Pale green mist drifted from the reed-choked waters of Lotus Lake County, winding quietly through the narrow stone streets of Lotus Lake City. Unlike Rivercloud City, with its towering cultivation markets and constant traffic of flying vessels, Lotus Lake City was quiet and damp. The brick walls of the small houses were covered in dark green moss, and the air carried the perpetual scent of rain, sodden earth, and the heavy, sweet fragrance of the lakeside lotuses. It was a territory of fishermen, boatmen, and low-level cultivators who spent their days gathering water-affinity herbs in the misty marshes.
In a remote corner of the city, tucked away in the residential district known as Willow Alley, stood a small, run-down courtyard. Its wooden gate had weathered into faded silver-grey wood, and in the corner of the small yard, a single withered willow tree drooped, its thin branches swaying slightly in the damp breeze.
Under the willow tree, sitting on a creaky bamboo chair, sat a youth.
He looked no older than fifteen, with a pale, thin face and a frame that seemed almost fragile. His right arm was wrapped in stiff wooden splints and bound tightly with grey linen bandages. His robes were made of cheap, coarse grey cotton, patched at the elbows and worn thin from washings. On the low wooden table before him rested a stack of yellowed paper, a stone ink-slab, and a simple writing brush.
He dipped the brush in the dark ink and slowly, methodically, copied characters onto the paper. His hand was steady, but his movements were slow, lacking the vibrant energy of youth.
Every few minutes, a dry cough shook his chest. Whenever he took a deep breath, a faint, hidden grimace would touch the corners of his eyes.
This youth was Fang Lin.
Internally, his body was a silent battlefield of healing. The memory of the canyon battle still carried a heavy, exhausting weight. When Heng Wuchen had burned his essence to unleash the Mount Sumeru Descending Strike, the massive golden peak had seemed to fill the entire sky, pressing down with a force that threatened to crush the very earth. Fang Lin had stalled its momentum with his Freeze of Ages domain and leaped upward, clashing head-on with his Mortal Will of Stillness. The impact had shattered the golden peak and the legacy bronze staff, but the backlash had been catastrophic.
His arm bones had shattered during the clash, while dozens of meridians had cracked under the backlash of the Mount Sumeru Descending Strike. Even after weeks of recovery, remnants of the temple's golden force still lingered within him. Any attempt to circulate Qi sent searing pain through his foundation.
Physical wounds were easier to endure than the exhaustion buried deep inside his mind. The constant tension of hiding, the spatial teleportation, and the sheer strain of survival had left him weary down to his soul. He had no allies here. Feng Jiu'er, Elder Feng, and his close friends from the Green Bamboo Sect were far away, likely believing he was dead or missing in the ruins. He was completely alone in a strange county, carrying the physical and mental toll of the clash.
Only the Dark Flame Spirit remained with him.
According to his calculations, even with the extraordinary self-healing properties of his Nine Nether Phantom Body working quietly in the dark, it would take at least three to four months of absolute rest to repair the physical foundation before he could safely cultivate Qi again.
But while his body was broken, his soul was untouched.
Within his spiritual sea, his Peak-Solid Soul stood firm and dark, its divine sense resting quietly like a deep, windless pool. And hidden deep within that pool, the Ancient Spatial Furnace floated in silence, housing the Dark Flame Spirit.
The gate to the courtyard creaked open with a soft groan.
An elderly woman carrying a small wicker basket stepped inside. Her face was lined with deep wrinkles, and her eyes carried the warm, simple kindness of a mortal who had spent her entire life in the alley. It was Auntie Mei, who ran a small vegetable stand near the mouth of the street.
"Ah, Lin Er," she said, her voice soft and full of concern as she walked over. "Still copying those old records? You should be resting. The doctor said your arm needs to stay still, and your chest is still weak."
Fang Lin set down the brush, offering a polite, slightly embarrassed smile. He bowed his head slightly, his demeanor humble and soft. "Auntie Mei. The arm does not hurt much when I write. The bookshop owner promised me three copper coins for every ten copied pages of the local annals. It is enough for cornmeal and rent."
Auntie Mei sighed, shaking her head as she set the basket on the wooden table. Inside were three warm, steamed buns made of coarse yellow flour, along with a small bowl of salted radishes.
"You poor child," she murmured, her hand gently brushing the sleeve of his uninjured arm. "To have your meridians shattered in a beast accident at such a young age... If your family were still here, they would weep. To think your cultivation was ruined so young, and must earn a living with a pen while others fly through the clouds."
"I am already fortunate to be alive, Auntie Mei," Fang Lin replied quietly, his eyes lowering. "Many who encounter those mountain beasts do not even leave a body behind. Copying scrolls is peaceful."
"You are a good boy, Lin Er," she said, her eyes softening. "Just do not push yourself. If you need water carried from the well, just call for my nephew. Do not try to lift the bucket with that splint."
"I will, Auntie Mei. Thank you."
As Auntie Mei left, the gate creaked open again. A burly, broad-shouldered man with soot-stained skin and grease on his leather apron stepped in, carrying a bundle of dry firewood. It was Uncle Zhang, the blacksmith whose smithy stood at the corner of the alley.
He dropped the wood by the hearth with a heavy clatter, wiping his brow. "Lin Er! I brought you some off-cuts from the forge wood. It burns hotter than the branches you gather. The autumn nights are getting damp, and a boy with broken meridians shouldn't freeze."
"Thank you, Uncle Zhang," Fang Lin said, rising slightly and bowing with genuine gratitude. "You are always too kind to me."
"Bah, it is nothing," Uncle Zhang waved a calloused, heavy hand. He looked at Fang Lin's pale face and sighed, his booming voice softening slightly. "If you ever get tired of copying those dry scrolls, come sit by my forge. It is warm, and I always need someone to polish the rusted files or scrape the scale off the scrap metal. I can pay you a copper or two. Better than sitting alone copying dusty records."
"I will keep that in mind, Uncle Zhang," Fang Lin replied with a gentle smile. "Once my arm heals a bit more, I would be glad to help."
"Good. Do not let yourself go hungry," the blacksmith grunted, giving a hearty nod before turning and leaving the yard, his heavy footsteps echoing in the alley.
Fang Lin picked up one of the warm buns Auntie Mei had left. He ate it slowly, savoring the simple, salty taste. To the mortal world of Willow Alley, he was Lin Er, a polite, pitiable orphan youth who had migrated from a northern county after a failed attempt at cultivation had left him crippled. He spoke softly, helped the neighbors when he could, and lived a completely mundane life. In a city where low-level cultivators were common, a crippled youth with zero spiritual waves and shattered meridians was completely invisible. He was just another drop of water in the lake.
Suddenly, a massive, silent wave of pressure swept down from the sky.
It was not a physical wind, but a vast, cold wave of divine sense. It came from high above the clouds, moving with cold, methodical precision that scanned every roof, every alley, and every well in the residential district. The pressure was heavy enough to make the birds in the willow tree stop chirping, their small bodies shivering in fear.
Fang Lin did not look up. He did not stop copying the historical record. His brush continued to move, tracing the stroke of a character with absolute precision. His breathing remained shallow and weak, his heart beating with the slow, steady rhythm of a normal, uncultivated youth.
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High above Lotus Lake City, three figures stood on a floating grey cloud.
The leader was a middle-aged man in the yellow robes of the Thousand Leaf Immortal Sect, his eyes sharp and his forehead creaked in deep frustration. Beside him stood a monk in coarse, golden-brown robes from the Demon Suppression Temple, his hands clasped together, a dark bronze tracking compass resting in his palm. The third was a junior patrol leader, sweating slightly under the pressure of the two senior experts.
The bronze tracking compass in the monk's hand was silent. The needle, which was designed to react to the unique karmic traces of the Mount Sumeru strike and the bloodline of Heng Wuchen, lay completely flat and still, pointing to nothing.
"Nothing," the monk said, his voice flat but carrying a trace of suppressed anger. "We have searched three counties along the eastern border already. Every time the compass senses a faint ripple, it vanishes the moment we cross the county line. There is no karma, no soul fluctuation, and no trace of his cold energy. It is as if the boy has dissolved into the air."
The Thousand Leaf Sect elder snorted, his sleeve fluttering in the wind. "Lotus Lake County is filled with natural mist and water-affinity formations. It is a rogue haven. If he had a spatial transfer token of high quality, he could have fled in any direction. And if he is dead, his body has likely been eaten by the lake beasts. Why does your Temple insist on searching every mortal city?"
"He killed Heng Wuchen," the monk replied, his eyes narrowing. "A legacy disciple of the Temple cannot die without an explanation. The Great Elder believes he had a master backing him. We must find him, dead or alive, to locate that master."
The monk closed his eyes, releasing another massive wave of divine sense that plunged down like a heavy net, sweeping through the alleyways of Willow Alley.
The scan washed over the small courtyard. It registered the rotten wood of the gate, the dry willow tree, the creaking bamboo chair, and the frail youth copying scrolls. The divine sense briefly swept across the youth, finding only the aura of a cripple whose meridians had long since collapsed, along with the slow heartbeat of an ordinary mortal. There was no trace of the Silent Mountain Sword's chilling intent, no trace of the Night Burial Sword's dark aura, and no spiritual fluctuation whatsoever.
To the divine sense of a Spirit Manifestation expert, the youth under the willow tree was nothing more than a blade of grass.
The scan passed by without a moment's pause.
High above, the monk open his eyes and shook his head. "The search here is futile. Let us head toward the Thousand-Autumn County. The rogue markets there are larger."
The cloud of grey light surged, disappearing into the distant mist within seconds, taking the heavy pressure with it.
-
Down in the courtyard, Fang Lin finished the last character of the page. He set the brush down, his expression completely unchanged. The masking of his aura and karma was absolute. Within his spiritual sea, the grey seed and the Ancient Spatial Furnace worked together to create a boundary of absolute silence. As long as he remained completely still and refrained from circulating Qi or soul power, even experts far stronger than today's search party would find little to suspect unless they examined him personally.
He rested his head back against the bamboo chair, closing his eyes. His breathing was heavy, and a wave of deep, mental weariness washed over him. The search patrols had passed, but the constant strain of keeping his soul suppressed and maintaining his disguise under the pressure of a Spirit Manifestation scan was exhausting.
"Hey you, Loud-Boy...." a lively, slightly petulant voice echoed in his mind. "Those bald heads were scanning again. They almost poked my furnace shell. They smell like burnt incense and copper."
Fang Lin smiled faintly in his thoughts, his mental voice carrying a tired sigh. "Let them scan. The more they search, the faster they will conclude that Shen Mo has fled to another continent or died of his wounds."
"But you are so weak right now," the Dark Flame Spirit grumbled, a tiny flame-shaped projection of a little girl flickering inside his spiritual sea. She crossed her arms, her head tilting back, her eyes looking at him with a mix of annoyance and worry. "You can't even carry a water bucket. You had to let the blacksmith carry the firewood for you. And you just sit there writing those silly paper lines. You look like a sick little bird."
"A sick chick is safe," Fang Lin replied mentally, his thoughts drifting. "Right now, my body cannot bear a single thread of Qi. The Mount Sumeru force cracked my foundation deeply. If I try to force my cultivation to recover too quickly, the meridians will collapse permanently. I must let them rest completely."
"Hmph," the spirit snorted, her flame flickering softly as she sat down in the recesses of the furnace. "Then rest. I will keep the furnace quiet. But you must promise to give me some tasty fire treasures once you can move again. This place is damp, and it makes my nose itch."
"I promise," Fang Lin said quietly.
He opened his eyes, looking up at the grey, rain-swept sky through the dry branches of the willow tree. The rain began to fall again, pattering softly against the leaves and the tiled roof of his small courtyard. It was cold and quiet, a silence that felt heavy after the earth-shattering storm of the canyon.
Fang Lin dipped the brush into the ink once more. Outside, the rain continued to fall over Willow Alley. Inside the quiet courtyard, the youth patiently copied another page of forgotten county history, allowing time—not Qi—to mend what battle had broken.
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