The third crow of the rooster rang out.
The Servants' Courtyard stirred awake.
The moment Jiang Muchen pushed open the door to Room B-7, Wang Duobao came barreling in, panting like he'd sprinted the whole way. Sweat rolled down his round face as he clutched a crumpled sheet of yellow paper.
"Brother Jiang—something big happened!" He braced himself against the doorframe, barely catching his breath. "The Outer Sect Trial… it's been moved up!"
Jiang Muchen frowned. "When?"
"Three days from now!" Wang Duobao slammed the notice onto the table. It was a copied announcement from the Task Hall. "They say it's to make time for the Qingming Herb Valley expedition. Everyone below mid–Qi Condensation has to participate. Only the top twenty qualify!"
Zheng Xiaoqi rose from the corner, his bare feet touching the cold floor. "We're only at the third layer."
"Doesn't matter!" Wang Duobao jabbed at a line of tiny characters at the bottom.
"Any disciple absent without cause will lose three months' allowance and be barred from all future tasks. They're forcing us into a corner!"
Jiang Muchen didn't answer immediately.
His gaze lingered on another detail in the notice.
The trial will be personally overseen by Elder Lin of the Discipline Hall.
Lin Tianying's grandfather.
And seated among the judges—clearly listed—
Lin Yueyao of Pill Peak.
And the Sect's Saintess, Su Qingwu.
"Lin Tianying won't waste this chance," Jiang Muchen said at last.
"He intends to cripple me—openly—during the trial."
Silence fell over the room.
Wang Duobao froze mid-wipe.
Zheng Xiaoqi's fists clenched.
"Then… then we skip it?" Wang Duobao's voice trembled. "Fake an illness? An injury? Anything's better than stepping onto the platform to die!"
"If I don't go," Jiang Muchen replied quietly, "I'll never climb back up."
He looked toward the window, where dawn light was piercing the clouds.
"And besides… Su Qingwu will be watching."
Wang Duobao blinked. "So what? You think the Saintess will protect us?"
"She won't protect anyone," Jiang Muchen said.
"But she will see."
She would see how Lin Tianying treated him.
And how he responded.
He turned and dragged a wooden chest from beneath the bed. Inside lay everything he'd scraped together over these weeks: the jade flute, the medicinal field token, a small pouch of spirit stones, several bottles of pills—and a stack of fading concealment papers.
"Duobao," Jiang Muchen said, counting stones, "go to the market. Buy three things—fast."
"A heartguard mirror. Lowest-grade is fine—just strong enough to block one full strike from the sixth layer.
Movement talismans—lasting half an incense stick.
And… manifestation powder."
Wang Duobao frowned. "That stuff's for revealing invisible ink."
"I have another use for it."
Jiang Muchen handed him twenty spirit stones.
"Three different shops. Don't let anyone connect the purchases."
Wang Duobao nodded hard and bolted.
"Xiaoqi," Jiang Muchen continued, "go to the herb gardens. Find Cui'er—the one close to Senior Sister Lin. Tell her I urgently need three young shoots of Soul-Returning Grass."
Zheng Xiaoqi frowned. "Isn't that the core ingredient for Nine-Turn Revival Pills?"
"I don't need the herb," Jiang Muchen said calmly.
"I need a record that it passed through my hands."
Sun Hao was dead.
Zhao Xiaoliu was missing.
"The Discipline Hall will trace this eventually. If we're documented as handling Soul-Returning Grass—even seedlings—some people will consider us less suspicious."
Zheng Xiaoqi understood at once.
"I'll handle it."
Left alone, Jiang Muchen pinned the crude map of the herb gardens back onto the wall. His finger traced waterways, fields, narrow paths—before stopping at one spot.
The Outer Sect Arena.
Three days from now.
Third layer versus sixth.
A hopeless matchup.
But he didn't need to win.
He only needed… not to lose too cleanly.
By afternoon, the Servants' Courtyard erupted.
Discipline Hall enforcers flooded in—black robes, iron rulers at their waists. At their head stood a hawk-nosed middle-aged officer surnamed Liu, cultivation at the eighth layer. His gaze cut like a blade.
"All present—assemble!"
Names were called.
When Zhao Xiaoliu was announced, no one answered.
"Where is Zhao Xiaoliu?" Officer Liu demanded.
Silence.
"Room B-7—Jiang Muchen, Wang Duobao, Zheng Xiaoqi. Step forward."
They did.
"Where did he go?"
Pressure bore down like a physical weight.
"Reporting, Officer," Jiang Muchen said, bowing. "Senior Brother Zhao hasn't returned in three days. I don't know his whereabouts."
"You don't?" Liu sneered. "You lived together. You didn't report it?"
"I assumed he took an external assignment," Jiang replied evenly. "That's common in the Servants' Courtyard. And I've been on constant duty in the herb gardens these past days."
Truth wrapped in half-truths—airtight.
Liu stared. Then: "Any disputes between you two?"
"I wouldn't dare. Senior Brother Zhao was my superior."
"Someone claims they saw you arguing in the western herb fields the night he vanished."
A flicker of cold passed through Jiang Muchen.
He lifted his head, confusion perfectly measured.
"That night, I was harvesting Corrosion Bloom. I never encountered him. If someone claims otherwise, they mistook the time—or fabricated it."
He paused, then added gently,
"I've recently been commended by Senior Sister Lin for pest removal. Envy breeds rumors. I ask the officer to judge carefully."
Liu hesitated.
Lin Yueyao's name carried weight.
"Very well," he said at last. "The investigation continues. You three remain in the courtyard and await summons."
"Yes, sir."
When they left, Jiang Muchen shut the door and leaned against it—his back soaked through.
That exchange had been razor-thin.
But preparation had paid off.
Three days later, the Outer Sect Arena roared with life.
Nearly a thousand disciples filled the square. The platform stood ten feet high, surrounded by protective formations. On the eastern stand sat Elder Lin, Lin Yueyao, Su Qingwu—and several outer elders.
Lin Tianying stood at the edge of the arena, splendid robes fluttering. His eyes locked onto Jiang Muchen, and he smiled.
Coldly.
Jiang Muchen stood at the fringe, wearing a faded servant's robe. The jade flute rested at his side. The medicinal token hung openly at his waist—placed there deliberately.
He drew his lot.
Opponent: Zhang Tie. Qi Condensation, Fourth Layer.
First round.
Fortune favored him.
Zhang Tie was a broad, honest-looking man wielding a heavy blade.
"Junior Brother Jiang," he said, saluting. "Please advise."
The gong sounded.
Zhang Tie struck hard. Jiang dodged—never meeting force with force. He retreated, parried lightly, observed.
Thirty exchanges.
Then—an opening.
A loose seam in the platform.
A tap. A surge of Qi.
The board lifted.
Zhang Tie stumbled.
The flute struck his wrist.
The blade clattered free.
Silence.
"Jiang Muchen wins," Su Qingwu said coolly.
No one objected.
Round after round, Jiang advanced—not by strength, but by sight.
By seeing what others missed.
By yielding… and guiding.
Until—
Fourth round.
Opponent: A-3.
Lin Tianying's man.
The real trial had arrived.
Jiang Muchen stepped onto the platform.
The heartguard mirror was cold against his chest.
And he smiled.
Tongue Dao Maxim
A true weakling accepts defeat.
A true practitioner arranges the moment when—
before all eyes—
his enemy lifts him
onto the very steps of the sky.