Li Qiong quietly walked through the silent corridors of Soaring Crane Sect.
Night had fallen long ago, yet the inner courtyard remained faintly illuminated by hanging spirit lamps. The air was still, the faint rustle of bamboo leaves breaking the silence from time to time.
He stopped before a stone pavilion and observed the moon's reflection rippling in the pond below. Since his arrival, the sect had returned to calm on the surface.
But Li Qiong knew well—calm water often hid deep currents.
Wen Yu'an's behavior in recent days had only confirmed his suspicion.
On the outside, Wen Yu'an appeared modest and unassuming, a harmless errand boy who greeted every elder and disciple with a bow and a smile. Yet the more Li Qiong observed, the clearer the cracks became.
He saw the way Wen Yu'an's gaze followed Min He—first with feigned admiration, then with something darker.
He saw how he treated the weaker disciples—his tone sharp, his hand heavy.
And when facing the strong, his voice turned soft, his eyes full of flattery, crawling like a worm under their feet.
Li Qiong's intuition told him something was off.
This kind of person, full of greed and envy, could never hide their nature for long.
Late that evening, Li Qiong noticed Wen Yu'an enter the outer courtyard. He followed silently from the shadows, his steps almost inaudible on the gravel path.
At the back of the storage hall, Li Qiong finally saw it—the truth he had already guessed.
A young orphaned disciple, trembling, stood before Wen Yu'an. Her father had perished in a recent patrol. She bowed repeatedly, begging for mercy, but Wen Yu'an's smile remained unchanged.
"Don't be afraid," he said softly, reaching out as though to comfort her. "I only wish to help you."
Then, with the authority granted by the sect's crest hanging at his waist, he forced her to comply.
His voice carried Min He's name as a shield.
"Would the Soaring Crane Sect punish its own Young Miss's people?"
Li Qiong's fingers clenched slightly at his side. He said nothing, but the air around him seemed to grow colder.
Later that night, Wen Yu'an acted as if nothing had happened. He laughed, drank, and boasted quietly to a group of outer disciples who dared not refuse him.
Li Qiong, sitting at the window of his quarters, continued to observe from afar.
Was this truly the man who once cast me into the cursed lands? he wondered. No... this one is too small, too petty. He must have been controlled once. Or perhaps—used by another hand entirely.
The following night, Li Qiong confirmed it.
Wen Yu'an left the sect grounds quietly, heading toward the southern ravine where outer-supply caravans used to stop.
There, three cultivators cloaked in dark robes awaited him.
They conversed briefly, their tone hurried, their eyes shifting nervously.
Li Qiong stood on a nearby roof, silent, the moonlight drawing his figure faintly against the tiles.
When the meeting ended, he made his move.
There was no noise—only the faint distortion of air, followed by the sound of a body collapsing.
The Jiangshi moved like a ghost in the dark, its pale hand flickering between the shadows.
Moments later, only one man remained alive among the group.
Li Qiong approached him quietly, eyes calm, voice steady.
"Who gave you orders?"
The man said nothing. His breathing quickened, his eyes darted wildly.
Then, from the darkness, the Jiangshi's cold hand rested on his shoulder.
The silence was soon broken by the echo of a single scream—long, hoarse, and quickly smothered by the wind.
By dawn, nothing remained except a few drops of blood and the faint scent of iron carried across the bamboo grove.
Li Qiong returned to his room before the first light touched the horizon. He sat by the window, opened his scroll again, and read quietly as if nothing had happened.
Yet his mind was no longer still.
He had seen the truth—there were hands moving behind Wen Yu'an, unseen yet deliberate.
Soon, the sect would crown Wen Yu'an with new authority.
And when that day came, Li Qiong knew, the blood on tonight's wind would not be the last.