When Zheng Xiaoqi returned to the servant quarters, the sky was just turning the pale blue of dawn.
A gash ran across his left shoulder, skin torn and blood soaking half his coarse shirt, now darkened into a brownish scab. The lingering force of Lin Tianying's strike—sixth-stage Qi refinement—even grazing him had seared like a branding iron.
He didn't go to the apothecary. Visiting the apothecary meant registration, questioning, leaving traces. Instead, he went straight to Room 7, Hall C. The moment he pushed the door open, the pain in his shoulder made his vision blur.
Jiang Muchen was waiting.
No lights were lit. Dawn's first rays filtered through holes in the window paper, cutting pale, uneven shafts across the floor. Jiang Muchen sat on the wooden plank bed by the window, polishing the jade flute with a soft cloth. In the dim light, it gleamed like a fragment of spring water frozen in green warmth.
Hearing the door, Jiang Muchen glanced up, eyes catching the wound on Zheng Xiaoqi's shoulder. He said nothing, just lifted his chin.
"Sit."
Zheng Xiaoqi eased himself onto the opposite bed, moving slowly, careful not to reopen the wound. He pulled the small cloth bag from his chest and set it on the battered wooden table between them. Inside: thirty shards, the final payment, and the Frostbone Ointment from Murong Xueli, still warm in its jade bottle.
Jiang Muchen didn't touch the money. Instead, he picked up the vial, popped the cork, and sniffed.
"Good stuff from the Ice Palace. Three low-grade spirit stones a bottle." He set it down, eyes on Zheng Xiaoqi's feet. "Rub it on. Three days, new flesh grows."
Zheng Xiaoqi didn't move.
"How's the wound?" Jiang Muchen asked.
"Not fatal." His voice was hoarse. "The cargo made it. Wang Duobao received it at Ruanshi Beach, resold on the spot, pocketing fifty shards."
"And Lin Tianying?"
"Senior Sister told him to 'scram.'" Zheng Xiaoqi paused. "But when he left… the way he looked at me… like he wanted to eat me alive."
Jiang Muchen nodded, reaching into his pocket to toss a small celadon vial. "Wound medicine I mixed myself. Stronger than anything in the apothecary."
Zheng Xiaoqi caught it, popped the lid, and sprinkled the pale yellow powder on his shoulder. Ice-cold on contact, the bleeding stopped immediately, and most of the searing pain faded.
"Thanks."
"No need." Jiang Muchen stood, moving to the window, gazing at the sky brightening outside. "Three days from now, Zi hour, same place. This time, not cargo—but someone."
Zheng Xiaoqi lifted his head.
"Zhou Xiaohuan." Jiang Muchen turned back. "She needs to get into the second floor of the Scripture Library."
"The second floor? With barriers, guards?"
"I know." Jiang Muchen returned to the bed. "That's why by water. Behind the library, there's a hidden channel down to the basement's discarded book storage. From there, she can reach a stairwell to the second floor via a ventilation shaft."
Zheng Xiaoqi went silent, tracing the route in his mind—he knew the narrow channel, the tiny skiff it required. The basement had a guard: a deaf old man. The ventilation shaft remained locked, the key in the librarian's hand.
"The guard takes his sedative at the hour of Hai, sleeps through till dawn." Jiang Muchen read his thoughts. "The shaft's lock? I've got the key."
He drew a simple brass key from his sleeve, placing it on the table. Ordinary at first glance, but finely cut.
"Zhou Xiaohuan only needs half an hour to copy what's needed, then down."
"Copy what?"
"The detailed map of Qingming Medicine Valley and the weak points of the Azure-scaled Python." Jiang Muchen's voice dropped. "The library won't teach it all. Only scraps exist in the Secret Realm Handbook. She can't just listen—she has to see it herself."
Zheng Xiaoqi stared at the key. "Why take such a risk? The valley doesn't open for twenty days."
"Because Lin Tianying will go too." Jiang Muchen leaned forward, dawn catching half his face. "He's stuck at peak sixth-stage Qi, desperate for a millennium Lingzhi breakthrough. First thing he'll do in the valley is target our people."
Zheng Xiaoqi understood.
Jiang Muchen paused, quieter now: "We need to know every fork, every ambush point, every escape route in that valley. This map… it's our lifeline."
He put away the key.
"Does Zhou Xiaohuan know?"
"Tomorrow." Jiang Muchen said. "Prepare the skiff—small enough to fit through the hidden channel. I've told Wang Duobao to have the vanishing ink and trace paper ready—writing disappears in half an hour, leaves no evidence."
"And you?"
"I'll handle the deaf old man's nightly medicine." Jiang Muchen's lips curved faintly. "His sedative is missing Serenity Herb. Reduces potency by thirty percent. I know where fresh herbs grow, and I know how to make him 'discover' it."
Zheng Xiaoqi studied him. "Why do all this?"
Jiang Muchen paused, smiled faintly. The smile was shallow, yet sent a chill down Zheng Xiaoqi's spine.
"To survive." Jiang Muchen said. "Just a little better than the rest."
He lowered his voice: "And someday… people like us won't get shouted at, told to 'scram' by Lin Tianying types, forced to smile and say, 'Thank you for your lesson, Senior Brother.'"
Zheng Xiaoqi stayed silent.
He looked at his torn feet, the cuts like mouths opening wide. The morning light brightened, dust floating in shafts, like countless tiny lives struggling to rise.
"I'm in," he said.
That afternoon, Jiang Muchen went to the outer garden.
The garden was split in two: east and west. East cultivated spirit herbs, heavily guarded, with wards. West was the "wild patch," full of weeds and poisonous plants, avoided by anyone.
He circled the western patch, finding clusters of Serenity Herb in damp rock crevices. Thin, sword-like leaves, serrated edges, white sap flowing when broken, giving off a crisp fragrance.
He gathered a dozen, wrapped carefully in oiled paper, and tucked them into his chest. Just as he turned, a rustle in the bushes.
He stopped, extending his spiritual sense.
Two figures crouched behind the shrubs, whispering.
"…sure it's here?" A hoarse, nasal male voice.
"No mistake. Zhao Xiaolu said himself, he buried it here last month." Another, shrill, like metal scraping a pot.
Zhao Xiaolu?
Jiang Muchen held his breath, peeking through the leaves.
Two men, thirties, sleazy faces, swollen eyes. One held a rusty short shovel, digging a one-foot-deep pit.
"Damn it, nothing!" Hoarse man spat. "Zhao Xiaolu playing us?"
"Keep digging." Shrill man panted. "He said it's Red Blood Sand, legit Artificer Hall stuff. Valuable."
Red Blood Sand!
Jiang Muchen's heart skipped. Zhao Xiaolu had stolen scraps from the hall storeroom, and now… complete material, buried here?
At two feet deep, the shovel hit something hard—clank.
Eyes lit. They unearthed a ceramic jar, identical to the one at the burial mound. Dark red, unnaturally soaked, like blood.
Shrill man flipped it open—inside, not Red Blood Sand, but black, sticky sludge emitting a pungent odor: blood, decay, and a bitter herbal note.
"What… the hell is this?!" Hoarse man covered his nose, backing off.
More sludge fell from the jar, along with tiny blackened bones, looking like finger joints.
"Zhao Xiaolu, you bastard!" Shrill man kicked the jar to pieces. They spat, cursed, and left.
Only when the footsteps faded did Jiang Muchen emerge.
Squatting, he poked at the sludge and bones with a stick.
This was "Corpse Soil," used in Yin accumulation arrays to concentrate yin energy. Bones, blackened from long exposure to Red Blood Sand, were carriers of yin essence. Zhao Xiaolu wasn't playing—he was feeding it. The jar was bait to make others dig, turning them into unwitting labor for the array.
Deep, meticulous planning.
Jiang Muchen stood, brushing soil off his hands, glancing at the Serenity Herb in his chest and the shattered jar. He smiled.
The Red Dust Pavilion had more than one spider weaving its web. Zhao Xiaolu was weaving, too—but each strand reeked of death, blood, and darkness.
Jiang Muchen left the garden.
Passing the west patch, he "accidentally" met the deaf old man weeding. Over seventy, hunched, nearly deaf, requiring words pressed to his ear.
Jiang Muchen "helped" pull weeds, "accidentally" revealing the Serenity Herb. The old man's eyes lit. Jiang Muchen generously shared half and "guided" him to the crevice patch.
The old man left smiling, folds in his face blooming like a dry chrysanthemum.
Tonight, his sedative would contain the herb. He would sleep soundly, unaware as someone slipped into the library, emptying half the stacks.
Tian Dao Truth: The most brilliant path is letting everyone you "help" believe—the ground beneath their feet is their own digging, and you're merely passing by.