Danding Peak had been sealed tight.
Disciplinary Hall enforcers stood in two rigid lines along the bluestone steps, dressed in black, cold iron rulers hanging at their waists. Their faces were carved from frost. No one was allowed in. No one was allowed out.
At the foot of the mountain, the crowd surged—menials, outer disciples, inner disciples—necks craned like geese lifted by the throat. Whispers collided and overlapped, buzzing into a single restless hum, like frogs croaking beside a summer pond.
Jiang Muchen stood at the very edge of it all.
He neither pushed forward nor retreated. He simply watched.
He saw Lin Tianying storm down the mountain path, his embroidered robes smeared with dust, his face the color of oxidized copper. Two followers trailed behind him, equally disheveled. As they passed the crowd, a brave outer disciple dared to ask, voice trembling:
"Senior Brother Lin… Senior Brother Sun—"
"Shut up!" Lin Tianying snapped, whipping his head around. His glare could strip flesh from bone. "Say one more word and I'll tear your mouth apart."
Silence fell like a blade.
Lin Tianying strode off, footsteps heavy and furious, as though trying to spark fire from stone.
Jiang Muchen withdrew his gaze and turned toward the medicinal gardens.
Wang Duobao hurried up beside him, lowering his voice, breath shaking. "Brother Jiang, I checked. Sun Hao died while refining Bone-Corrosion Pills. The furnace exploded, poison rebounded—instant death. Disciplinary Hall says it was mishandling."
He swallowed.
"But here's the strange part. That batch of Bone-Corrosion Flowers? He bought them three days ago—from Zhao Xiaoliu."
Jiang Muchen didn't slow. "Where did Zhao Xiaoliu get them?"
"He claimed they were wild harvests from the western sector of the gardens," Wang Duobao said. "But the garden records show no Bone-Corrosion Flower collection there for three months. And those flowers—Brother Jiang—they were too good. Thick petals, rich sap. Like they'd been force-grown with some forbidden method."
Force-grown.
Jiang Muchen recalled the western garden—scratches gouged deep into the soil between stone cracks, and that faint, lingering scent of blood.
If Zhao Xiaoliu had used corpse-soil from a yin-nurturing array, irrigated with Red Blood Sand solution, he could indeed push out a flawless batch of poison flowers in record time.
But such flowers were poison to the core.
One misstep in alchemy, and the backlash would rot flesh and soul alike.
Sun Hao hadn't known.
He'd thought he'd struck gold—never realizing the bargain had been padded with his own life.
"Where's Zhao Xiaoliu now?" Jiang Muchen asked.
"Gone," Wang Duobao said hoarsely. "No one's seen him since last night. His bedding was packed clean, like he'd planned to leave long ago."
Jiang Muchen stopped.
Fled?
No. Zhao Xiaoliu wasn't the type to abandon his work halfway. His yin cultivation was at a critical stage. Walking away now would waste everything.
Unless—
Unless he'd found a better place.
Not the burial grounds—that had already drawn attention.
Not the western gardens either.
Several locations flashed through Jiang Muchen's mind before settling on one.
Qingming Herb Valley.
The valley wouldn't officially open until the fifth of next month. But Zhao Xiaoliu had Red Blood Sand, had experience laying yin arrays. He could sneak in early, find a hidden corner deep within the valley, and nurture his creation in secret.
By the time the valley opened…
Whatever he was raising would already have taken shape.
Sun Hao's death had dragged every eye toward Danding Peak. Who would spare a thought for a missing menial?
A ruthless move.
"Duobao," Jiang Muchen quickened his pace. "Go back. Inventory everything we own—stones, materials. Split the accounts in two. One clean ledger for inspections. One private ledger for our real assets."
"Brother Jiang… are things really that bad?"
"The weather's changing," Jiang Muchen said quietly. "Sun Hao's death is only the beginning. Zhao Xiaoliu won't vanish quietly. Lin Tianying won't let this go. And the Disciplinary Hall won't stop digging."
Duobao's face went pale, but he nodded hard. "I understand."
He turned and ran, his back looking oddly small in the morning light.
Jiang Muchen continued alone, his thoughts drifting to another name.
Su Qingwu.
According to the path laid out in fate and outline alike, his first true encounter with the Saintess was meant to occur during the Qingming Herb Valley expedition.
But now the valley hadn't opened—and Zhao Xiaoliu might already be inside.
If Zhao stirred trouble there, if inner disciples went scouting early, if—
If Su Qingwu became involved—
That would complicate everything.
He needed a way to connect with her before the valley opened.
But how?
As he reached the garden gate, a clear sword hum rang out from the bamboo grove nearby.
The sound wasn't sharp. It wasn't fierce.
It flowed like spring water dripping into a deep pool—pure, resonant, carrying an otherworldly stillness.
He turned instinctively.
Within the bamboo grove, a figure in white was practicing swordplay.
It was Su Qingwu.
She wore no saintly robes today—only a simple white training outfit. Her long hair was loosely tied with a wooden pin, a few damp strands clinging to porcelain skin. Her sword traced arcs of moonlight, every movement stripped to its essence.
No flourish.
No killing intent.
Only a cold, solitary purity—as though severing the world itself.
Jiang Muchen stopped.
He neither approached nor left.
He watched—not the sword alone, but the meaning within it.
Her sword was like her person: clean, absolute, untouched by dust.
And yet…
Something was missing.
It was too cold.
Too distant.
Like moonlight atop a snowbound peak—beautiful, but incapable of warming a single heart.
From the Art of Myriad Spirit Resonance, a line surfaced in his mind:
The sword is the blade of the heart. Too rigid, it breaks. Too pure, it shatters. Only balance cuts fate while preserving the self.
Her sword was too pure.
Pure enough to fracture.
As the thought settled, Su Qingwu sheathed her blade and turned. Her gaze pierced through the bamboo shadows and landed on him.
Their eyes met.
Jiang Muchen bowed immediately. "Disciple Jiang Muchen greets the Saintess."
She didn't speak at once. Her eyes were clear—so clear they felt capable of exposing the deepest folds of one's heart.
Finally, she asked, "How long were you watching?"
"About half an incense stick," he answered honestly.
"And what did you see?"
The question was blunt—almost intrusive.
But Jiang Muchen understood. This was a test.
After a brief pause, he said, "Your sword resembles moonlight."
"Moonlight?"
"Cold. Pure. Untouched by dust." He hesitated, then added, "Yet unable to warm the human world."
Her gaze flickered.
She stepped closer, stopping three paces away. "You understand swordsmanship?"
"I do not," Jiang Muchen shook his head. "I know plants, insects, and a little of human nature."
"Human nature…" she echoed. "Then you believe my sword lacks it?"
"I wouldn't presume," he lowered his eyes. "Only that what is too pure may break. What stands too alone may shatter. Balance endures."
Silence followed.
The morning breeze rustled the bamboo. Distant noise from the gardens only deepened the quiet.
"You're the menial who summoned the Seven-Star King Ladybug," she said suddenly.
"Yes."
"How did you do it?"
"By borrowing nature's order," Jiang Muchen replied. "Finding the enemy of an enemy, and letting things unfold."
She looked toward the gardens. "Sun Hao is dead. Do you think it was an accident?"
The question carried weight.
"Disciple lacks full knowledge," Jiang Muchen said carefully. "But many accidents are bound by cause and effect. If Senior Brother Sun chose that pill, those ingredients, that path—then the result followed."
She studied him for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
It was faint—like first snow touching a plum branch—but it transformed her features.
"You're a clear-minded one," she said. "Clear-minded people don't live long."
Jiang Muchen bowed. "I seek clarity, not longevity."
"Well said." She turned to leave, then glanced back. "Qingming Herb Valley opens on the fifth next month. Will you go?"
"Yes."
"Then live well until then."
With that, she vanished into the bamboo.
Jiang Muchen remained where he stood for a long time.
Only then did he exhale slowly.
His clothes clung to his back, soaked through with cold sweat.
That exchange had been perilous—every question a blade, every answer a step along a cliff's edge. One wrong word, and he would have been branded crooked of heart forever.
But he'd passed.
More than that—he'd left a mark.
The mark of someone who understood.
A mark heavier than gold.
He looked toward where Su Qingwu had disappeared, a faint curve touching his lips.
Tongue of the Path Truth:
The highest form of approach is not praising someone's perfection—
but quietly revealing the crack they never noticed,
and convincing them that through it, moonlight finally reaches the world.