The morning after was quiet. Too quiet.
Mist rolled over the bamboo grove like a pale shroud, softening the outlines of the sect's proud white walls. Beneath that silence, Li Qiong sat by the window, his scroll untouched. His eyes followed the drifting clouds, but his mind wandered elsewhere—toward the filth he had seen crawl under the walls.
Over the next few days, he watched.
Wen Yu'an walked through the sect with an easy smile—robes clean, voice polite, bowing before elders, praising seniors. A model Errand boy.
Yet Li Qiong's gaze saw deeper, past the flesh.
He saw the way Wen Yu'an's hands trembled when he poured tea for the elders. The faint twitch in his jaw when Min He's name was spoken. The gleam of envy behind his smiles.
"He hides his venom behind courtesy," Li Qiong thought, "like a snake coiled beneath incense smoke."
Through the inner courtyard's murmurs and the capital's gossip, he pieced the truth.
Wen Yu'an's circle—sons of noble families, wayward cultivators, spoiled disciples—moved like parasites through the city.
They abused their authority under the Soaring Crane's name: extorting merchants in the guise of investigation, "disciplining" disciples who refused their advances, taking others wives and daughters forcibly using sect name as if they were entitled tributes.
Their laughter echoed through gambling halls and brothels while the sect's banners fell below, muddy and dirty.
Li Qiong followed them quietly.
Through the rain-drenched alleys.
Through the laughter of courtesans and the clatter of dice.
At the Spring Pavilion, the truth smelled like stink beneath perfume.
Behind red curtains and golden lanterns, the air reeked of lust and spirit wine. The Pavilion was the meeting ground of the capital's elite—where deals were made in silences, and oaths broken in laughter.
Wen Yu'an was there—pouring wine, bowing to the sons laughing too loud.
Just a dog at another man's table.
Upstairs, Li Qiong's gaze lifted to the second floor, where the real power sat.
Sect Mistress Yue Xiang's son, the famed young master—a man of jade features and a serpent's heart.
Yu Han
They said he was born with heavenly talent and charming soul. But they forgot to mention his taste for hearts—literally.
"The world calls him gifted, But what gift lies in feeding on the living?"
The courtesans trembled at his approach. None of them returned to daylight. Rumor said he practiced a forbidden technique, one that required human essence to temper the soul.
And Wen Yu'an?
He fetched wine and and women from the streets unsullied one to Yu Han, He bowed behind the screen.
smiled while others screamed behind the screens.
"A loyal dog dreams of being a wolf," Li Qiong mused. "But a dog remains a dog, no matter whose leash he bites."
From that night, Li Qiong's decision hardened.
He now knew Wen Yu'an's title as Hidden Heir was a farce. A pawn raised by hands that wanted chaos within the world—hands that reached higher than anyone dared whisper.
Each step Wen Yu'an took toward glory was a step into a grave already dug.
At dawn, the Pavilion's lights went out one by one.
Li Qiong remained in the shadows, his eyes reflecting the dying glow of lanterns.
Rain fell in silver threads, stitching the night together with quiet cruelty.
Li Qiong moved through the lower streets of the capital with his aura muted, his presence erased. The lanterns above the gambling dens burned like swollen eyes, and the scent of wine and smoke clung to every wall.
He had followed Wen Yu'an for three nights.
Three nights of laughter and gold, of silken robes dragging through filth.
Three nights of silence as the Soaring Crane's banners were used to threaten, to extort, to hide the stench of human misery.
From a shadowed rooftop he watched.
Wen Yu'an swaggered through the marketplace, flanked by the same smiling dogs who wore the sect's crest. They entered shops and walked out without paying. They seized caravans "for inspection" and sold the cargo hours later.
No guard stopped them. No constable dared to speak.
"Authority is a sharper blade than any sword. And they wield it like children playing war."
Behind the gambling house, he saw worse. Families pressed to the ground, faces streaked with tears as ledgers were signed in blood. A mother offered the last of her coin for her son's freedom; Wen Yu'an's men laughed and took both.
Carriages rattled away, their curtains drawn tight. None of those taken were ever seen again.
He followed the trail to the Spring Pavilion, where red silk hide sin and power traded smiles. The laughter inside was brittle—too loud, too hollow. Music drifted through the air, but beneath it he heard the weeping of those forced to serve.
Wen Yu'an reclined among the cushions, jade cup in hand, eyes glazed with wine and cruelty. Around him sat heirs of noble houses, envoys of rival sects, and merchants whose ledgers bled more than their victims.
They toasted each other, boasting of who they had took by force, who they had bought as toys.
Human life was currency; dignity a cheap word.
"To strike now," he thought, "is to kill a few snakes. To wait is to burn the nest."
He slipped through the upper hallways, silent as dust. Behind one lacquered door he found the ledgers: names, prices, shipments. Slaves moved through hidden routes marked with the Soaring Crane's own seal.
Each page was Evidence.
In another room he saw them counting spirit stones taken from "investigations," laughing over the cries echoing from below. Wen Yu'an's voice rose above them all—boastful, shrill, unrestrained.
He slipped away before dawn, his robes untouched by the revelry's stain, but the night clung to him like mist. Beneath the pale sky he paused, watching the city stir awake. Merchants opened their stalls, beggars swept the steps, life continued as if the Evil did not exist.
"They live under banners painted with virtue," he said softly. "But under the silk hides maggots."
Back in his quarters, he unrolled a fresh scroll.
When the ink dried, he sealed the scroll and placed it beside him. Outside, the bells of the Soaring Crane Sect tolled the hour of prayer. The sound was pure, untouched by sin. But Li Qiong heard only chains clattering behind it.
And the rain kept falling, washing nothing clean.