Pain.
White-hot, relentless pain—like a red-heated chisel driven straight through his temple, twisting inside his skull. Every nerve screamed. Every bone groaned. Jiang Muchen clawed his way through the black fog, feeling hollowed out, light as an empty skin… yet so heavy he could barely breathe.
He forced his eyes open.
The world swam. Firelight flickered and smeared across his vision. Several faces hovered close.
"Jiang—he's awake!" Wang Duobao's voice cracked, thick with relief.
"Don't move." Lu Hanshan pressed a steady hand to his shoulder. "Two broken ribs. Internal injuries."
Jiang Muchen tried to speak. His throat felt packed with sand.
Zhou Xiaohuan hurried forward with a water skin, carefully lifting his head. Warm water slid down his parched throat—burning, tearing—but sensation followed, dragging him fully back into his body.
He slowly shifted his gaze.
A crude mountain cave. The entrance half-hidden by vines. A campfire crackled at the center, roasting chunks of beast meat, fat dripping into the flames with a hiss. The air smelled of damp earth, blood… and medicine.
"Where… are we?" His voice was hoarse, barely his own.
"Downstream, Cold Mist Ravine," Zheng Xiaoqi said, crouched by the fire, turning the meat. "You were out for a full day and night. We didn't dare move far—found this cave."
A day and a night.
Jiang Muchen's heart tightened. "The Herb Valley?"
"Closes tomorrow at noon," Lu Hanshan replied. "If you hadn't woken up, we were carrying you out."
Tomorrow at noon.
Time slipped through his fingers like sand.
He grit his teeth and forced himself upright, leaning against the cold stone wall. Every movement sent a dull blade through his chest. Closing his eyes, he looked inward.
Empty.
His spiritual energy was gone—bone-dry, like a riverbed in drought. Meridians twisted with hidden damage. Deeper still, his soul felt scooped hollow, thinking itself an effort.
And yet—
Something pulsed inside him.
Violent. Savage. Furious.
But tightly bound.
The dragon remnant.
It was still there.
Not in the flute—
In him.
His hand moved instinctively to his waist.
The flute was there.
Warm. Hotter than before. In the firelight, dark crimson lines flowed faintly across its surface, like veins breathing. When he gripped it, he could feel the violent pulse clearly now—thump, thump, thump—slowly syncing with his own heartbeat.
"Jiang…" Wang Duobao hesitated. "Your flute… it feels like it's alive."
It had changed.
The once pure jade carried a muted gold sheen now. The dragon carvings were deeper, sharper—and at the tail end, the outline of a vicious dragon head could almost be seen.
Jiang Muchen fed the tiniest thread of spiritual energy into it.
Hummm.
A low dragon's hum resonated from the flute.
Not imagined.
The sound was ancient, heavy with pressure. Everyone in the cave felt their hearts stutter. The campfire dipped suddenly, shadows on the walls twisting unnaturally.
Lu Hanshan's expression darkened. "That sound…"
"Long story," Jiang Muchen said, swallowing blood. "How about you? Anything happen while I was out?"
"No," Zheng Xiaoqi shook his head. "That Ice-Scale Serpent guarded the pool the whole time. Wouldn't let anything close. When we dragged you here, it followed—coiled in the stream outside. With it around, not even a poisonous bug dared fly in."
Jiang Muchen froze.
Guarding them?
Or watching him?
He struggled to his feet, waved off Lu Hanshan's help, and limped to the entrance, pushing aside the vines.
Outside, a shallow stream flowed through morning mist. On a boulder by the water lay the Ice-Scale Serpent, its scales gleaming icy blue. Eyes closed—resting.
The instant Jiang Muchen appeared, its eyes snapped open.
Vertical pupils, cold and sharp—locked onto the flute.
After a brief hesitation, Jiang Muchen raised the flute and blew a short note.
Not the Soothing Dragon Tune. Just a test.
The moment the sound left the flute, the serpent reared up, body taut as a drawn bow.
But it wasn't an attack.
The chill in its eyes melted into something complex—reverence, yearning… and something dangerously close to devotion.
It slid down from the rock, glided to Jiang Muchen's feet—
And lowered its head.
Not submission.
A bow.
Jiang Muchen's heart thundered. The Manual of All-Spirit Resonance mentioned that high-level beasts sometimes recognized a "master," but that required overwhelming strength or bloodline dominance.
He had neither.
It was the flute.
The dragon aura fused within it.
To serpents, dragons were not kings—they were origins, etched into instinct. Even a fragment of a dragon soul was a lifelong pursuit.
Jiang Muchen crouched, extending his free hand.
The serpent lifted its head, tongue brushing his fingertip.
Cold.
Soft.
Then it turned away, coiling back onto the rock—relaxed now, half-lidded, like a guardian.
"It listens to you?" Wang Duobao whispered.
"Not me," Jiang Muchen said quietly, eyes on the flute warming in his palm. "It listens to that."
Back inside, Jiang Muchen sat cross-legged and began circulating The Manual of All-Spirit Resonance.
His meridians were empty—but intact.
He drew in external spiritual energy—
And immediately sensed something wrong.
The Herb Valley's energy was already dense, but now it surged toward him like a tide. Mixed within it was something faint, dark-golden.
Dragon qi.
Thin. Almost negligible.
But that single trace sent his cultivation speed soaring. As the energy flowed through him, the hidden injuries dulled—not healed, but soothed, like wounds soaked in warm spring water.
His pulse raced.
Dragon-Guiding Art, First Stage: Dragon Breath Nourishes the Veins.
The spirit within the flute hadn't only given him a tune—it had passed on a method.
At the time, half-dead, he'd grasped only fragments.
Now, as his mind settled, memories surfaced.
An hour later, he opened his eyes.
Ten percent of his spiritual energy had returned. The pain from his broken ribs had halved. Even his soul felt clearer.
Not whole.
But functional.
"Feeling better?" Lu Hanshan handed him roasted meat.
Arrow-boar. Crispy, dripping with fat. Jiang Muchen tore into it, grease exploding across his tongue, filling the hollow ache in his stomach.
"Supplies?"
"All here." Wang Duobao patted a jade box. "Cold Spring water, Frost-Tear Vine extract, Moonlight Ganoderma—intact."
"The Black Jade Sword?"
Zheng Xiaoqi passed it over. "This thing… feels like it's watching me."
Jiang Muchen took the sword.
Cold. Dull. But when he gripped the hilt, something pulsed faintly inside—resonating with the dragon aura in the flute.
Black-Pattern Mystic Iron.
Of course it reacted.
He sheathed it and looked toward the entrance. "We have to reach the exit before noon tomorrow. But there's a problem."
He paused.
"I can't walk."
Silence.
"We'll carry you," Lu Hanshan said immediately.
"You won't make it," Jiang Muchen shook his head. "Thirty miles through this terrain. You'd collapse first."
"Then what?"
Jiang Muchen looked outside.
The stream. The coiled serpent. Morning light sliding across icy scales.
An idea surfaced.
"What if," he said slowly, "a Qi-Refining seventh-level beast escorted us out?"
Stunned silence.
Wang Duobao's eyes bulged. "You're not thinking—"
"Let's try."
What followed was absurd.
At dawn on the third day, a massive ice-blue serpent slid through the forest.
On its back sat a pale, gray-robed youth. Behind him, three labor disciples stumbled after, terrified and exhilarated.
Beasts scattered at the scent of dragon qi.
Those that didn't were silenced by a single glance.
At the ravine exit, they found trouble.
Qingming Sword Sect disciples.
And Liu Zhen—bleeding, clutching Moonlight Grass.
Jiang Muchen dismounted.
His voice was calm.
"In the Herb Valley," he said softly, lifting the flute, "strength is face."
The dragon's hum answered.
And no one dared test it.