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Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: The Serpent’s Smile in Azure

Azure Peak City sprawled like a living colossus of stone and spirit, filling the valley and crawling partway up the surrounding ridges. Its ramparts, carved from local granite streaked with veins of blue quartz, caught the afternoon light and gave the city its name. The clean mountain air was replaced by an assault of competing aromas: hissing street grills, medicinal fumes, the metallic tang of spirit-forged steel, and the warm musk of countless people and beasts. Life thundered here — a loud, bristling counterpoint to the Abyss's silent consumption.

At the mouth of a busy avenue, Lin Tianyao stood as if he were a still, black pool in a torrent of bodies. He had traded the blood-sodden rags of the Abyss for a coarse, grey set of commoner's clothes bought from a traveling trader with the single low-grade spirit stone he'd taken from a long-dead skeleton. The fabric itched and hung oddly, but it suited the role he needed.

He flattened his aura, making it read like the uncertain wick of a newly lit first-stage Qi Condensation cultivator who had barely opened his Spirit Gates. He aimed to be forgettable — a dull presence that drew no notice. That cloak of mediocrity was itself an act of will.

So loud. So bright, he thought, sensations pricking at his skin like needles. The city's colors, the hawkers' cries, the blast of laughter — all of it felt obscene against his losses. Each smile might hide a traitor; every joyful sound grated against the silence that now lived in him.

"Steady, boy," Old Man Kui murmured in his head, an anchor in the sensory storm. "This is the first battlefield. Your enemies here are not spirits but attention and recklessness. Breathe. Watch. The city is a web — find the right thread."

Tianyao inhaled slowly and filtered the noise. He let his obsidian eyes dull deliberately and swept the crowd with the detached calculation of a predator. He catalogued the City Guard patrols — their armor marked by the city crest, a mountain crowned by a stylized sun — and the disciple uniforms: Verdant Sword's green-and-white, Profound Heaven's black-and-silver. Seeing the latter made hatred flare in his veins; he stifled the Violet Soul Flame from surging up his dantian.

Patience, he repeated in his mind. The serpent doesn't strike a cliff; it waits for the mouse to scurry out.

His immediate objective was simple: obtain information and a credible way into the cultivation world. The Verdant Sword Sect was the prime target, but he could not stroll into their recruitment tent. An orphaned boy with a pitiful cultivation level would be dismissed or scrutinized. He needed either a sponsor or a reason to be noticed.

He melted through the crowd with unremarkable steps, playing the part of a country bumpkin overwhelmed by city life. His senses stretched outward, catching fragments of conversation, parsing power balances, hunting for any opening.

"…the Alchemist Association will pay fifty spirit stones for ten fresh Shadowleaf Ferns!"

"…heard the Young Master of the Zhao Clan is in town — flush after their alliance with Profound Heaven."

"…Verdant Sword trials in three days. The competition's fierce this year…"

The mention of the Zhao Clan sent a chill through him. He forced his face to blankness while his inner voice snarled. Zhao Jian — son of Zhao Feng — in the city. The impulse to find the boy and crush him was a raw, physical ache, but it would be suicide: Zhao Jian would be protected by Foundation Establishment guards.

Revenge must be surgical, Old Man Kui had taught. The son is a piece on the board, not the king. Strike early, and you reveal your hand.

He wandered until he reached a quieter, threadbare quarter where buildings leaned together and the air smelled of mildew and cheap liquor: the Driftwood Sector, refuge for the desperate and invisible.

A battered noticeboard outside a teahouse held mostly labor ads and debt notices, but one yellowed scrap snagged his eye.

"Escort needed — herb-gathering to the Whispering Vale. Moderate danger. Combat-capable only. Reward: ten percent of harvest or twenty spirit stones. Inquire at the 'Fading Moon' tavern. Ask for Uncle Hei."

Whispering Vale sat on the outer slopes of Azure Mist Mountain — a place of abundant low-level spiritual herbs, but also prowled by Fanged Spirit Wolves and lesser demonic creatures. It was ideal: a proving ground where a first-stage cultivator might show usefulness without attracting undue scrutiny.

He pushed through the tavern's creaking door. Inside, the air was dark, smoky, and heavy with the scent of cheap wine and unwashed bodies. Rough-looking men and women — lower-stage Qi Condensation cultivators — sat at scarred tables, weapons close.

In a corner, an old man with a grizzled beard and a worn knife at his belt sat nursing a drink. His patched leather armor and fifth-stage Qi Condensation aura marked him: Uncle Hei.

Tianyao approached with a slouched posture and downcast gaze. "Elder… Uncle Hei? I saw your notice."

The old man's sharp eyes measured him head-to-toe, and disappointment creased his face. "Boy, can you even lift a sword? Whispering Vale isn't for children pretending to cultivate. Wolves'll make mince of you."

A few mercenaries snickered.

Tianyao expected that reaction. He needed to show just enough ineptitude to appear harmless while hinting at usefulness. He let embarrassment flush his cheeks in a practiced display.

"I…I'm quick, Elder," he stammered, adding a trembling lilt to his voice. "And I spot herbs well. I can sense danger from afar. I don't need much — just a chance."

He met Uncle Hei's gaze for a heartbeat, showing a desperation that was genuine in appearance, if not motive.

The old man scratched his beard. "Stubborn whelp. Fine. Dawn at the western gate. Be there. Slow us, and we leave you for the wolves. The pay's five spirit stones. Take it or leave it."

Tianyao bowed, gratitude on his face. "Thank you, Elder! I won't disappoint you!"

As he turned, a scarred mercenary muttered, "Why take dead weight, old man? He'll be a liability."

Uncle Hei grunted. "It's the boy's eyes. Not cowardly. Desperation sharpens some. If not, then the wolves eat for free."

Tianyao filed that away. Sharp, he thought. The old man reads more than he shows — a variable to keep under watch.

He spent the day mapping routes and buying supplies: a plain iron dagger, trail rations, a waterskin—funded by the last of his low-grade spirit stones to seal the pauper façade.

At dusk, he found an abandoned shed in the Driftwood Sector for shelter. Sitting cross-legged in dust and shadow, he closed his eyes and slipped into meditation.

He did not cultivate the Soul Flame here — ambient qi was too thin and too pure. Instead he practiced the mask: running a faint, ordinary current of qi through his meridians to mimic a weak orthodox practitioner. It was like forcing a giant to tiptoe: physically tiring and mentally exacting.

"You handled that well," Old Man Kui observed. "The desperate waif is convincing. Remember—the expedition is a stage. Perform enough to be remembered, not enough to be a tale."

I understand, Tianyao answered. I will be competent and unremarkable: a reliable pair of eyes and quick feet. That may earn me a recommendation when Verdant Sword holds trials.

He opened his eyes. For a heartbeat the violet sparks in his core flared before he smothered them. Through a crack in the shed's wall, he saw the main street lit by spirit-lanterns and a procession gliding by.

A lavish palanquin, borne by four strong carriers and flanked by four solid-aural guards — Foundation Establishment experts — passed beneath the lanterns. The curtains were drawn, but its emblem was unmistakable: a coiled silver serpent poised to strike.

The Zhao Clan.

Cold slid into heat through him. Breath snagged. The Soul Flame in his dantian thrashed, eager to break free. The hatred inside him pulsed; the instinct to act rose like bile.

Zhao Jian, he thought. It must be him.

A jeweled hand drew aside the curtain. The face that peered out was young, handsome, and bore the bored arrogance of someone who'd never known want. Zhao Jian. He had grown; his features were keener, and Tianyao could sense his cultivation — already at the eighth stage of Qi Condensation, nourished by privileges his clan stole.

Zhao Jian's eyes swept over the crowd with disdain, and for a single terrifying instant they seemed to pass near the abandoned shed. They did not linger. The boy was just another shadow in the scenery.

He laughed at a guard's remark — a careless, light sound that cut Tianyao deeper than any blade. The curtain closed, and the procession turned toward the city's affluent district.

Tianyao remained motionless in the shed, fists clenching until his nails bled. Copper blood filled the cramped air.

He watched until the palanquin faded. Restraint, not fear, made his body tremble. Zhao Jian's carefree smile burned into him, overlaying the scar of his father's corpse.

Logic asserted itself. Eighth-stage Qi Condensation and four Foundation guards — overconfidence wrapped in protection. Serpents sometimes move alone; they cannot always be coddled.

A new, immediate objective took root — a venomous bud sprouting from his long-term plan. Verdant Sword remained the endgame, but fate had left a tempting morsel nearby.

He would go on the expedition. He would earn a foothold. He would enter the Verdant Sword Sect.

But before that, he would address the debt owed by Zhao Feng — beginning with his son.

Zhao Jian, he vowed in the shed's hush, your father's debt comes first. You will not merely die; I will strip away everything that lets you smile. I will take your laughter and break it.

He closed his eyes not to sleep but to plot. The ember from the Abyss had stepped into the city — and its first, patient target had just paraded into its light.

The hunt had begun.

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