The news of Jiang Zhongbai's death tore through the Xuantian Sect like wildfire across sun-scorched plains, its heat reaching every corner—from the gilt-trimmed halls of the Inner Sect to the shadowed, ornate chambers of the Outer Sect.
In one such chamber, flickering oil lamps battled the gloom, their golden light glinting off jade-inlaid walls and casting a warm sheen over polished stone floors. Around a mahogany table, carved with intricate cloud motifs and polished to a mirror's gleam, sat a group of grizzled men.
Their silk robes, faded with age yet edged with subtle silver threads, draped over frames weathered by time but softened by the wealth of their cunning.
These Outer Court Elders, though scorned by the inner elite, gripped their riches tightly. Their coffers overflowed with spirit stones and rare elixirs, amassed through decades of ruthless thrift. The air carried the spiced scent of aged wine and the faint musk of luxurious incense, their low voices blending into a tense, restless murmur.
At the table's head sat a figure in faded yellow robes, the fabric faintly shimmering with embroidered runes. His presence was a quiet storm—restrained yet charged with unspoken power. Time had stooped his broad shoulders, but his grizzled beard and rough, oak-like hands bore scars of a life shaped by battle and profit.
"Jiang Zhongbai's gone," one man rasped, his voice coarse as grinding gravel, his gnarled fingers, adorned with a single jade ring, tapping a sharp rhythm on the table's edge.
"Cut down by Young Master Qin Ting in the Lian Yun Mountains," another confirmed, his hawkish eyes flashing beneath tangled brows, sharp and predatory in the light of a sapphire-crusted lamp.
"Good riddance," an elder spat, his voice creaking like old timber. His eyes narrowed with contempt as he adjusted the heavy gold chain across his bony chest. "That Jiang Zhongbai strutted like he was above us, just 'cause he reached the Divine Platform Realm first. A peasant's whelp, acting like some heaven-kissed prodigy."
"The Holy Son's mantle falls to the Young Master now," a third voice hissed, dry and laced with envy. "The Qin Family's grip on our sect tightens," he added, fingers tracing the rim of a jade wine cup worth more than a disciple's yearly stipend.
A figure in black robes, subtly lined with rare moon silk, leaned forward, his gaunt, sallow face splitting into a jagged smirk. "Elder Zhang crossed Qin Ting once, didn't he? That scheming, thieving rat of a deacon… He even threw in with Jiang Zhongbai and that broken fool back then."
All eyes turned to the yellow-robed man, his robes pooling around him like spilled honey, their faint shimmer a testament to his enduring wealth. He stroked his beard, the coarse bristles rasping against calloused fingers bearing a single ruby ring.
His voice, when he spoke, was deep and measured, each word heavy as a stone dropped into a still pond. "Zhang Wu's no elder now—just a disgraced servant, scrubbing filth and scouring pots. But his corruption lingers. It falls to us to root it out."
The men bared crooked grins, their spirits rising like hounds scenting blood. "Aye," they growled in unison, voices rough and eager, "let's purge the blight!"
They rose together, their footsteps a deep rumble against the polished stone floor, echoing through the Outer Court's labyrinthine corridors. The air grew colder and sharper as they descended from their lavish quarters toward Zhang Wu's dwelling. The lower warrens' moss-slicked walls gleamed with moisture, catching the faint torchlight.
In the stifling stillness, the rhythmic drip of water sounded like a quiet omen, each drop tolling fate. At last, they reached his door—a warped oak slab, banded with rusted iron, a frail barrier to the squalor within.
The yellow-robed man stepped forward, his scarred knuckles a map of old wars etched in pale ridges. He raised a fist and roared, "Zhang Wu! Your greed ends here!" His voice thundered, shaking the door's frame and rattling its hinges.
They stormed inside, their righteous wrath tempered by the creak of aging bones. Fists clenched, eyes blazing—only to freeze midstride, breath catching in their throats. The room was a fetid pit, unfit even for the lowliest servant. The air choked with the cloying stench of decay, mingling with unwashed flesh and moldering straw.
The cracked, grime-streaked walls seemed to lean inward, as if to bury the shame of their occupant. A splintered stool and a chipped clay bowl sat in one corner, the meager remnants of a man who once chased grandeur.
Zhang Wu lay sprawled across a rotting pallet of straw and rags, limbs flung out like a broken puppet. His face was frozen in a scream of torment, deep furrows darkened by time and treachery. Black, tar-like blood oozed from his eyes, nose, and mouth, pooling in the hollows of his gaunt cheeks.
Beside him, the serrated, emerald leaves of Soul Reaper Grass glimmered faintly in the lamplight—a silent confession of his final choice.
The man in black hissed sharply, his breath slicing the silence. "Shrewd old bastard…"
Their plan had been simple: kill Zhang Wu and present his head to Qin Ting, a grisly token to win favor under the Qin Family's rising shadow. Even a sliver of their fortune outshone the elders' hoarded wealth. But Zhang Wu, rattled by Jiang Zhongbai's death, had outwitted them in death, stealing their victory with one final, cunning act.
His corpse, sprawled in the filth of his den, left them only the bitter sting of anticlimax, heavy as the damp mist clinging to the chamber's crumbling walls.
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
At Hidden Sword Peak, the wind howled through jagged crags, carrying the sharp scent of steel and frost. Luo Yuan sat cross-legged on a weathered granite slab, its surface scarred by time.
His sword lay across his knees, its polished blade catching the crescent moon's faint light, casting slivers of silver across the stone. Beside him, Qin Ting's expedition report lay crumpled, its ink smeared by the mountain's damp air. 'Junior Brother Qin outstrips me again,' he thought, fingers tightening on the sword's worn leather hilt, its cool texture a silent challenge.
'Still, our fates are entwined, roots knotted beneath the same ancient tree,' he mused. 'His rise lifts me too—he must see me as a friend, perhaps the closest among us True Disciples.' A sly smirk curved his lips, mischief glinting in his shadowed eyes.
He imagined Feng Qianhan's reaction—a storm of pride and veiled panic. The thought was a sharp delight, as bracing as the wind whipping through the peaks.
At Winterfang Peak, eternal frost shimmered in the air, suspending time itself. The snow-draped ground crunched softly, a delicate counterpoint to the towering silence.
Feng Qianhan stood at the edge of an ice-carved training platform, his crimson robes a vivid streak against the endless white, his breath curling into fleeting clouds in the biting cold.
Shock widened his eyes, rage tightened his jaw, and grudging acceptance softened the deep lines on his brow. The news sank into his bones: Jiang Zhongbai, his unmatched rival, felled by Qin Ting with startling ease.
After a long silence, he turned to the maid trembling in the doorway, her slight frame dwarfed by the peak's cold grandeur. "Fetch my finest treasures from the vault—something rare, a gift fit for a conqueror. I'll meet Junior Brother Qin myself when he returns."
The maid hurried off, her footsteps muffled by the snow. Feng Qianhan exhaled slowly, a plume of white unfurling into the crystalline night before fading. A cynical smile flickered across his lips, sharp as ice glinting in moonlight. 'Fortunate I never crossed him,' he thought, quiet relief easing the tension that had gripped him like frost on stone.
'A touch of deference, a few well-chosen gifts, and he'll have no reason to turn that blade my way,' he reflected, bracing against the icy railing, its chill biting through his robes. The tempest of his thoughts settled into a delicate, crystalline calm, the unrelenting cold bearing witness to his measured surrender.