The success of their plan brought with it a new, insidious set of problems. Yue Qingqian's celebrity status was no longer a matter of mere whispers; it was a sect-wide phenomenon.
A simple trip to the Outer Sect's supply depot for basic rations turned into a major event. Disciples would part for her like the sea before a prophet, bowing their heads, their eyes filled with reverence. Some bolder ones would try to ask her for enlightenment on their cultivation bottlenecks.
"Sage of the Ninth Peak, I am stuck at the third layer of Qi Condensation. Can you... can you listen to the 'song' of my spiritual energy?" one desperate disciple pleaded, blocking her path.
Yue Qingqian, remembering her script, simply stared at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes and replied, "Your song is very... yellow. It needs more blue." She then walked away, leaving the disciple in a state of profound confusion, but also deep contemplation.
This was their new reality. They were safe from direct challenges, but their quiet, invisible life was gone forever. Every step outside their peak was a performance.
The more dangerous consequence of their fame, however, was not from the disciples below, but from the elders above. Liu Changqing's passionate advocacy and the Sect Master's intrigued silence had created a power vacuum around Yue Qingqian, and others were beginning to notice.
The new threat did not come from a sword, but from an abacus.
Elder Zhao, the head of the sect's Resource Allocation Hall, was a man who believed in numbers, not myths. He was a shrewd, pragmatic man with a sharp nose for inefficiency and waste. And in his ledgers, the Ninth Peak, which for decades had been a negligible drain on resources, had suddenly become an astronomical expenditure, all attributed to the "meditations" of a single disciple. He did not believe it for a second.
He chose his moment perfectly. One afternoon, as Yue Qingqian was returning from another "lesson" with Liu Changqing, Elder Zhao "coincidentally" met her on a quiet mountain path. He was a thin man with a wispy beard and eyes that seemed to calculate everything they saw.
"Quasi-Saintess Yue," he said, his voice smooth and polite, a stark contrast to his piercing gaze. He offered a perfunctory bow. "I have heard much about your profound Dao. It is truly a blessing for our sect."
"Thank you, Elder," Yue Qingqian replied, her internal alarms blaring. This man was not on her Senior Brother's list of known entities. He was an unknown variable, the most dangerous kind.
"I am a simple man of numbers," Elder Zhao continued, getting straight to the point. "Your master, Elder Liu, is a man of great passion. He has recently requisitioned an extraordinary amount of... let us say, valuable resources in the name of your enlightenment. A thousand-year-old tortoise shell, three stalks of soul-soothing spirit grass, a fist-sized piece of netherworld ice jade... The list is quite impressive."
He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "My question is simple. Can you explain to me, in practical terms that a simple accountant can understand, how these resources contribute to the tangible strength and prosperity of our Tianxuan Sect?"
This was a new kind of attack. It was a question that Lin Fan's scripts of poetry and harmony could not answer. It was a direct challenge to the practical value of her entire existence.
Yue Qingqian's mind went blank. The Pill of Profound Calm kept her heart steady, but the pressure from this man's logical, unyielding gaze was immense. She had no script for this.
She fell back on the only defense she had left: the core of her persona.
She stared at Elder Zhao, her head tilted, her expression not one of defiance or evasion, but of genuine, profound, almost pitiful confusion. It was as if he had just asked a fish to explain the principles of architecture.
"Numbers...?" she repeated softly, the word sounding alien on her tongue. "Strength...? But... they are just different songs. The tortoise shell sings a very slow, quiet song. The ice jade sings a very cold, sleepy song. I... I listen to them, so my own song can become quieter. Is... is a quiet song not a good song?"
Her response was so utterly disconnected from the context of his question, so perfectly, childishly sincere, that Elder Zhao was momentarily stunned into silence. He had come prepared to dismantle logical fallacies and expose fraudulent claims. He had not come prepared for this level of pure, unadulterated absurdity.
He stared at her for a long moment, his sharp mind trying to find an angle, a crack in her facade. But there was none. She wasn't being evasive; she genuinely seemed incapable of comprehending his question.
Frustration warred with suspicion on his face. He could prove nothing. To press the issue further would be to publicly question the judgment of both Elder Liu and the Sect Master.
"A... quiet song," he finally said, his voice tight with restrained exasperation. "I see. You have given me... much to contemplate, Quasi-Saintess."
With a stiff, final bow, he turned and walked away, his mind in turmoil. He was not convinced, not for a second. But he had been defeated.
Yue Qingqian watched him go, her knees feeling weak. She had survived, but just barely. She hurried back to Xiao Xiao Peak, her heart pounding with a new sense of urgency.
She had to tell her Senior Brother. Their legend had attracted a new, more dangerous type of enemy—one who couldn't be fooled by performances. The clock was ticking. Their need to find their "sanctuary" was no longer a distant dream; it was becoming a desperate necessity.