Three nights later, at the Hour of the Rat.
Beneath the old locust tree at the burial grounds.
Clouds swallowed most of the moonlight, letting only pale strands slip through—just enough to outline five figures seated beneath the tree. Wind swept over the mounds of earth, funeral streamers snapping and whispering like the dead trading secrets.
Jiang Muchen.
Wang Duobao.
Zheng Xiaoqi.
Zhou Xiaohuan.
And—Lu Hanshan.
It was Lu Hanshan's first time attending a Muchen Circle gathering.
He sat at the outer edge, spine straight as a spear, his left hand never leaving the chipped woodcutter's blade at his waist. His eyes gleamed in the dark—cold, sharp, like a lone wolf hunting across snow—scanning every shadow with practiced suspicion.
Jiang Muchen waited for him to speak.
Three days earlier, he'd sent Lu Hanshan a single message through Wang Duobao:
Do you want to climb upward—stepping squarely on Lin Tianying's face, in front of everyone?
Lu Hanshan had come.
"Terms."
The word scraped out between his teeth, rough as gravel.
Jiang Muchen didn't waste breath.
"We need someone who can fight head-on. During the Outer Sect Trial, Lin Tianying will come for us without restraint. You hold him off. We provide intelligence, equipment—and a way to beat him."
Lu Hanshan stared at him.
"Why should I trust you?" His voice was edged. "Lin Tianying's at the sixth layer. I'm only fourth. His Rending Gold Claws are mid–Yellow Grade. This blade of mine can barely butcher a chicken."
"Which is why we use our heads," Jiang Muchen said.
He unfolded a sheet of paper onto the ground. It was a hand-drawn sketch of the trial arena—every step, every stone seam carefully marked by Zhou Xiaohuan from memory.
"Lin Tianying's claws specialize in tearing through metal. But they carry a fatal flaw. Every time he pushes them to full output, he needs three breaths to cycle his qi. That's built into his technique."
Lu Hanshan frowned. "How do you know?"
"Wang Duobao paid five spirit fragments to one of his former sparring partners," Jiang replied calmly.
"The man had his leg shattered during a 'demonstration.' He remembers every detail."
Lu Hanshan said nothing.
"Second," Jiang continued, tapping the sketch, "Lin Tianying's lower stance is unstable. Years ago, he forced a breakthrough and damaged the meridians in his left leg. It doesn't show at first—but in prolonged combat, it will."
Lu Hanshan's finger pressed into the map.
"The eastern arena?"
"There's a stone slab there," Jiang said. "Rain's hollowed out the earth beneath it. It won't collapse—but it will sink a fraction when stepped on."
Lu Hanshan's eyes sharpened.
"And if he strikes while standing there…"
"He loses balance. For one instant."
Jiang met his gaze.
"One instant is enough to fell an ox."
Silence.
Lu Hanshan studied the map for a long time.
"Is that all?"
Jiang reached into his robe and upended a cloth pouch.
Three items fell into the dirt.
First—seven needles thin as hair. Ice-Soul Needles, forged from star-pattern steel scrap, quenched with frost iron filings. Designed to pierce protective qi and freeze blood on contact.
Second—three talismans. Spirit-Break Seals. Once activated, they disrupt qi circulation for a single breath.
A single breath was often the line between life and death.
Third—a pair of deerskin bracers. Sewn inside was a thin layer of powdered soft jade ore—cheap, but excellent at dispersing shock force.
"These," Jiang said, "will let you take three full exchanges with Lin Tianying without shattering your arms."
Lu Hanshan slipped on the bracer. Barely felt it.
He lifted an Ice-Soul Needle toward the moonlight. The tip glimmered blue—like a serpent's tongue.
"Why me?" he asked.
"We didn't choose you," Jiang replied.
"We need each other."
He spoke plainly.
"If you defeat Lin Tianying, you enter the top ten and gain access to the Qingming Herb Valley. We need a blade we can trust in there."
"Herb Valley…" Lu Hanshan murmured.
"You're walking into that mess too?"
"We don't have a choice," Jiang said quietly.
"Zhao Xiaoliu is likely already inside. He's cultivating yin entities in the depths. Once he succeeds, the first people he'll silence are those who know him best."
At Zhao Xiaoliu's name, Lu Hanshan's face darkened.
They'd shared a room for three years. He knew.
Zhao Xiaoliu vanishing at midnight.
Returning reeking of rot.
Once—just once—Lu Hanshan had seen him gnawing on a blackened bone in the shadows, eyes empty of humanity.
"I'll help you deal with Zhao Xiaoliu," Lu Hanshan said slowly.
"But the trial—I have a condition."
"Say it."
"If I win, the Foundation Establishment Pill exchange right goes to me."
His voice cut clean.
"You don't touch it."
A Foundation Pill—worth over a hundred spirit stones on the open market, if you could even find one.
Wang Duobao panicked. "Brother Jiang! That's—"
"We can't use it," Jiang cut in.
"Third-layer cultivators eating Foundation Pills—what, as candy?"
He turned to Lu Hanshan.
"The pill is yours. But if we obtain a Nine-Turn Revival Pill—or its equivalent—in the Herb Valley, distribution authority rests with me."
Lu Hanshan extended his hand.
"Fair."
They clasped wrists.
"Life and death together," Jiang said.
For the next hour, the five refined their plan down to breaths and heartbeats.
Wang Duobao relayed intel:
"Lin Tianying obtained a Vajra Talisman from his grandfather. It can block a seventh-layer strike—but when the golden barrier fades, his defenses drop to their lowest."
"Three breaths," Lu Hanshan calculated.
"Enough for one strike."
"One is enough," Jiang said.
"You don't break his defense. You force him to activate it."
Zheng Xiaoqi added terrain details:
"The hollow slab covers an old drainage channel. Three feet deep. Two wide. If he sinks in, he'll need two breaths to pull out."
"Five breaths total," Jiang concluded.
"Plenty of time to put your blade to his throat."
Then Zhou Xiaohuan spoke softly.
"There's another problem. Lin Bao—his cousin—is also competing. Fifth layer. Windblade technique. Fast."
"I'll handle Lin Bao," Jiang said.
Wang Duobao stared.
"You? He's fifth layer!"
"I won't beat him," Jiang replied evenly.
"I'll stall him for a hundred breaths."
He lifted the jade flute.
Lu Hanshan frowned. A flute?
Jiang didn't explain.
"Windblade relies on rhythm. My music disrupts rhythm."
He looked around.
"Our goal isn't glory. It's survival. Enter the Herb Valley alive—and come back alive."
They nodded.
"At dawn tomorrow," Jiang said to Lu Hanshan,
"meet me in the pine woods. We train—not technique."
"Then what?" Lu Hanshan asked.
"Timing," Jiang smiled.
"I'll use my eyes."
The gathering dispersed before midnight's end.
Five shadows dissolved into darkness.
Jiang Muchen lingered beneath the locust tree, fingers brushing the jade flute.
This move was correct.
A fourth-layer cultivator with killing instincts and a hunger for advancement—worth far more than a pill he couldn't yet use.
But a blade like Lu Hanshan's was dangerous.
Not a companion.
A contract weapon.
To wield it safely, Jiang had to ensure Lu Hanshan believed—deeply—that standing beside him was always more profitable than standing alone.
"Interlocked interests…" Jiang murmured.
Then—the flute trembled.
Not imagination.
Thirty paces away, something moved.
Insects.
He approached.
A dead rabbit lay in a clearing—its body blackened, blood seeping from eyes and mouth. Not bitten. Poisoned.
Scattered nearby—dark red grains.
Crimson Blood Sand.
Jiang picked one up.
The same mixture Zhao Xiaoliu used.
Corpse-soil infused.
And the burial grounds sat upstream—three miles from the herb gardens' water source.
If Zhao Xiaoliu contaminated the water…
Jiang straightened, gaze hardening.
The Herb Valley could no longer wait.
Tongue Dao Maxim
The sharpest blade always belongs to the most ambitious hand.
Do not fear that it may cut you—
fear only that you believe it costs too much to wield.