When Deacon Li pushed the door open, Ye Fen was sitting on the edge of his bed, his right thumb unconsciously rubbing the knuckle of his left index finger.
The spot was empty.
"The Clan Elders have questions." Deacon Li's voice was flat, like he was reciting a ledger. "That challenge letter at the annulment banquet—did you write it?"
Ye Fen lifted his eyelids.
His gaze was as calm as a deep well.
"Yes," he said.
Ye Qingya poked half his head out from behind Deacon Li, his tone carrying a note of "brotherly" guidance: "Brother Fen, that handwriting was powerful and vigorous. Back then, your Dou Qi was receding and your hands were shaking; how could you have written that? You mustn't speak recklessly."
"When a man is about to die, he can usually squeeze out a bit of strength." Ye Fen's voice was slightly hoarse, but steady. "Even a cornered dog will jump over a wall."
Ye Qingya's face flushed red.
Deacon Li gave Ye Fen a long, searching look, his gaze reminiscent of someone evaluating a piece of damaged goods.
"Stay quiet," he dropped those two words and turned to leave.
The door clicked shut.
Ye Fen slowly exhaled a breath, the back of his shirt damp with a patch of sweat. The response he'd just given had barely passed through his brain—his mouth had opened on its own, the words steady, precise, and laced with an unfamiliar, cold hardness.
He looked down at his hands.
Whatever.
Let it burn first.
For the next seven days, the courtyard gate was bolted from the inside.
Three times a day, an old servant would place meals on a stone block by the door, knock thrice, and leave.
Ye Fen spent most of his time cross-legged on the bed, following the breathing techniques of the "Emperor's Incineration Manual" to guide his Dou Qi.
It was grueling.
Ordinary cultivation methods emphasized "flow," letting Dou Qi circulate naturally. But this manual demanded precise control over every inch—thickness, temperature, and direction of rotation. The rules were pathologically strict.
During his first attempt, the Dou Qi lost control just three inches away from his Dantian.
Agonizing pain surged from the marrow of his bones, as if red-hot needles were churning through his meridians. Ye Fen let out a muffled groan, jolting up from the bed before collapsing back down, his forehead instantly drenched in cold sweat.
A voice surfaced in his mind, dripping with mockery.
"Can't even handle this?"
Ye Fen gritted his teeth, swallowing back the metallic taste of blood in his throat.
"...Shut up."
The voice let out a derisive snort and went silent, but that cold, scrutinizing sensation remained like a thorn in his side.
Ye Fen lay there for fifteen minutes before he recovered.
He wiped away the sweat and sat upright again.
Again.
The second time, the Dou Qi traveled five inches.
The third time, seven inches.
On the fourth attempt, it spiraled out of control again. He leaned over the edge of the bed, retching until he brought up nothing but bitter bile.
The voice in his head didn't mock him this time, but its indifferent gaze was harder to bear than any insult.
Ye Fen's eyes grew bloodshot.
For a split second, he wanted to give up. To hell with the Emperor's Incineration Manual. He could just live as a piece of trash; at least he wouldn't have to endure this agony.
But the moment the thought appeared, it was crushed by a different emotion.
Unwillingness.
By what right?
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms until they bled. The pain actually cleared his groggy mind.
He closed his eyes again.
Again.
By the fifth day, things changed.
Without even realizing it, Ye Fen's control over his Dou Qi was becoming refined at a terrifying speed. The faint wisp of energy moving through his meridians could now maintain its shape, and its temperature had stabilized.
More importantly, he discovered several obscure points of blockage within his meridians.
Hidden deep within the forks of his pathways, these points were dark in color and icy to the touch. Whenever Dou Qi flowed past them, a small portion would dissipate uncontrollably, as if being quietly sucked away by something.
When his Dou Qi had been abundant, this leakage was negligible.
But now that he had regressed, these points had become leaks draining his very essence.
Ye Fen stared at those dark spots, a chill rising in his heart.
Is this the "gift" the Gu Clan left behind?
He tried to ram them with his Dou Qi.
The first time, it was like hitting an ice wall; the recoil left half his body numb.
The second time, he changed his strategy. He condensed his Dou Qi into a needle-thin strand, like a glowing filament, and bored into the edges.
The moment it entered, a bone-chilling sensation flared back at him.
The voice in his head suddenly spoke, sounding uncharacteristically serious.
"Stop."
Ye Fen instinctively halted.
"This thing is insidious; it cannot be broken by brute force. Use the 'Incinerate' mantra. Raise your Dou Qi temperature to its limit, sear it for three breaths, then withdraw. Repeat three times."
Ye Fen obeyed.
The process of raising the temperature to its limit was another form of torture; his meridians felt like they were being roasted over an open flame. He gritted his teeth and endured, maneuvering the scalding Dou Qi to wrap around a blockage.
Sear.
Three breaths.
Withdraw.
Sear again.
After three repetitions, the dark spot's color faded significantly, and tiny cracks appeared on its edges.
A wisp of weak but pure Dou Qi escaped from the cracks, merging into his original flow.
Ye Fen's entire body shuddered.
It was like rain after a long drought.
Though it was only a sliver, the sensation of returning power almost made him cry out.
It works!
Ignoring his exhaustion, he immediately turned to the next one.
The voice in his head offered no further guidance, but its silent approval remained present.
Ye Fen didn't have the energy to overthink it.
He had only one thought now.
Burn every last bit of this "gift" to ash.
On the afternoon of the seventh day, Ye Fen had just finished clearing the third blockage and was slumped on the bed panting when footsteps echoed outside his courtyard.
Sluggish, intentionally heavy.
"Brother Fen? Are you there?"
Ye Qingya.
Ye Fen opened his eyes, a flash of annoyance flickering in his gaze. He was exhausted, his bones felt like they were falling apart, and his meridians still throbbed with the residual sting of the searing heat.
Regardless, he climbed up, straightened his clothes, and went to the door.
He pulled the door open just a crack.
Ye Qingya stood outside with a smile plastered on his face, though it didn't reach his eyes. He held an old food container.
"Staying behind closed doors for seven days... I was worried sick," Ye Qingya said, holding out the container. "I had some ginseng soup brewed to help you recover. Won't you invite me in for a chat?"
As he spoke, he tried to peer through the gap in the door.
Ye Fen blocked the entrance, refusing to move.
"Thanks," he said, taking the container. "I'm tired. I want to rest."
The smile on Ye Qingya's face stiffened.
He hadn't expected such a blunt rejection. According to his plan, this "trash" should have at least let him in for a look.
He suppressed his irritation and leaned in half a step, lowering his voice.
"Brother Fen, there are a lot of rumors flying around outside. Some say you've lost your mind; others say you're practicing a demonic art and have suffered a backlash. The Clan Elders are taking note."
He paused, observing Ye Fen's expression.
"If you ask me, you should come out and move around a bit, lest... certain people use this as an excuse to withhold your monthly resources."
That last sentence was spoken with heavy implication.
Ye Fen lifted his gaze to look at him.
The look was calm, yet Ye Qingya found it strangely unsettling.
"My monthly allowance," Ye Fen began, "was mostly stripped away three years ago. What's left now is barely enough to feed a dog."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"If Brother Qingya is truly concerned, why not speak to the manager and get my share back for me?"
Ye Qingya was rendered speechless.
His face twitched, and the mask of forced friendliness finally slipped.
"Ye Fen, don't be ungrateful," he said coldly. "This Ye Clan is not a place where you can act as you please. Rules are rules."
With a cold snort, he turned to leave.
But at the exact moment he turned, Ye Fen suddenly let out an "Oops," and the food container in his hand tilted forward.
The lid slid off, and some of the ginseng soup splashed out, landing right by Ye Qingya's feet.
Ye Qingya instinctively looked down.
In that split second, Ye Fen took a half-step forward. With extreme subtlety, his toe gave a light flick to the old broom leaning against the doorframe.
The broom handle fell soundlessly, landing horizontally just inside the threshold.
Ye Qingya finished looking at his feet, looked up, and stepped forward.
His mind was still on their conversation; he wasn't paying attention to the ground.
His left foot cleared the threshold, but as his right foot followed, his toe snagged on the broom handle.
"Ah—!"
A short, sharp cry.
Ye Qingya lunged forward, hands flailing for support, but there was nothing to grab. He slammed face-first into the dirt.
Thud!
A cloud of dust rose.
Ye Fen stood inside the doorway, still holding the container, a look of "perfectly timed" panic on his face.
"Brother Qingya! Are you alright?"
He quickly set down the container and reached out to help.
Ye Qingya was dazed.
His face was pressed against the cold mud, his nose filled with the scent of wet earth. His palms were scraped and his knees were badly bruised; a surge of stifled frustration nearly made him black out.
He looked up and met Ye Fen's "concerned" eyes.
Those eyes were clear, showing no trace of malice.
Yet Ye Qingya felt certain that this wasn't an accident.
How could it be that coincidental?
But he had no proof. None at all.
Ye Fen had already pulled him up and was even helping him brush off the dirt.
"It's my fault, I didn't hold the container steady. Are you hurt anywhere?"
Ye Qingya's face was as dark as a pot bottom.
He shoved Ye Fen's hand away. He wanted to curse, but the words caught in his throat. Finally, he could only glare fiercely and squeeze out a few words through gritted teeth.
"You... watch yourself!"
He limped away, his retreating figure looking utterly pathetic.
Ye Fen stood at the door, watching him disappear.
The "concern" on his face faded bit by bit.
In its place was a cold, quiet stillness that he hadn't even noticed in himself.
He leaned down, picked up the broom, and propped it back against the door. His movements were steady; with a slight flick of his wrist, the handle clicked precisely back into its original spot.
Having finished, he straightened up to go back inside.
But as he turned, the corner of his eye caught the puddle of ginseng soup on the ground.
The liquid was mixed with dirt, its color murky.
He stared at it for two seconds.
Then, he lifted his foot and stepped on it.
His sole ground the soup into the mud, making a faint, squelching sound. He ground it slowly, with deliberate force.
When he was done, he retracted his foot and looked at the stain on his sole.
His face remained expressionless.
But in a corner of his heart, something gave a soft, sudden beat.
That trip just now... the angle the broom fell, the force of his toe, even the timing of Ye Qingya looking at the soup... it was all as if it had been calculated in advance.
Terrifyingly precise.
That wasn't a skill he should have.
At least, not one the old Ye Fen should have had.
He closed his eyes, went inside, and bolted the door.
The room was dim.
Ye Fen walked to the water basin in the corner and leaned down.
Reflected on the water's surface was the face of a youth. Thin, pale, with a faint scar at the corner of his eye, and a lingering coldness in his gaze that had yet to dissipate.
He stared at that face for a long time.
Then, he reached out a finger and lightly touched the water.
Ripples spread, shattering the reflection.
He whispered so softly it was almost inaudible.
"Just now... was that me?"
In the basin, the broken reflection swayed, offering no answer.
Ye Qingya limped back to his quarters, his face still dark with rage.
The more he thought about it, the more suspicious it felt. After seven days behind closed doors, that trash had come out a different person—his words had teeth, his gaze was haunting, and even that "accidental" trip felt too perfect.
He stood up and went straight to Deacon Li, the man in charge of resource distribution.
He recounted the events with plenty of embellishment.
He focused on Ye Fen's "abnormality"—the seclusion, the strange behavior, the verbal defiance, and even "suspected" practice of forbidden arts.
Deacon Li's brow furrowed deeper as he listened.
The scene at the annulment banquet had already embarrassed the clan. Now, this secretive behavior...
"Enough," he interrupted Ye Qingya. "His resources for next month will be withheld for now. Find someone to keep an eye on his courtyard. Report any movement immediately."
Delight flared in Ye Qingya's heart as he quickly bowed and accepted the task.
Late at night.
Most of the lights in the Ye Clan estate had been extinguished, leaving only the flickering torches of the night patrol to pierce the darkness.
A hunched figure appeared silently at the entrance of the alleyway outside Ye Fen's small courtyard.
Nalan Fu.
He wore old, dark-grey clothes that almost melded into the night. His withered face was expressionless, but his hands—covered in calluses and old burn scars—clutched a small cloth bundle tightly.
He stood at the alley entrance for a long time, as if hesitating.
Eventually, he took a step forward, his footfalls incredibly light, moving like a cat without making the slightest sound.
He reached the gate and stopped.
The door was shut tight; the interior was pitch black.
Nalan Fu looked down at the bundle in his hands. It was wrapped in coarse hemp, tied with two tight knots. He crouched down and tucked the bundle under a stone block by the threshold, masking it with a few broken roof tiles.
Done, he stood up and looked at the closed, peeling wooden door.
his gaze was complicated.
There was guilt, helplessness, and a deeper, indefinable emotion.
He watched for a long time.
Then, he took two steps back and gave the door a deep bow.
His waist bent low, forming almost a right angle.
He held it for three breaths.
When he straightened, he said nothing. He stole one last glance at the hidden bundle, turned into the shadows, and vanished.
The night wind blew through the alley, swirling a few fallen leaves that came to rest by the stone block.
Under the broken tiles, the small hemp bundle lay silently.
Inside were several stalks of ordinary Spirit-Soothing Grass—shriveled from drying, their medicinal potency weak.
And a slip of paper.
The paper was blank; not a single word was written on it.