The two weeks following the "Trine Harmonization" were the quietest Gu Xuan had experienced since finding the scripture.
He had settled back into his ghost-like existence in the Discarded Records Pavilion, a predator digesting an enormous meal.
His outward appearance remained that of the Level 5 archivist, plain and forgettable, but his inner world had been fundamentally rewritten.
His Foundation Establishment was not just stable; it was profound. The combined, refined, and harmonized energies of Su Linyue's pure Yin and Bai Xiaofei's volatile Yang circulated within him, a perfect, self-sustaining vortex.
He was an ocean of calm, controlled power. But it was more than that. Something else was different.
He was in his small, spartan cottage, late into the night. A simple bowl of congee sat on his table, his chopsticks resting beside it.
He had been meditating, analyzing the Trine Harmonization. He could still feel the echoes of it: the profound spiritual and physical connection, the flux that had bound the three of them together.
He recalled the moment of perfect balance, his body the bridge, Su Linyue's cooling river and Bai Xiaofei's scorching spark flowing through him, merging, and returning to each other purified. It was a power he had not even begun to fully comprehend.
His meditation ended, and he reached for his chopsticks. His fingers, which had always been precise from his archival work, closed around the wood with an alien grace.
It was a subtle, preternatural elegance, a dexterity that felt less like his own and more like an echo of Bai Xiaofei's hands as they measured spiritual dust. He picked up a single grain of rice, his hand as steady as a mountain.
He frowned. He set the chopsticks down and looked at his hands. A moment later, a fly, drawn by the dim lamplight, buzzed near his ear.
Without thinking, his hand flashed out. His fingers didn't just grab; they intercepted, plucking the insect from the air with the casual, reflexive speed of a master swordsman.
He stared at the crushed fly in his palm, a cold, deep unease settling in his stomach. That wasn't his speed. That was her speed.
It was in that moment of profound, internal stillness that his new, heightened senses picked up a disturbance.
It wasn't a sound, not at first. It was a distortion in the night air, a ripple in the spiritual energy of the Outer Sect.
Three auras, two tense and thrumming with malice, one burning with an arrogant, unstable fire, were moving with attempted stealth toward his cottage.
Killing intent.
Gu Xuan's eyes opened in the darkness, and a slow, cold smile touched his lips. He didn't move. He didn't light a candle. He simply sat on his bed, a serpent waiting patiently.
Zhang Wei.
The humiliation in the Mission Hall had been a deliberate poke at the hornet's nest.
An arrogant young master, especially one who had a history of sabotaging his rivals, could not let such an insult stand.
He couldn't attack Su Linyue, a newly minted Foundation Establishment expert. So, he would come for the next best thing. The "pet." The "filth." The weak, insignificant archivist who had dared to stand by her side.
CRASH!
The flimsy wooden door of his cottage didn't just open; it exploded inward, shattered into splinters.
"Get up, you worthless piece of trash!" a voice roared.
Two figures, disciples in the dark blue robes of the Inner Sect, burst in. Both were at the peak of Qi Condensation, Level 9, their auras flaring, their faces twisted in cruel sneers.
They were Zhang Wei's loyal dogs.
Gu Xuan "jolted" awake, scrambling off the bed in a perfect portrayal of terror.
"Se-Senior Brothers? What is this? It's the middle of the night! I... I don't understand!"
"Shut your mouth, rat!" the first disciple snarled, drawing his sword. His name was Hu Long. "You've been getting awfully cozy with Senior Sister Su. You seem to have forgotten your place. Young Master Zhang is... displeased. He wants you to learn a lesson."
"A permanent one," the second disciple, Hu Feng, added, his blade gleaming. "And he wants us to take our time."
From the shattered doorway, a third figure slowly entered, his arms crossed, a look of utter contempt on his handsome face. It was Zhang Wei.
He radiated the unstable, arrogant power of an Initial Foundation Establishment cultivator, a power that felt crude and chaotic to Gu Xuan's new, perfected senses.
"This is what happens to vermin that don't know their place, Gu Xuan," Zhang Wei gloated, his voice dripping with condescension.
"Touching what's mine. Did you really think she could protect you? She's just a broken toy I threw away, and you're the dog that picked it up." He sneered. "After my brothers are done, I might just break your hands and cut out your tongue. A mute, crippled archivist. That suits you better. Kill him."
"No! Please!" Gu Xuan "panicked." He yelped, stumbling backward, his hand fumbling for the cheap, sect-issued iron sword he kept by his bed. He raised it in a "desperate," trembling guard.
Hu Long laughed. "Look at him! He's pissed himself!" He lunged, his sword a streak of light. It was a standard "Piercing Star" thrust—fast, direct, and aimed to impale Gu Xuan's shoulder, a non-lethal but agonizing first wound.
Gu Xuan, in his "terror," tripped over his own feet, falling backward. His sword came up in a clumsy, flailing arc, as if to ward off the blow.
But the arc... was perfect.
His mind was screaming in (feigned) terror, but his body... his body was bored. His wrist moved with an alien, instinctive grace.
The cheap iron sword met Hu Long's steel blade not with a clang, but with a soft, precise shing. He didn't just block; he deflected.
The angle, the timing, the subtle twist of his wrist that transferred the opponent's momentum—it was not his clan's clumsy art. It was the "First Frost" parry. It was Su Linyue's signature move.
Gu Xuan's own mind reeled in shock, but his act was flawless.
Hu Long's eyes widened. His thrust, which should have pierced flesh, had been turned aside with an expert's ease, leaving his entire flank exposed. It was a one-in-a-million fluke.
"Idiot! Stop playing!" Hu Feng snarled, seeing his brother falter. He attacked from the side, a sweeping "Tiger's Claw" chop aimed at Gu Xuan's neck.
Gu Xuan was still "falling." He "flailed" his arms to catch his balance. But his "stumble" was not a stumble. It was a "Moon-Chasing Step."
His foot landed in the precise spot that put him just outside the chop's radius, while simultaneously positioning him inside Hu Long's guard.
It was the single most brilliant piece of footwork he had ever performed, and he hadn't even thought about it.
"Wha—" Hu Long started to say, trying to recover.
Gu Xuan's sword "slipped" from his trembling hand. But it slipped forward. The blade slid between the man's ribs with the sound of tearing silk, puncturing his heart. It was a "lucky" shot of impossible, lethal precision.
Gu Xuan "cried out" in fear, yanking his blade free as Hu Long collapsed, his eyes wide with a final, uncomprehending shock.
"Brother!" Hu Feng screamed, his mind breaking. He stared at Gu Xuan, then at his dead brother. "You... you... that was...!"
He was a peak Qi Condensation expert. This Level 5 ghost had just executed two high-level sword maneuvers and killed his partner. It was impossible.
"It was an accident!" Gu Xuan cried, his voice a terrified squeak. He scrambled to his feet, holding his sword out. "I didn't mean to! He ran onto my blade!"
"Die!" Hu Feng roared, his fear turning to rage. He lunged, all technique forgotten in his panic, his sword swinging in a wild, desperate arc.
Gu Xuan "tripped" again. But this time, he tripped forward. He fell right into the man's lunge, his cheap iron sword held low.
The disciple, in his forward momentum, impaled himself, driving the blade clean through his own throat.
He gurgled, his hands clawing at the blade, before collapsing on top of his companion.
Silence.
The entire fight had taken less than a minute.
Gu Xuan stood over the two bodies, his chest "heaving" in "panic." He was still, for all appearances, the terrified, plain-faced archivist.
Zhang Wei stood in the doorway, his face pale, his arrogant smirk completely gone, replaced by a look of dawning horror.
"You... you're not Level 5," he whispered, his voice shaking. He was a Foundation Establishment expert, but he had just watched a "Level 5" disciple slaughter two Level 9 experts with techniques he recognized—techniques that belonged to Su Linyue.
This wasn't an accident. This wasn't a fluke. This was a monster.