Zhao Xiaoliu's surveillance lasted three full days.
He clung to Jiang Muchen like a shadow—always three paces behind, never farther, never closer.
From the cracks of the Servants' Quarters…
to the corner walls of the Earthfire Yard…
to the dim cloisters behind the Scripture Hall…
those cold eyes followed him everywhere.
There was no killing intent in them—only calculation.
The way a butcher judges a carcass: *Where to cut for the cleanest slice?*
By the third evening, Jiang Muchen finally "caught" an opportunity.
On the way back from the Scripture Hall, he turned into a narrow dead-end alley.
At the end sat an abandoned woodshed—walls peeling, door half-rotted, the wind tugging a long, tired groan from its hinges.
The footsteps behind him halted.
Jiang Muchen didn't turn around.
He picked up a shard of roof tile, raised it toward the dying sun, watching the moss pattern on its surface.
Then he spoke, casually:
"Senior Zhao, you've tailed me for three days. Is it because Manager Li doesn't trust those five spirit stones… or is there something else?"
Silence.
Three breaths later, Zhao Xiaoliu's voice drifted in—cold and stripped clean of his usual fawning tone:
"Jiang Muchen… what *are* you?"
Jiang finally turned.
Zhao Xiaoliu stood at the mouth of the alley. His back was still hunched, his posture submissive—but his gaze was sharp as a needle. Metal glinted under his sleeve.
A sleeve-arrow launcher. Not a dagger.
"Servant disciple. Jiang Muchen," he replied with a shrug. "You knew that already, didn't you?"
"Servant disciple?" Zhao Xiaoliu let out a humorless laugh. "A mere servant can cozy up to Elder Huoyun in three days? Can make that crafty merchant Wang Duobao obey like a frightened pup? Can see through Lu Hanshan's cultivation flaws in one glance? And can—what was it?—'scare Money-Fatty numb with a few words'?"
He stepped forward. The metal edge under his sleeve caught the evening light.
"So tell me—who's behind you? Heavenly Sword Sect? Nether Ghost Palace? Or… did Senior Brother Xiao Chen send you?"
Xiao Chen.
The name hit Jiang Muchen like a brand of red-hot iron.
The Young Master of the Red Dust Pavilion. Future successor.
And in the grand outline of the world—one of the greatest villains in the mid-arc.
He already had spies buried this deep?
"Senior Brother Xiao Chen?" Jiang blinked as if genuinely confused. "Why would a man of his status waste attention on someone like me? Senior Zhao… aren't you overthinking this?"
"Overthinking?" Zhao stepped closer again. Now only two paces separated them.
"Three days ago, when you met Shen Xinghe, I was on the second floor of the tailor shop opposite Drunken Immortal Tower. He talked with you for half a stick of incense. Then he handed you a sword talisman—one from the Heavenly Sword Sect."
His voice sped up, sharpening:
"Xiao Chen's greatest fear is the Heavenly Sword Sect meddling in Red Dust Pavilion affairs. And a servant like you meets their exchange disciple *as an equal*? Tell me, Jiang Muchen—whose pawn are you?!"
He didn't wait for an answer.
Zhao Xiaoliu *moved*.
He didn't charge.
His right hand snapped forward—
*Three* streaks of black shot from his sleeve, splitting the air in a perfect triangle—sealing every path of retreat.
At the same moment, his left hand formed a seal.
A thin gray mist rolled out from his feet—*Silencing Barrier*, a spell that smothered sound.
He intended to kill.
Jiang's pupils tightened.
The darts were too fast—far too fast to dodge.
But he never planned on dodging.
The jade flute slid into his hand. He raised it—not to play, but to draw a crescent arc through the air.
*Clink. Clink. Clink—*
The three darts struck the flute and fell, hissing. The stone beneath them corroded instantly, eating three shallow pits into the ground.
Poisoned.
Zhao's expression twisted. *Why is this servant reacting like a trained killer—?!*
He readied another attack.
But Jiang spoke first, the flute resonating his voice with a strange vibration:
"Senior Zhao… the old wound under your left ribs—three inches down—still hurts when it rains, doesn't it?"
Zhao froze mid-motion.
"That wound wasn't from a beast," Jiang continued, lowering the flute.
"It was a sword wound. Sword-qi, cold as winter, seeped into your lung meridian. That's why your cultivation has stalled at the fourth layer for three years. Not because of poor talent—because you're afraid to circulate your qi fully… afraid the sword-qi will pierce your heart."
Zhao's breath turned coarse.
Fear flickered in his eyes.
No one knew about this injury.
Three years ago, on a covert mission for Xiao Chen, he'd been wounded by an unknown swordsman.
He hadn't told a soul—not even Xiao Chen.
How could a servant boy—
"I can heal it," Jiang said.
Three words.
And they hit Zhao harder than any punch.
"W-what did you say?"
"The remnant sword-qi in your lung is 'water-cold,' an incompatible element with your earth-and-fire roots," Jiang explained calmly—as if lecturing weather patterns. "To cure it, you'll need three months of pure yang fire to warm the meridians, followed by earth-qi to encapsulate the residue and drag it out with the natural ley-lines. Coincidentally…"
He paused.
"…the Forging Bones Ridge behind the Earthfire Yard gathers pure yang fire each noon. And yesterday, Elder Huoyun gifted me three Fire-Yang Pills. Perfect for guiding fire-qi without damaging the body."
Zhao stared. His trembling hand slipped slightly from his sleeve weapon.
The temptation was devastating.
For three years, the wound had gnawed at him—ruining sleep, crippling cultivation, chaining him as a disposable spy. Xiao Chen valued him *because* he was broken.
If he healed—he'd be the first to die.
But still—
to be whole again…
"What's the price?" Zhao rasped.
"Two questions." Jiang raised two fingers.
"First—what exactly does Senior Brother Xiao Chen want from watching me?
Second—what sword technique wounded you three years ago?"
Silence.
Cold wind scraped the alley walls.
Finally Zhao spoke.
"Xiao Chen suspects someone has been stirring up the lower disciples. Your sudden rise… your ties to the merchant guild… the Heavenly Sword Sect… he wants your background confirmed. As for the person who wounded me…"
Fear crept into his voice.
"He used the *Azure Nether Sword Art*. But the sword-qi was cold—wrong. Not like the orthodox Azure Nether School."
Azure Nether?
With cold sword-qi?
Jiang's mind churned.
Something didn't match.
Unless… the technique was corrupted.
Or the swordsman was not Azure Nether at all.
"One last question," Jiang said, raising a third finger.
"Does Xiao Chen have dealings with the Nether Ghost Palace?"
Zhao recoiled. "You—"
"So he does." Jiang nodded. "Thank you, Senior Zhao."
He bent down, picked up the tile shard, scribbled several lines with a coal pencil, then handed it over.
"This is step one of your treatment. Go to the ridge at noon, sit facing the fire direction, and breathe for half an hour. Focus on the lung meridian—imagine warmth soaking through it.
If the pain lightens in three days… come to me for the next pill and the continuation method."
Zhao ran a thumb over the crude, uneven lines.
His eyes softened—conflicted.
What was Jiang?
Enemy?
Or… healer?
"Why help me?" he whispered.
"I'm not helping you." Jiang walked toward the alley's mouth.
"I'm helping 'the spy who must heal to keep serving Xiao Chen.'"
He stopped at the exit, turned slightly.
"Oh, and when you report back, tell the truth: Jiang Muchen has ambition, yes—but only for resources and connections. No threat to Senior Brother Xiao Chen. Possibly… an asset."
Then he left, swallowed by the dusk.
Zhao stayed kneeling on the cold stone, fingers tightening around the tile until blood welled from his palm.
A soft sigh slipped from the shadows behind the abandoned woodshed.
A gray-clad figure emerged—face hidden behind a bronze ghost mask, a long, narrow blade at his waist.
Dried blood clung to the mouth of the scabbard.
"This boy cannot live," the ghost-masked man rasped.
Zhao dropped to one knee. "Elder!"
"He's too clever. Too skilled at winning hearts."
The elder examined the tile, scoffing.
"Today he sees your wound. Tomorrow he'll see deeper secrets. Xiao Chen's plan tolerates no such variables."
"But…" Zhao's voice cracked.
"He said he could heal me."
"If your wound heals, you die quicker." The elder's laugh was like rust scraping metal.
"Why do you think Xiao Chen keeps you? Because you're damaged. Stagnant. Predictable.
Heal—and you become a threat."
Zhao's face drained white.
"But report back honestly," the elder continued, fading into the dark.
"And add this: Jiang Muchen has ties to the Heavenly Sword Sect's Shen Xinghe, and seems involved in the Azure Nether Herb Valley matter. Recommend the Young Master… 'assist' him in entering the valley."
"Assist…?" Zhao echoed blankly.
"In the Azure Nether Valley," the elder's voice drifted back,
"a servant dying is nothing unusual… especially one torn apart by a nest of *Blue-Scaled Pythons*."
The shadow vanished.
Zhao knelt alone, blood dripping from his clenched fist.
---
Meanwhile, in the top floor suite of the Drunken Immortal Tower—
Jiang Muchen pushed a jade slip toward Shen Xinghe.
"Complete map of the Azure Nether Valley perimeter. Three safe routes. Seven resource nodes. And… the activity cycle of the Blue-Scaled Python colony."
Shen Xinghe scanned it. His eyes lit like forged steel.
"Excellent! Far clearer than the merchant guild's version. Especially this part—the pythons leave the nest every day at the third quarter of Si-hour for half an hour. This alone is worth a fortune!"
He set it down, gaze sharpening.
"Name your price."
"No spirit stones," Jiang said.
"I want three things."
"Go on."
"One pound of Geng-Gold Sword Sand from your sect.
A copy of the first three forms of your Basic Sword-Control Technique.
And…"
Jiang pointed at the scabbard on Shen's waist.
"…the scabbard of your Autumnwater Sword."
Shen blinked.
The first two—fine.
But the scabbard?
"What do you want it for?" he asked.
"To admire," Jiang answered without missing a beat, smile sincere.
"I've loved the sword since childhood. Never had the talent.
Autumnwater is a famed blade—its scabbard is surely extraordinary.
Let me study it. Maybe I can taste the dream I never reached."
Shen studied him—then laughed, full-throated.
"You're a strange one. But fine—take it."
He drew the sword free, switched to a spare scabbard, and slid the empty one across the table.
Deep-sea silverwood. Cool to the touch. Water-like grain.
"Thank you, Senior Shen." Jiang accepted it with a bow.
"And… when the valley opens in three days, I may enter as well.
If trouble finds me… I hope the Heavenly Sword Sect will extend a little courtesy."
"Of course," Shen said immediately.
"You've cooperated earnestly. Show them the sword talisman I gave you—our disciples will assist."
After a little more discussion, Jiang left the tower.
Night had fully settled.
The jade flute at his chest was warm; the Autumnwater scabbard in his hand, cool.
In a dark side alley, he raised the scabbard to the moonlight—examining the inner rim.
There—
a faint, nearly invisible smear of dried red—
blood soaked deep into the grain.
He touched it with his fingertip.
Circulated his *Ten-Thousand Spirits Resonance Art*.
Instantly, he *felt* it—
Not an image.
An echo.
A shard of emotion: terror, despair—
and a sword-intent colder than the deepest abyss.
The same source as the one festering in Zhao Xiaoliu's lungs.
"So that's how it is…"
Jiang lowered the scabbard, gazing at the dark sky.
Clouds gathered from the northwest.
Storm-heavy.
And in his hand, he now held the first piece—
a blade-less scabbard—
capable of stirring that storm.
*A man's greatest weakness isn't the wound he hides…
but the fear of being healed.
True power is holding both the poison—and the cure—in the same hand.*
---