tailored suits, and blouses that probably cost more than someone’s entire high school education in another country that actually charged for it.
Li Xiu, who had been examining a tear in a black robe’s garment with morbid fascination, jumped nearly a foot in the air. She clutched her chest. “Xiao Ling! Don’t do that!”
Yumi, who was calmly sharpening a claw-like manicure against a whetstone in the corner glanced up. Her expression was unreadable.
“I need to borrow clothes,” Su Yao announced. Her tone made it clear this was a statement of fact. She began rifling through the racks with the clinical detachment of a bomb disposal expert handling suspicious wiring. “Something ‘business formal.’ Explain the parameters.”
“Business formal?” Li Xiu repeated, blinking in confusion. “For what? A job interview?” The idea of the ancient fox spirit submitting a resume was ludicrous.
“A corporate gala at the Tezca Tower.” Su Yao held up a sleek, navy-blue pantsuit. “Is this sufficiently ‘formal’? It looks like a uniform for a particularly joyless airline.”
“That’s a Stella McCartney! And yes, it’s formal, but it’s a bit severe.” Li Xiu hurried over. Her curator instincts overrode her fear. She began pulling options with practiced efficiency. “For a tech gala, you want to project power, but with an edge of innovation. Maybe this?” She held up a dress in a shimmering, iridescent fabric that seemed to shift color in the light.
Su Yao stared at it. “It looks like an oil slick. I’m not a waterfowl disaster.”
“Right. Not the oil slick.” Li Xiu put it back, muttering about ‘aesthetic dissonance.’ She selected a tailored black jumpsuit with a sharply defined silhouette and geometric cutouts at the shoulders. “This one is architectural. It says ‘I make decisions, and some of them involve orbital lasers.’”
Su Yao took the garment, holding it up. The garment was less offensive than the other options. It lacked the frills of the hanfu she was used to, but it had a certain brutalist integrity.
“Acceptable,” she declared. “I will return it. Probably.”
“Just try not to get blood on it,” Li Xiu sighed, already resigned to the garment’s probable fate. “Or if you do, at least let me send Yumi the dry-cleaning bill.”
From the corner, Yumi gave a single, sharp nod. Her eyes glinted with what might have been amusement. She pointed a freshly sharpened nail at the pile of black robes, then made a subtle slicing motion across her throat.
Message received, Su Yao thought. The gumiho approves of the outfit and the probable violence to follow.
She phased out of the closet, the black jumpsuit in hand. It was a costume for a role she had no interest in playing. Sometimes, the most effective camouflage was to look like everyone else in the room, even if everyone else was a fool in expensive clothing.
Now, she just had to figure out how to fasten it. The modern world was endlessly complicated.
Su Yao stood before the mirror. The sleek black jumpsuit hung from a hook. Her fingers traced the unfamiliar zipper, a contraption of such mundane complexity it was almost fascinating. Her mind drifted back through the swirling memories of countless banquet halls.
In the Shang, she thought, a wry smile touching her lips, I wore clouds and starlight, woven by lesser spirits vying for my favor. The cloth didn’t matter. What mattered was power.
She recalled a particular courtier from the Zhou who had presented her with a robe of a thousand phoenix feathers, each plucked from a different celestial beast. She had worn it once, found it cumbersome, and later used it to start a cooking fire for a boar she’d fancied roasting.
By the Tang, the height of her ‘career’ as a hostess, she had transcended the need for such ostentatious displays. Her presence was the ornament. The effortless grace of her movements was her raiment.
Mortal emperors and celestial ministers alike came to her Eternal Banquet to be seen and bask in her aura. She often received them in simple elegant silks or sometimes, during the more Dionysian revels in nothing but her own fur and pride. Clothing was a suggestion for one who was the very soul of the party.
And now, here she was, contemplating the architectural integrity of a mortal garment with geometric cutouts, trying to decipher a zipper so she could attend a party thrown by a man who wanted to merge magic with microchips.
The absurdity struck her clearly. It was a step down. Yet, it was also a new kind of game played with perception and positioning instead of raw power. This jumpsuit was armor for a battlefield of corporate politics and technological posturing.
With a final, decisive tug, she figured out the zipper and put it on. The fabric was cool and smooth against her skin. It was restrictive and unnatural.
It will do, she decided, examining her reflection. The woman staring back was an ancient fox in a modern shell. Her eyes held the weight of dynasties, her form sheathed in the uniform of a world she barely acknowledged.
Su Yao gave her reflection one last, critical glance. Her borrowed jumpsuit was an armor. The smartphone was a dubious invitation. Now, the final piece of the puzzle was the guest list. Who would be foolish or ambitious enough to attend Alan Mask’s vanity project?
The new Yamato board, for certain, she mused. Suzuka Gozen, in some devastatingly expensive kimono-adjacent designer piece, playing the serene CEO. She would be there to observe, network, and make sure the new ‘Tsuchimikado-led equilibrium’ remained profitable.
The Aesthetes themselves, she thought with a curl of her lip. Alan Mask and his inner circle. They would be the hosts, buzzing with self-congratulatory zeal, probably wearing some garish blend of tech-wear and spiritual talismans. Their faction would be the easiest to spot and the most tedious to listen to.
Then, the hangers-on. Minor corporate cultivators from other conglomerates smelling opportunity. Government liaisons like a reluctantly-suited Zhang Wei, there for damage control. A smattering of mortal billionaires and celebrities, utterly clueless but drawn to the glamour and the promise of ‘the next big thing.’
And what of the black robes? she wondered. Would their puritanical crusade extend to crashing a tech gala? It was unlikely. Their doctrine seemed based on isolation and targeted strikes. They would never lower themselves to mingle with the ‘vermin’ at a cocktail party. Their absence would be a relief, but also a confirmation of their narrow focus.
And then, there was the possibility of the truly unexpected. Old spirits, like the pawnshop fox from Hong Kong, drawn out of retirement by the shifting tides. Or perhaps even, representatives from the Celestial Court itself, sent to quietly assess this new, corporate-powered ‘synergy.’
Everyone would be wearing a mask, some literal, most metaphorical. They would all be there to get something be it power, money, influence, or simply a glimpse of the new world order.
Su Yao’s fingers brushed against the smartphone in her pocket as she finalized her mental preparations. A nagging detail, small but persistent, tugged at her awareness. She pulled the device out. The screen glowed brightly, displaying the same invitation, but her gaze shifted to the battery indicator in the corner.
100%
It had been fully charged when the man gave it to her. Hours had passed in her pocket, and the screen had lit up more than once, yet the charge remained unchanged.
It hasn’t decreased at all, she observed. Her analytical mind immediately seized on the anomaly. The device showed no sign of entropy.
That changed everything. This was a subtle, confident display of power. Tezca had overcome one of the basic limits of modern technology and created a perpetual energy source built into a device small enough to hold in one hand.
If they could do this for a smartphone, what else could they power? Their towers? Their weapons? The implications were suddenly far more significant than catgirls and corporate galas.
A slow, appreciative smile touched her lips. Alright, Alan Mask. You have my attention. The Aesthetes might have bizarre end goals, but their means were clearly cutting-edge. This changed them from a nuisance to a potentially significant power bloc, a dangerously unpredictable one.
Or, Su Yao thought. The cynical part of her mind instantly provided a far more likely explanation. Maybe the battery level indicator is just faulty and it doesn’t show the correct one.
A memory surfaced, crisp and annoyingly mundane: Xiao Ling’s old laptop, a piece of junk that would boldly claim a 100% charge right up until the moment it plunged into the dark abyss of 0% and shut off mid-streaming drama.
Mortal technology was, in her extensive experience, fundamentally unreliable. It was built on a foundation of planned obsolescence and fragile components.
This was probably some software glitch. A bug in the operating system of this pre-release prototype was causing the battery icon to stick, giving a false impression of infinite power. It would be just like a mortal corporation to hand out a glamorous, broken toy to impress people.
The appreciative smile she’d worn a moment earlier flattened into a line of mild irritation. She had almost been impressed. For a second, she’d entertained the idea of a genuine technological marvel. But reality, especially modern reality, had a way of being disappointingly shoddy.
Still, even a faulty indicator on a prototype told her that Tezca was either sloppy with their quality control or they were creating an illusion of perfection. Both were useful things to know.
She shrugged. It was a minute movement of her shoulders under the sleek black jumpsuit. The mystery of the battery would be solved soon enough. Either the phone would die at an inopportune moment, revealing the truth, or someone at the gala would boast about their ‘groundbreaking power cell technology.’
Either way, Su Yao thought, a genuine, predatory thrill cutting through her usual boredom, it’s going to be fun.
The anticipation was a novel sensation. For the first time in a long while, she was facing down a social event. It was a den of preening mortals and ambitious supernaturals, all convinced of their own importance and offering an abundance of potential targets.
New people to meet, she mused. Her smile sharpened. New people to punch.
She would listen to their stories, their pitches, their petty dreams and grandiose plans. Based on the sheer, breathtaking quality of their stupidity or arrogance, she would then decide whether to feel a flicker of pity or a surge of satisfaction before her fist connected with their face.
Su Yao looked out the window at the city, which now seemed to be counting down the hours with her. Saturday couldn’t come fast enough. It felt like waiting for a particularly interesting meal to be served. She was hungry.
The black jumpsuit felt like a uniform for the hunt. She was going to a party where she was the main event, whether anyone else knew it or not.
All she had to do was wait. Su Yao was very, very good at waiting. The patience of a fox was legendary. But even a fox enjoyed the pounce.
Su Yao’s phone buzzed. The screen flashed with Wong Lei’s name. She answered with a curt, “What?”
“Just, making a final check,” Wong Lei’s voice was a mixture of hope and desperation. “You’re really, really not coming to the high school reunion, are you?”
“Of course I’m not,” Su Yao replied. Her gaze drifted to the black jumpsuit laid out on her bed. “And now I have a valid, documented reason not to attend. I have been formally invited to the Tezca Company Annual Gala.” She infused the corporate name with a withering dryness.
There was a long, skeptical silence on the other end. “Is that just another one of your made-up excuses? Like that time you said you had to ‘realign the city’s spiritual meridians’?”
Su Yao’s eyebrow twitched. “Does it matter?” she asked. Her voice was flat and final. “The outcome is the same. I will not be there to witness the collective nostalgia for the most mundane period of my existence. Instead, I will be elsewhere, occupied with more consequential affairs.”
“But everyone will be there! Zhang Wei is going! Even Mei said she might stop by!”
“Then I wish you all the joy of comparing your respective declines into mediocrity,” Su Yao said. “My Saturday evening is booked. The guest list is more stimulating.”
Before Wong Lei could launch another plea, Su Yao ended the call. She looked from the phone to the jumpsuit. A high school reunion, with its cheap decorations and forced small talk, or a gala hosted by a tech-obsessed occult multinational where she might get to punch a billionaire?
At least the snakes at the gala would be interesting. The reunion was just a pit of sentimental worms. She had better stories to collect and better faces to rearrange.
Su Yao tossed the smartphone onto a side table. She eyed the black jumpsuit one last time. The anticipation was a low hum in her veins. Even a nine-tailed fox recognized the practical need to pass the time. She found Nohime in the kitchen, methodically arranging a plate of perfectly sliced fruit with an artist’s precision.
“Nohime,” Su Yao stated. Her voice cut through the quiet. “Don’t disturb me until it’s Saturday. Wake me then.”
Nohime paused. A sliver of pear was poised between her delicate, frost-touched fingers. She gave a single, slow nod. Her calm eyes acknowledged the command. “As you wish. Shall I prepare anything else for your appointment?”
“Just make sure the plants are watered,” Su Yao replied, already turning toward her room. “And that no one sets the building on fire. You know, the usual.”
With that, she retired. The mechanisms of her ancient consciousness wound down into a state of suspended alertness. For a being of her age, two days were less than a blink. It was a simple matter of folding time, letting the irrelevant hours slip past like water around a stone.
Su Yao’s suspended consciousness was awakened by the sharp, invasive sting of a blade attempting to pierce her throat.
Her eyes snapped open. A figure in drab black robes was leaning over her bed. A slender, needle-like dagger was pressed against her skin. The metal glowed with the familiar, acidic energy designed to unmade a fox spirit’s essence.
The black robe’s eyes, visible above a wrapped scarf, widened in shock as the blade failed to even break the skin. He pushed harder. The dagger bent against what felt like mundane human flesh.
He must have snuck in when Nohime was buying groceries, Su Yao deduced with icy clarity. One of them survived the gumiho and tracked me here. And he is now discovering that his anti-fox weapon is useless.
Of course it is, she thought. A wave of contemptuous understanding washed over her. This body is human. His tools are designed to attack a spiritual construct, a celestial biology. He’s trying to use a metaphysical scalpel on a brick wall.
The black robe, realizing his failure, tried to leap back. His movements were fluid and silent.
He was fast. But Su Yao was already moving.
Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist before he could retreat. She felt the bones grind together under her grip.
Trying to twist away, he gasped. His other hand formed a seal to summon some other technique. Su Yao yanked him forward off-balance and drove her knee into his diaphragm.
The air left his lungs in a pained whoosh. The forming seal dissipated. He was well-trained, but his entire discipline was built around fighting spirits.
Pathetic, Su Yao thought, holding the choking, wheezing man by his broken wrist. He was like a master fencer who had suddenly been disarmed and thrown into a gutter fight. All his elegant, specialized training was useless.
She looked at his panicked, confused eyes. “Your manual is outdated,” she informed him. Her voice was a low, calm monotone in the dark room. “You came to hunt a fox but you found a girl.”
Then she slammed his head against the wall. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
She stared at the heap of grey cloth. Her sleep was thoroughly ruined. So much for waiting until Saturday. It seemed the black robes were determined to provide some entertainment ahead of schedule. How considerate. And utterly, predictably, incompetent.
Su Yao stared at the unconscious heap of grey cloth on her floor. The initial flare of predatory satisfaction had cooled into something more akin to weary irritation. What to do with him?
Killing him was the obvious answer, but it would merely remove one soldier from what was clearly a decentralized network. It would make a mess Nohime would disapprove of.
Her phone was in her hand a moment later. She dialed Zhang Wei.
“I have a delivery for your rehabilitation program,” she said. “One black robe, slightly used. He attempted to assassinate me in my sleep. His weapons are ineffective against this body. He is alive and will be conscious soon.”
There was a sputter on the other end. “He what? How did he—?”
“Logistics are your department,” she cut him off. “Send a retrieval team. I’m leaving him outside my door. If they aren’t here in five minutes, I will reconsider the ‘rehabilitation’ aspect and opt for ‘recycling.’”
She ended the call, grabbed the black robe by the collar, and dragged him out of her apartment, depositing him unceremoniously in the hallway. She felt no particular malice toward the individual. He was a tool, a faulty one.
Back inside, she leaned against the closed door. Her mind turned over the encounter. Did they indoctrinate him young?
The sheer, single-minded focus, the blind adherence to a doctrine that had just proven fatally flawed against a simple, physical defense, it spoke of a mind shaped from childhood, stripped of flexibility. It was a blank slate written over with fanatical scripture.
The more I think of them, the more they resemble a terrorist group, she mused. The comparison fit with cold precision.
A cell-based, ideologically-driven network dedicated to the systematic eradication of a perceived ‘other.’ They used fear, targeted strikes, and relied on the unwavering conviction of their members. Their ‘un-making’ blades were just a more literal version of the radicalization that stripped away a person’s individual will.
A government black site was the perfect place for him. Let their psychologists and de-programmers try to unpick the knots in his mind. Either they’d learn something useful about the black robes’ structure, or he’d just stare at a wall and chant until he died. It was no longer her problem.
She walked back to her bedroom. A new layer of contempt now tinged the faint anticipation for the gala. The black robes were a nuisance. Alan Mask’s corporate circus, for all its absurdity, at least required a modicum of intelligence.