The raid on the Zhao safehouse changed the atmosphere of the Verdant Sword Sect. A palpable tension now hummed in the air, a constant, low-grade alarm that set everyone's nerves on edge. Patrols were doubled. The gates were reinforced. The carefree arrogance of the inner disciples was replaced by a grim watchfulness. The sect was a coiled spring, and the menial disciples were the ones who could feel the pressure most acutely, caught at the bottom with nowhere to run.
For Mo Ye, the heightened emotions were a feast. The Soul Flame burned with a steady, cold intensity, its power consolidating at the peak of the Second Stage of Soul Ignition. He could feel a barrier approaching, the threshold to the Third Stage. Breaking through would require a significant event, a surge of power or profound insight, but for now, the constant nourishment made his control finer, his senses sharper.
It was Li Na who brought him the news that would provide the catalyst. She found him during the midday meal, her expression grimmer than usual.
"The squad that returned from the safehouse raid," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "The disciple who was wounded... he didn't make it. His core shattered completely before dawn."
Mo Ye nodded slowly, absorbing this. A life, extinguished. A thread in the tapestry, cut. It was a data point, a confirmation of the conflict's escalating cost.
"There's more," she continued, her eyes scanning the area for eavesdroppers. "The scouts have reported movement. A small group of Zhao clansmen have been spotted taking a circuitous route towards the Shattered Ridge. They're being careful, but they're carrying something. Something sealed and heavily warded."
The Shattered Ridge. The name from the map. The place marked with the Spirit-Severing Mist.
Mo Ye's mind, cold and precise as a surgeon's blade, began to assemble the pieces. The Zhao had been stung. They were moving something valuable, using a forgotten, treacherous route to avoid sect patrols. They were vulnerable.
This was not just an opportunity for the Verdant Sword Sect. This was an opportunity for him.
He needed to act, but he could not be the one to raise the alarm. The connection would be too direct. He needed a catalyst, a voice that would be heard.
His gaze fell upon Luo Feng, who was holding court with a group of inner disciples on the other side of the mess hall, speaking loudly about the need for a "decisive counter-strike" to avenge the fallen disciple.
The proud, frustrated scion. The unwilling sword, desperate to be drawn.
The plan formed with crystalline clarity.
That afternoon, during his scriptorium duties, Mo Ye was tasked with delivering a set of freshly copied cultivation primers to the inner sect archives. It was a rare foray into a more central part of the sect. He moved with his head down, the picture of a humble courier.
The archives were a labyrinth of towering shelves, smelling of old paper and dust. As he placed the primers on a designated cart, he let his spiritual senses, honed to a razor's edge by the Soul Flame, stretch out. He was searching for a specific, familiar aura.
There. The proud, sharp, slightly agitated signature of Luo Feng. He was in a secluded alcove, studying a text on advanced sword forms.
Mo Ye did not approach him. Instead, he found a nearby table where a senior archivist was dozing over a pile of scrolls. On the edge of the table, partly unrolled, was a large, detailed map of the southern Azure Mist Mountains. It was a newer version than the one he had restored, but it contained the same features.
With the archivist snoring softly, Mo Ye picked up a fine-tipped ink brush from a pot. His movements were fluid and utterly silent. On the margin of the map, near the label for the Shattered Ridge, he made a tiny, almost imperceptible mark. It was not a character, but a simple symbol: a coiled serpent, identical to the pin worn by Zhao clansmen. He then, with the same brush, made a faint, wavy line from the symbol towards a nearby, well-patrolled sect trail—a suggestion of movement, of a path being taken.
It took less than three heartbeats. He set the brush down and left the archives, his delivery complete.
He had not spoken a word. He had not used a trace of his unique power. He had simply placed a suggestion, a seed of an idea, in a place where a proud, ambitious young man, hungry for glory and validation, would find it.
The following morning, the sect erupted with news. Luo Feng, acting on "his own tactical analysis," had presented the Elder's council with a bold plan. He had "deduced" that the Zhao were using the Shattered Ridge to smuggle a valuable asset and proposed leading a small, elite team to intercept them, to seize the asset and capture the clansmen for questioning. It was a chance to deal a significant blow, to gain both a tactical and intelligence victory.
The elders, pressured by the recent death and the need to show strength, approved the mission.
Mo Ye watched from the gardens as Luo Feng and five other carefully chosen inner disciples, their auras blazing with determination and martial pride, departed the sect gates. They moved with a confident swiftness, the dawning sun glinting off their sword hilts.
Li Na came to stand beside him, her arms crossed. "The Young Master seeks to make a name for himself," she muttered.
"He seeks to be a sword," Mo Ye replied, his voice quiet. "But he does not control the hand that wields him."
Three days passed. The tension within the sect was a drawn bowstring. Then, the signal flares were seen from the direction of the Shattered Ridge—not the green of success, but the urgent, bloody red of a distress call, repeated in a frantic pattern that signaled an ambush and heavy casualties.
Panic ensued. A rescue party, led by a furious Elder Guo, was scrambled and shot from the sect like an arrow.
When they returned, the cost was clear. Of Luo Feng's team of six, only two returned, both gravely wounded. Luo Feng himself was carried back on a stretcher, pale and unconscious, a deep, venom-blackened gash across his chest. His proud aura was flickering, unstable. The asset the Zhao had been moving was a trap—a powerful, enchanted snare designed to disrupt spiritual energy, perfectly exploiting the natural Spirit-Severing Mist of the ridge. The "small group" of Zhao clansmen had been the bait for a larger, well-prepared force.
The Verdant Sword Sect had not just been stung; it had been gut-punched. A scion of a powerful family was hovering near death, and some of its most promising young disciples were dead.
The wave of shock, grief, and boiling rage that swept through the sect was a tsunami of negative emotion. It was a power so dense, so potent, that Mo Ye, standing in the gardens, could feel it washing over him like a physical tide. He did not even need to actively draw it in; the Soul Flame in his dantian roared to life, gorging itself on the collective anguish.
In the privacy of his forgotten corner that night, as the sect mourned, Lin Tianyao closed his eyes. The influx of power was immense, a violent, surging river crashing against the dam of his current realm. The barrier to the Third Stage, which had felt so solid, now shuddered under the onslaught. It did not break, not yet, but it was a seismic event that solidified his foundation to an unshakable degree.
He had orchestrated a tragedy. He had sacrificed pawns to wound a knight. He had lured the Verdant Sword Sect deeper into the war he needed them to fight.
And in the ensuing maelstrom of their suffering, he had found the power to take another step forward on his Path.
He opened his eyes, the violet light within them glowing faintly in the absolute darkness. The ghost had not just guided the hand holding the sword. It had deliberately aimed that sword at a shield, knowing both would be damaged in the impact.
The cost was acceptable. The path was clear. The fire he had kindled was now a blaze, and he stood at its heart, untouched, drawing strength from the conflagration.