The fourth bell clanged, a harsh, metallic scream that tore through the pre-dawn stillness of the outer sect. Lin Tianyao—Mo Ye—rose with the two dozen other menial disciples in the long, damp dormitory. There was no conversation, only the sounds of weary movement: the rustle of coarse robes, the shuffle of tired feet, the occasional cough that echoed in the gloom.
He collected his tools—a wooden bucket and an iron hoe, both worn smooth by countless anonymous hands—and joined the river of grey-clad disciples flowing towards the terraced Spirit Herb Gardens. The air was cold and carried the sharp, clean scent of the mountain, a scent that would soon be replaced by the smell of sweat and damp earth.
Overseer Zhang was waiting for them at the entrance to the West Quadrant, his bloated form silhouetted against the first faint light of dawn. His face was perpetually set in a scowl of dissatisfaction.
"You are all slower than a three-legged tortoise!" he barked, his voice slicing through the quiet. "The Spirit Moss does not care for your laziness! The Luminous Roots do not wait for your sloth! To your stations! Channel your qi with purpose, you worthless maggots! Let me see even a single leaf wilt, and your spirit stone ration is forfeit!"
The disciples scattered to their assigned plots like frightened beetles. Mo Ye moved to his designated patch, a ten-by-ten-foot square of velvety green moss interspersed with the faintly glowing bulbs of Luminous Roots. He knelt, the dampness of the stone immediately seeping through his thin trousers.
This was his new world. A world of endless, mind-numbing repetition. He began the work, his fingers meticulously plucking the tiny, invasive weeds that threatened to choke the spiritual plants. It was work that required a monk's patience and an ox's endurance. For the others, it was a purgatory. For Mo Ye, it was a meditation.
His body performed the tasks with a robotic efficiency, but his mind was a fortress of cold, calculating will. The greatest challenge was not the labor, but the cultivation. The Verdant Sword Sect thrived on pure, vibrant wood and metal elemental energy, which was anathema to his Soul Flame. He could not openly draw it in. He existed in a world of plenty, starving in plain sight.
His solution was as ingenious as it was insidious. He had learned in the Abyss that the Path of the Soul Flame fed on potent negative emotions. And the outer sect, especially the menial disciples, was a fertile breeding ground for them.
As he worked, he opened his spiritual senses just a crack, not to absorb the ambient qi, but to taste the emotional miasma that hung over the gardens like an invisible fog. He became a connoisseur of despair.
He listened to the two disciples weeding the plot next to his.
"Another month of this," one muttered, his voice thick with a hollow ache. "My little sister... she thinks I'm here becoming an immortal. If she could see me now, scrabbling in the dirt like a common farmer..."
The emotion was a grey, heavy mist of shame and broken hope. Mo Ye did not hear the words; he absorbed the essence. Invisible to all, he drew a wisp of that despair into himself. The Violet Soul Flame in his dantian flickered, not with joy, but with cold acknowledgment, and consumed it. It was a meager sustenance, but it was constant.
Later, Overseer Zhang passed by, stopping to inspect the work of a young disciple. The boy trembled under his gaze.
"Useless!" Zhang roared, his face purpling with a rage that was both performative and deeply felt. "This root is pale! You have been channeling impure qi! You are poisoning the sect's resources with your incompetence! This comes from your pay! Let the hunger teach you what your mind cannot grasp!"
The hot, toxic stream of the overseer's malice and the boy's shamed, terrified humiliation was a richer fuel. Mo Ye drew it in, a subtle, invisible drain. The air around him felt slightly cleaner, though no one would ever notice. The Soul Flame grew a fraction steadier, its violet light tinged with the faintest echo of the bitterness it had consumed.
This was his true cultivation. While his hands were occupied with menial tasks, his spirit fed on the shadows cast by the sect's own structure. He was a spiritual parasite, thriving in the darkness of their crushed ambitions and petty tyrannies.
"Efficient," Old Man Kui's voice murmured in his mind, a dry rasp of approval. "You turn their prison into your cultivation ground. They look down upon the dirt, not realizing you are cultivating a poisonous bloom from the filth of their spirits."
It is the only way, Mo Ye replied, his movements never ceasing. Their prideful qi would extinguish my flame. But their regrets... their regrets are a fuel that burns slow and cold. Perfect.
Days bled into one another, marked only by the rising and setting of the sun and the clanging of the duty bell. He was a ghost, a stone, utterly unremarkable. He spoke only when necessary, his answers short and deferential. He was the perfect menial disciple: silent, obedient, and invisible.
A week after his arrival, the first ripple of conflict touched his isolated world. A group of inner disciples strolled through the gardens, their green and white robes crisp, their auras bright and untroubled. They moved with an easy confidence that was a physical blow to the bent-backed workers.
At their center was Luo Feng. He was perhaps seventeen, with sharp, handsome features and a cultivation base at the peak of Qi Condensation. The grandson of a powerful Elder, he was everything Mo Ye was supposed to have been: a cherished prodigy.
Luo Feng's gaze swept over the workers, a faint, condescending smirk on his lips. His eyes fell upon Mo Ye, who was performing the pantomime of channeling his fake qi into the Spirit Moss.
"Look at this one," Luo Feng said, his voice ringing with amusement. "So dedicated to a patch of weeds. It's almost admirable, in a pathetic way. Tell me, disciple, do you truly believe you can find the Dao by talking to moss?"
His companions chuckled. Overseer Zhang, who had been hovering nearby, immediately fawned, "Young Master Luo, pay this one no mind. He is new. The dreams have not yet been beaten out of him."
Mo Ye kept his head down, his hands resting on the cool, velvety surface of the moss. He did not respond. The insult was nothing. The condescension was air. But Luo Feng's aura—the pure, unadulterated pride and the casual, unthinking cruelty—was a potent, intoxicating scent. It was a complex, high-quality fuel compared to the simple despair of the menial disciples.
The Violet Soul Flame within him stirred with a flicker of genuine interest.
"Has the labor robbed you of your tongue?" Luo Feng prodded, taking a step closer. His shadow fell over Mo Ye. "Or are you simply too dull-witted to form a reply?"
Slowly, deliberately, Mo Ye lifted his head. He did not meet Luo Feng's eyes directly, instead fixing his gaze on a point just past the young master's shoulder. His own expression was carefully blank, a placid lake hiding unfathomable depths. Internally, he was analyzing, categorizing.
Spoiled. Used to instant submission. A product of the system I will dismantle. His pride is a weakness waiting to be exploited.
"I apologize, Young Master," Mo Ye said, his voice a low, neutral monotone that held neither fear nor respect. "My focus is on my duty. The moss requires care."
Luo Feng's smirk faltered. He stared at this unassuming boy, this nothing. There was no cowering, no stammering apology. There was only... nothing. A void where his superiority should have been reflected. It was unnerving.
"See that it gets it," Luo Feng said finally, the humor gone from his voice, replaced by a faint, puzzled irritation. He turned and strode away, his entourage following.
The moment he left, the tension broke. The other menial disciples let out collective sighs of relief. Overseer Zhang shot Mo Ye a venomous look, as if the interaction was a personal affront.
But Mo Ye had already returned to his work. The encounter was filed away. Luo Feng was not yet a direct enemy. He was a symbol, a piece on the board. And more importantly, the brief interaction had provided a surge of potent, prideful energy that the Soul Flame had eagerly, silently devoured.
That night, as he lay on his hard bunk, the cacophony of the dormitory a dull roar in his ears, he replayed the event. His disguise had held under the scrutiny of a privileged scion. He had been insulted, and he had felt nothing but a hunter's clinical assessment of prey.
He closed his eyes, and in the private darkness of his mind, he smiled. It was a cold, thin expression that held no warmth.
The ghost was not just in the house. It was learning the routines, tasting the food, and marking the inhabitants. The humility of stones was a patient, powerful disguise. And Lin Tianyao, the prodigy survivor, was the most patient stone of all.
The ember was buried deep, feeding on the rot, waiting for the wind to fan it into a blaze. The garden of regrets was yielding a bitter, but bountiful, harvest.