The journey back toward Azure Peak City unfolded in near silence. The surge of battle had long ebbed away, replaced by the bone-deep heaviness that came after violence and victory. The scent of sweat, blood, and tarnished silver hung thick in the air. The mercenaries spoke softly, their minds already on taverns, women, and dice. Scar gave Tianyao—whom they now simply called "Tian"—a solid pat on the shoulder, rough but not unkind.
"You're not as hopeless as you look, kid," the big man grumbled.
"Maybe we'll keep you around."
Tianyao's lips curved in a timid smile, the picture of shy gratitude. Yet behind his calm eyes, thoughts spun like a tightening coil. He had already mapped the mountain paths leading to the western ranges, marking the shortest route toward Serpent's Gulch. In the pouch at his side, the disciple's jade token and sealed letter seemed to pulse with heat, reminders of a promise he intended to fulfill.
Later that evening, Uncle Hei gathered them inside a dim back room of the Fading Moon Tavern, his scarred hands deftly counting spirit stones onto the table. When Tianyao's turn came, the old man flicked him five low-grade stones, then, after a pause, added one more.
"A little something extra," he said gruffly. "You handled that alpha beast smartly. Don't go wasting it all on cheap wine."
"Thank you, Elder Hei," Tianyao replied with a respectful bow.
"I… have some personal business to attend to."
The old mercenary narrowed his eyes, studying the young man's face.
"You've got a look about you now—a purpose. Just remember, boy, purpose can kill faster than fear. We'll be heading out in ten days. Blaze-Tailed Fox this time. Pelt's worth a small fortune. You're welcome to tag along."
"I'll think about it," Tianyao said sincerely. The group was useful cover, but another mission awaited.
Once outside, he drifted into the late-afternoon crowd and soon disappeared. He didn't return to the half-collapsed shed he had once used as his hideout. Instead, he slipped into a damp cavity beneath a broken bridge spanning the reeking canal of the Driftwood Sector. It was cramped, foul-smelling, and forgotten by the world—perfect for what he needed.
There, he dropped every trace of "Tian." His back straightened, his eyes sharpened. The hesitant, awkward youth vanished, replaced by something colder, focused, and utterly still. He drew out the belongings of the Verdant Sword disciple.
The token was plain—polished jade marked with a sword emblem and registration sigil. The sealed missive, however, held the real value. Breaking the wax, he scanned the page. Most of it was mundane: cultivation reports, herb collection tallies, and a short note to a supervising elder. But the postscript, hastily scrawled at the bottom, caught his attention:
> "Rumors of Zhao scouts near Serpent's Gulch. Investigating. Possible poaching of Frostbloom Orchids. Will confirm."
A thin smile touched Tianyao's lips. He investigated. He found them. And now, I'll complete his task.
He exhaled softly and whispered into the silence of his mind.
"Old one… what do you know of the Serpent's Gulch?"
The ghostly voice responded like a dry wind over bones.
"An ugly scar in the land. A narrow canyon where the stones bleed venom. The Qi there twists perception, poisons the mind. Gloom Serpents nest within—creatures prized for their toxic cores. It's a fine place for an ambush… or a grave."
Tianyao's plan took form like ink bleeding through paper. He would not simply strike down the Zhao poachers. He would turn their deaths into a tale—a convincing tragedy. The slain Verdant Sword disciple, dying valiantly while taking his Zhao killers with him. The evidence would speak of treachery, not vengeance.
And when word spread, the fragile truce between the Zhao-Profound Heaven alliance and the Verdant Sword Sect would begin to fracture. He would make certain of it.
When darkness finally swallowed the city, two moons rose—one silver, one stained crimson. Tianyao changed into a set of tight, dark garments and left the cheap iron dagger behind. That was for his mask as "Tian." For this hunt, he needed only the weapon forged in the Abyss.
He moved through Azure Peak like a drifting wraith. His strengthened limbs carried him soundlessly over rooftops and walls. Guards patrolled the western gate, but their eyes were fixed on the physical—never on the intangible shadow that slipped by them unseen.
Beyond the walls, he ran. Not with the clumsy rhythm of a low cultivator, but the relentless, graceful motion of a beast built for pursuit. The Violet Soul Flame pulsed at his core, feeding energy into muscle and nerve, lighting the night in shades of perception unseen by ordinary eyes. Every tree, rock, and Qi current was vivid, alive.
In less than two hours, he reached Serpent's Gulch. The terrain matched its name—twin cliffs of black, porous stone leaning inward to form a jagged throat. The air was humid, thick with a faintly sweet odor that dulled the mind. The whispers here weren't human; they hissed and slithered, seeping into one's thoughts.
Tianyao suppressed his presence completely, reducing himself to emptiness within the spiritual field. Step by step, he entered.
He didn't have to search long. A faint orange flicker ahead betrayed a campfire. Three Zhao cultivators lounged beside it, laughter echoing softly off the stone. Silver serpent badges gleamed on their chests. Their Qi was rough, unrefined—fourth or fifth stage of Condensation, nothing more.
One of them, thin-faced and sly, held a glowing root. The Sun-Spark Root.
"The Young Master will be pleased," he said, smirking. "This'll boost his cultivation nicely. That Verdant Sword fool practically offered himself up."
"His bad luck," the heavyset man chuckled. "Treaty's just ink. The Zhao bow only to strength."
The third man shifted uneasily. "We shouldn't linger. This place reeks of Gloom Serpents."
"Relax," sneered Weasel-Face. "The talismans will keep them away. We'll drink, then leave at dawn."
From his perch high above, Tianyao watched them with unblinking calm. Arrogant. Careless. Predictable. Perfect.
He didn't need an elaborate plan—only confusion, terror, and narrative.
He reached inward. The Violet Soul Flame answered, humming with restrained hunger. A faint thread of invisible fire leapt from his fingertip toward the cautious man. It slipped into the target's ear like a whisper.
The victim stiffened. His eyes widened, face draining of color as the flame's essence seeped into his soul. His mind filled with horrors—betrayal, decay, madness. His screams tore through the still night.
"What's wrong with you?!" barked Weasel-Face.
The afflicted man shrieked, swinging his blade wildly. "Stay away! Don't touch me!"
"Damn it, he's lost it!" shouted the large one, drawing his weapon. Steel rang, sparks flew, and the narrow canyon echoed with the chaos Tianyao had created.
That was his cue.
He dropped silently behind Weasel-Face, one hand muffling the man's cry, the other pressing against his spine. The violet glow pulsed once. No heat—only silence.
Weasel-Face's body sagged, lifeless, eyes glassy. Tianyao caught the falling root and slipped it into his pouch.
Down below, the maddened lackey had stabbed his comrade before dying by the same blade. The surviving Zhao stumbled, bleeding and horrified, surrounded by corpses.
"The Verdant Sword disciple," Tianyao murmured, his voice drifting through the dark.
The man spun. "Who—who's there?!"
"I am his answer," came the reply, cold as winter steel.
Tianyao appeared before him, silent as smoke. The man slashed in panic, but his sword dissolved into rust where Tianyao's fingers touched it.
"Tell the Zhao," Tianyao whispered, his hand resting over the man's heart. "The Lin send their regards."
A faint surge of Soul Flame rippled through the victim's core, burning through meridians but sparing his life—just barely. The man collapsed, writhing, his Qi unraveling into nothing.
Tianyao moved quickly. He arranged the corpses, scattered orchid petals, broke serpent pins, and positioned the token near the fallen disciple's remains. By the time he was done, the tableau told a perfect story—honor, vengeance, and mutual destruction.
The maimed survivor whimpered nearby, his mind shattered. He would live to tell a tale no one believed, speaking of a ghost wreathed in cold violet fire.
Satisfied, Tianyao faded back into shadow. The fire crackled beside the dead, sending thin tendrils of smoke toward the crimson moon.
He hadn't merely killed—he had sown discord. A single lie wrapped in truth, bound to ignite conflict.
By the time he returned to the city, the Violet Soul Flame within him pulsed brighter, steadier, hungrier. The first move in his long, quiet war was made.
Back under the bridge, he took out the Sun-Spark Root. Its golden radiance painted the filth in soft light.
A tool. A resource. Not for cultivation—its purity clashed with his Path—but for leverage.
He turned his gaze toward the district where the Verdant Sword Sect's banners fluttered faintly in the night breeze.
Soon, he thought, the flame in his eyes reflecting the glow of the root. Very soon.
The ghost had spoken.
Its message, written in blood and fire, had only just begun.