On the seventh night, the dried blood on the Autumnwater scabbard… came alive.
At the third watch of midnight, the shadow behind the chores courtyard clotted like ink that refused to dissolve.
Jiang Muchen sat cross-legged within it, both hands holding the deep-sea silverwood scabbard, the jade flute resting across his knees. The flute was faintly warm, pushing back against the cold leaking from the scabbard—fire and ice wrestling in absolute silence.
The *Ten Thousand Spirits Resonance Art* sank into the wood grain like invisible tendrils probing deeper and deeper.
At first it was fragments—shreds of fear, flashes of pain, a cold so real it scraped bone.
But as his awareness sank further, the fragments fused, aligned, and formed an image—like a faded painting slowly re-inked by an unseen hand.
And then he **saw**.
A night drowning in rain—rain so heavy it looked like heaven's river had burst open. The bluestone street shone cold under the storm. Black walls rose on either side, stone beasts crouching on their eaves, their snarling outlines revealed only when lightning tore the sky apart.
A swordsman in blue staggered through the deluge.
A gash split across his chest clear to the bone. Rainwater mixed with blood trailing behind him, leaving a winding red line on the stone. One hand pressed his wound, the other clutched a broken sword—Autumnwater, except the blade was snapped in half.
The broken edge gleamed coldly, reflecting the ghost-pale desperation on his face.
The pursuers behind him were silent as phantoms.
Their leader wore a bronze ghost mask. From the mask's eyeholes, cold light flickered like snake eyes. A thin blade hung at his waist, still sheathed—yet every step he took chilled the air another degree.
Sword-qi seeped from him like toxin; raindrops froze into ice pellets within three feet of his body.
The blue-clad swordsman stumbled into a dead end, back against a freezing wall. Blood bubbled from his mouth as he raised his broken sword.
The trembling tip—was it his hand shaking… or was the sword itself screaming?
The ghost-masked man halted ten paces away and lifted a finger.
No light. No sound.
But the swordsman convulsed violently. He looked down—
A blood hole had opened in his left ribs out of thin air. Small, but deep. A shard of icy sword-qi burrowed into his lung meridian, gnawing and tearing like a living serpent crawling through his body.
"Qingming… Sword Sect… will not…"
The swordsman rasped his last words, then collapsed, eyes wide, reflecting the lightning's corpse-white glare.
The ghost-masked man knelt beside the body. He picked up the scabbard—the very one in Jiang's hands now.
He smeared a fingertip across the dead man's chest wound, scooping up blood that had not yet cooled, and traced it inside the scabbard's mouth.
The blood seeped into the grain, spreading like something alive.
"With this as the anchor… let all inheritors of this sword be cursed."
His voice was rough, like sandpaper dragged across bone.
"Within three years, any who touch this sword or train in the Qingming Sword Arts… will be devoured by its backlash. A curse that clings like bone maggots—tormenting day and night."
The vision cut off.
Jiang Muchen's eyes snapped open. Cold sweat soaked his back. He gasped like a drowning man hauled to shore.
Not a grudge.
A curse.
This scabbard was cursed—and anyone who touched it would eventually succumb.
Did Shen Xinghe give it to him by accident… or on purpose?
No. Something was off.
He forced himself calm and replayed details.
The ghost-masked man said: **"Anyone who touches this sword *and* practices Qingming Sword Arts."**
Jiang didn't practice Qingming swordsmanship—he shouldn't trigger the curse.
Zhao Xiaoliu, however, had already been struck by the same icy sword-qi three years ago—his body already carried the curse's seed.
And Shen Xinghe? As a Tianjian Sect disciple, he used Tianjian sword arts—unrelated to Qingming. No wonder three years passed without incident.
But why target Qingming Sword Sect disciples at all?
A thread clicked into place.
Wang Duobao's intel:
The Ghost Palace Lord of the Netherghost Hall was gravely wounded and needed the Nine-Turn Soul-Restoring Pill.
Its main ingredient—Reviving Grass—grew only in the Qingming Medicine Valley.
Qingming Medicine Valley… Qingming Sword Sect…
Pieces aligned.
Netherghost Hall wanted exclusive control of the Reviving Grass, so they ambushed Qingming disciples three years ago—and used the scabbard as a curse medium to secretly wipe out an entire generation of Qingming sword talents.
Now the scabbard was in his hands.
Jiang looked at the faint red stain at the scabbard's mouth.
Under moonlight, it resembled a sleeping eye—ready to open at any moment.
He smiled faintly.
*Interesting.*
---
## **The eighth morning, Zhao Xiaoliu arrived.**
He looked better—less pale, less agonized—but his eyes held a feral tension, like a wolf forced too close to a fire: drawn to the warmth, terrified of the flame.
"Junior Brother Jiang… the breathing method you taught… it works."
His voice was scratchy, the kind that tasted like ash.
"The pain has lessened… about forty percent."
"Good."
Jiang took out a small jade vial and shook out a fire-red pill—glowing warm even in daylight.
"Starting today, take one Fire-Sun Pill every three days. After taking it, come soak in the Bone-Tempering Stone.
Focus your mind in the dantian, picture the pill melting into warmth, and use it to *pull* the cold sword-qi from your lung meridian toward the surface.
Once it reaches the skin, the ground-fire can burn it off."
Zhao Xiaoliu took the pill with trembling fingers.
He could feel the dense fire essence inside it.
It was hope—something he hadn't felt in a long time.
But he also remembered what the Ghost-mask Elder once told him:
*"If that wound heals… your life won't last much longer."*
"Junior Brother Jiang, I…"
He hesitated.
"Senior Brother Zhao," Jiang said without turning, eyes on the smoking vents of the ground-fire courtyard,
"is this about Senior Brother Xiao Chen… or did the Ghost-mask Elder speak to you again?"
Zhao froze.
How… how did he know about the Ghost-mask Elder?!
"Relax," Jiang said calmly, as if discussing the weather.
"If I can diagnose your injury, of course I can tell who inflicted it. The sword-qi carries ghostly taint. It can only be from Netherghost Hall's *Soul-Devouring Sword Arts*, right?"
He finally turned, his gaze sharp as scalpels:
"Three years ago—the one who slaughtered the Qingming Sword Sect disciples and gave you that wound—was the Ghost-mask Elder, wasn't it? And Senior Brother Xiao Chen… began cooperating with Netherghost Hall from that night onward?"
Zhao's face went corpse-white.
He staggered back, hand flying to the dagger at his waist.
"That expression tells me everything," Jiang said with a faint, cold smile.
"But don't worry. I'm not planning to expose you."
His tone softened into something unnervingly gentle.
"In fact, I want to make a deal with you."
"…What kind of deal?" Zhao rasped.
"You keep doing your job.
Spy for Xiao Chen.
Obey the Ghost-mask Elder."
Jiang stepped closer—each step tightening Zhao's breathing.
"But every time you report something about me—my treatment of you, my deals with Tianjian Sect, my plan to enter the Qingming Medicine Valley—
you tell me first."
He lowered his voice:
"And in return? I'll cure you. Completely.
And… I'll help you break into Qi-Refining Fifth Layer."
Zhao's pupils shrank.
Qi-Refining Fifth Layer.
A bottleneck that had imprisoned him for three years.
And with Fire-Sun Pills, ground-fire treatment, and Jiang's near-inhuman precision…
It was actually possible.
"You… want me to be a double agent?"
"No," Jiang said softly.
"I want you to *live long enough, and climb high enough* to stop being someone else's expendable pawn.
Xiao Chen needs a spy—I'll give him one.
The Ghost-mask Elder needs a pawn—I'll give him one too.
And you… just need to decide who truly gives you a future."
The words hit Zhao like a hammer.
Because he already knew the truth—
To Xiao Chen and the Ghost-mask Elder, he was trash.
replaceable trash.
But now…
"How do I trust you?" he whispered.
"You don't need to trust me."
Jiang took out the Autumnwater scabbard and held it in front of him.
"You just need to trust *this*."
The moment Zhao saw it, he froze.
He knew this scabbard.
Three years ago, after the Qingming disciple died, the Ghost-mask Elder had tossed it to one of his underlings—Zhao himself.
That man later died on another mission, and the scabbard vanished—Zhao was punished for it.
"How… how do you have this?!"
"Shen Xinghe of Tianjian Sect gave it to me," Jiang said simply.
"But feel its aura. Carefully."
Zhao placed trembling fingers on the wood—
And immediately, the icy sword-qi buried in his lungs responded.
The familiar stabbing agony surged up—
But he also sensed something else:
The scabbard held the same sword-qi as his wound… but purer, darker… almost *alive*.
"This is…"
"The medium of the Blood-curse Soul-Hunt," Jiang said.
"If you've touched this scabbard and carry the residue of the sword-qi… the curse marks you.
The Ghost-mask Elder never cared about healing you.
Because cursed or healed—you were always meant to die."
Zhao collapsed to the ground.
So that was it.
So that was it…
Of course the Ghost-mask Elder never spoke of treatment.
Of course Xiao Chen always sent him on suicide missions.
They had decided his fate long ago.
"Now you understand," Jiang said, looking down at him like a physician watching a patient finally accept their diagnosis.
"I'm the only one who can save you.
Because I'm the only one who can undo this curse—
and the only one who needs you alive."
Zhao lifted his bloodshot eyes.
Then, slowly… they hardened with desperate resolve.
"What do you want me to do?"
"First," Jiang said,
"keep acting. Report what they want you to report.
Second—find out which Netherghost Hall members will be entering the Qingming Medicine Valley. Names, cultivation, techniques, equipment. Everything.
And third…"
Jiang's eyes narrowed.
"I'm guessing the Ghost-mask Elder ordered you to 'assist' me inside the Medicine Valley—that is, kill me.
You may follow that order.
But the time and place… will be decided by me."
Zhao nodded so forcefully it looked painful.
Jiang handed him a small cloth pouch with two more Fire-Sun Pills.
"This will last you the month.
Before the Medicine Valley opens, I'll give you the second stage of treatment."
Zhao clutched the pouch like a lifeline.
After he walked several steps, he suddenly turned back.
"Junior Brother Jiang… the Ghost-mask Elder is at mid Foundation Establishment, but fights like late-stage.
His *Soul-Devouring Sword Art* has one fatal flaw—
after using his full power, he has three breaths of unstable spirit and needs to devour a living soul to recover.
I heard him muttering it three years ago…"
He vanished into the morning fog.
Jiang remained standing.
Three breaths.
A perfect weakness.
A perfect grave.
"Three Breaths Death Trap…"
He smiled, turned, and walked toward the ground-fire courtyard.
---
## **Later that noon, Jiang resumed wiping the tiles outside the Scripture Hall.**
He knelt.
He wiped.
He listened.
"…did you hear? The Northern Ice Palace arrived early!"
"Next month was the planned visit, wasn't it?"
"They're here because of the Ice Mirage Secret Realm! There's been strange activity deep inside—possible signs of the *Frostglimmer Sword*! The new Ice Palace Saintess came in person—she's meeting the elders now!"
Ice Palace Saintess?
Murong Xueli.
Jiang paused.
In the long-term outline, she would appear in the second volume—he would help her resolve her clan dispute and gain the support of the northern houses.
He didn't expect her to enter the story this early.
The doors of the Scripture Hall opened.
A group of inner disciples escorted a white-clad girl.
Seventeen or eighteen.
Silver hair cascading like frost.
Eyes the pale blue of a frozen lake.
Her presence cooled the courtyard—the ground frosted and melted with each step she took.
Murong Xueli.
Her gaze swept across the courtyard—
and met Jiang Muchen.
Just a moment.
Her brows knit ever so slightly.
Her gaze lingered on him for half a heartbeat… then moved on.
But Jiang caught that flicker.
Not contempt.
Not curiosity.
Confusion.
A strange, unsettled familiarity.
Why?
He kept wiping tiles.
But his spiritual sense followed her like a silent spider thread.
And he heard a whisper slip through her thoughts:
"That servant boy… Why does his aura feel… like the 'Ten-Thousand-Year Ice Soul' from our ancestral glacier?"
Jiang stiffened subtly.
Ten-Thousand-Year Ice Soul?
That was the Ice Palace's ancestral treasure—Murong Xueli's bloodline source.
Why would he feel similar?
Then it struck him.
The **Jade Flute**.
Baigui's remnant soul had mentioned its ability to calm the mind and purify spiritual disturbances—
abilities similar to the Ice Soul's.
The aura overlap made sense.
And it was an opportunity.
A tremendous opportunity.
If she believed he carried something related to the Ice Soul…
then forming an alliance with her became ten times easier.
He finished the last tile and stood.
As he turned, he casually took out the jade flute—and polished it under the sunset.
Soft green light shimmered across the flute's surface, releasing a cool, serene aura—like the first breath of dawn in a mountain gorge.
At the far edge of the courtyard—
Murong Xueli stopped dead.
She spun, staring at the flute in Jiang's hands.
Emotion cracked through her frost-calm mask for the first time—
Shock.
Uncertainty.
And a hunger she fought desperately to hide.
Jiang calmly tucked the flute away and carried his bucket back toward the chores courtyard.
His shadow stretched long across the ground—quiet and unremarkable.
But he knew.
The bait had been cast.
Now all he had to do—
Was wait.
For the Ice Palace Saintess to come to him.
(*When you become someone's only cure—the sweetness you offer becomes irresistible.*)
---