The silent communion with Luo Feng became a weekly ritual. Every time Mo Ye collected the spiritual waste, he would offer that same fleeting, unmasked glance—a spark of cold recognition in the sea of the young master's enforced tranquility. He never lingered, never spoke. He was a specter at the window of Luo Feng's prison, a constant, silent reminder that his humiliation was being witnessed by the one person he could not categorize or control.
The effect was subtle but profound. Luo Feng's recovery, under Elder Wu's meticulous care, began to stall. The elder's reports, which Mo Ye occasionally glimpsed in the scriptorium, spoke of "unexpected resilience in core personality matrices" and "residual spiritual turbulence." Elder Wu attributed it to the depth of Luo Feng's original flaws. Mo Ye knew it was the poison of a purpose he had injected—the seething need to prove himself not to Elder Wu, but to the ghost who mocked him with his silence.
This delicate manipulation was Mo Ye's primary cultivation. The intense, refined negativity radiating from Luo Feng's suppressed rage and fractured pride was a spiritual elixir. The Tri-Flame Vortex grew denser, the core of black flame now a palpable void within his dantian that seemed to drink the very light from the air around him when he fully unleashed it in his hidden corner. He was approaching the peak of the Third Stage, the power coiling inside him like a serpent ready to strike.
But the wider sect was changing around him. Empowered by the success in the Stone Teeth, Elder Wu's faction had consolidated control. Their rule was competent, efficient, and utterly devoid of inspiration. The war had devolved into a series of cautious skirmishes and defensive posturing. The "Unbroken Root" spirit of the menial disciples, once a fire of defiance, was slowly being ground down by this bureaucratic stalemate. The energy they produced was now the dull ache of endurance, still useful, but lacking the sharp potency Mo Ye craved for his final push to the next realm.
He needed a catalyst. A event that would shatter the sect's fragile equilibrium and release a torrent of the raw, chaotic emotions that were his truest fuel. He needed to force the Verdant Sword Sect to stop enduring and start feeling again.
The opportunity came from an unexpected quarter. His network, now extending into the kitchens, reported a curious detail. The Zhao Clan, in a seemingly diplomatic overture, had returned the bodies of the disciples killed in the southern ambush. It was a gesture meant to showcase their "honor," but Mo Ye's spies noted the Zhao envoys had been particularly interested in the sect's Spirit Herb Gardens, asking seemingly innocent questions about yields and cultivation techniques.
A cold smile touched Mo Ye's lips. He remembered the "Serpent's Venom" powder, the corrupted spiritual herbs. The Zhao were not just soldiers; they were masters of poison and biological warfare. Returning the bodies was not an act of honor. It was a delivery mechanism.
He acted with swift, ruthless precision. He did not go to the elders. That would be too direct, and Elder Wu's cautious nature might lead to an investigation that could uncover his network. Instead, he went to the one person whose pride would demand immediate, unquestioning action.
He requested a formal audience with Luo Feng.
The request, delivered through a confused guard, was so audacious it was granted out of sheer disbelief. Mo Ye was led into the secluded courtyard. Luo Feng was there, seated in his meditation array, but his posture was different. The hollow emptiness was gone, replaced by a tense, coiled stillness. His eyes, when they met Mo Ye's, held a banked fire of hatred and a desperate, hungry curiosity.
"You," Luo Feng said, his voice rough from disuse. "Why are you here, ghost?"
Mo Ye bowed, the picture of deference, but his eyes never wavered. "To bring you a weapon, Young Master. One that only you can wield."
He then laid out his theory. He spoke of the returned bodies, the Zhao's interest in the gardens, the history of the Serpent's Venom. He presented it not as his own deduction, but as "whispers among the menial disciples," information that the proud inner sect had overlooked. He framed it as a critical vulnerability that Elder Wu's slow, methodical approach was blind to.
"The Zhao do not attack with swords alone," Mo Ye concluded, his voice low and intense. "They attack with decay. They seek to poison our very foundation, to rot us from within while we play at defense. Someone must act. But the council is paralyzed by caution."
He was offering Luo Feng exactly what he needed: a cause, an enemy, and a way to reclaim his tarnished honor. He was presenting himself not as a rival, but as a source of vital intelligence, a tool for the young master's resurgence.
Luo Feng stared at him, his mind working furiously. He saw the logic. He also saw the manipulation. But the chance to strike back, to prove his value in a way that circumvented Elder Wu's stifling control, was too tempting to resist. The ghost was offering him a path out of his gilded cage, and the price was an alliance with the devil he didn't understand.
"What would you have me do?" Luo Feng asked, each word laced with a mixture of suspicion and grim anticipation.
"Convince the council to let you lead a mission," Mo Ye said. "Not a large one. A small, deniable team. To intercept the next Zhao supply convoy carrying the components for this new poison. Seize the evidence. Bring it back and shove it in the faces of those who doubted you." He paused, letting the image solidify. "But you must move quickly. The window is closing."
It was a gamble of breathtaking scale. Mo Ye was unleashing Luo Feng, a weapon of unpredictable trajectory, back onto the board. He was counting on the young master's wounded pride and desperate need for redemption to make him the perfect, passionate advocate for a preemptive strike. The resulting mission, whether it succeeded or failed, would destabilize Elder Wu's careful control and inject a massive dose of volatile emotion back into the sect.
The emotional energy in the room was already spiking. Luo Feng's hope, his hatred, his ambition—it was a heady brew. The Soul Flame within Mo Ye quivered with anticipation.
Luo Feng was silent for a long moment, his gaze locked with Mo Ye's. The understanding between them was absolute. This was not trust. It was a pact between a caged tiger and the shadow that promised to pick the lock.
"Leave me," Luo Feng said finally, his voice now firm, the fire fully rekindled in his eyes. "I have a report to write."
As Mo Ye turned to leave, he could feel the shift. The stagnant pond was about to be stirred by a hurricane. He had set the pieces in motion. Luo Feng would be his catalyst, the spark to ignite the next great conflagration. And from the ashes of that chaos, Lin Tianyao would rise, his power solidified, his vengeance one step closer. The ghost had just made its most dangerous move yet, betting the entire game on the unbridled ambition of a broken prodigy.