The decision to seek aid from the Profound Heaven Sect sent a new, complex ripple through the Verdant Sword's stagnant emotional waters. For some, it was a final, humiliating surrender. For others, a slender thread of hope. For Lin Tianyao, it was a declaration of war—a personal one. The thought of his clan's murderers walking these halls as honored guests, their condescending gazes sweeping over the ruin they had helped engineer, ignited a cold, focused fury within him that was far more potent than any ambient despair.
The Void-Sapphire flame responded to this purified hatred, burning with a sharper, more aggressive light. This was no longer about harvesting energy; it was about active defense. He would poison the well so thoroughly that no one would dare drink from it.
His first move was against the delegation itself. The two junior elders chosen for the mission were known quantities—one pragmatic but timid, the other prideful but insecure. Mo Ye could not stop them from leaving, but he could ensure they carried the wrong message.
Through Li Na, he spread a carefully crafted narrative among the disciples who would see the delegation off. The story was not one of desperate need, but of foolish pride. He let it be known that the elders were going not as humble petitioners, but to "remind the Profound Heaven of their treaty obligations," to "demand what is rightfully owed." It was a small twist, but it shaped the emotional send-off. Instead of quiet support, the delegation left under a cloud of anxious skepticism, the disciples' fears of further humiliation already pre-kindled.
Next, he turned to the sect's physical state. The delegation would return with the Profound Heaven envoys in a week. The council, in a flurry of activity, ordered a cleanup. Broken facades were to be patched, courtyards swept, the most obvious signs of decay hidden beneath a thin venecer of order. Mo Ye was tasked with making the West Quadrant presentable.
He obeyed, but with a traitor's diligence. He "repaired" a crumbling wall section with substandard mortar that would begin to crack within days. He "pruned" the Spirit Moss in a way that made it look even more sickly and uneven. He ensured the few healthy Luminous Roots were hidden from the main path, while the wilting ones were prominently displayed. He was not sabotaging; he was curating. He was preparing an exhibition of failure.
His most subtle work, however, was on the disciples themselves. The council, in a desperate attempt to project strength, ordered all disciples to maintain a "unified and dignified demeanor" in the presence of the envoys. This top-down command, born of fear, was a gift to Mo Ye. He used his network to subvert it.
Whispers began to circulate. "Why should we put on a show for them? They left us to fight alone." Another: "I heard the envoys are coming to assess if we're worth saving. If we look too weak, they'll abandon us. If we look too strong, they'll think we don't need help." A third, more insidious: "Perhaps they're not coming to help, but to see what's left to take."
The result was not the dignified unity the council wanted, but a strained, artificial performance. Disciples walked the paths with stiff, unnatural postures. Their smiles were tight, their eyes shadowed with a mixture of resentment and fear. The air grew thick with a performative anxiety that was more telling than outright despair. It was the silence of a family hiding its dysfunctions from visiting relatives, a silence that screamed of internal rot.
The day of the envoys' arrival dawned. Two figures in stark white and silver robes, their auras carefully contained but radiating an undeniable sense of superiority, entered the sect gates. They were led by the returning delegation, whose own energy was now frayed and defensive.
Mo Ye watched from a distance, hauling a basket of weeds. He saw the lead envoy, a man with a face like carved ice, sweep his gaze across the meticulously swept yet spiritually barren courtyard. His eyes lingered on the patched walls, on the disciples who stood a little too straight, their expressions a little too blank. He did not see resilience. He saw a desperate pantomime.
The tour began. When they reached the West Quadrant, Mo Ye was on his knees, carefully tending to a particularly pathetic patch of moss. He felt the envoys' spiritual senses brush over him—a casual, dismissive probe, the kind one would use on a piece of furniture. He was ready. His aura was a perfect, shallow pond of menial drudgery, the vast, dark ocean of the Soul Condensation Realm hidden in unfathomable depths.
The lead envoy's gaze passed over the garden, over Mo Ye, and onto the sickly Luminous Roots. A faint, almost imperceptible frown touched his lips. He said nothing, but the dismissal in his eyes was more eloquent than any curse.
The negotiations were brief. Held in the main hall, the details were secret, but the outcome was written in the grim resignation on the faces of the Verdant Sword elders and the polite, unyielding coldness on the faces of the envoys as they departed a mere two hours later.
The Profound Heaven Sect had refused. The terms they offered—near-total control over the sect's remaining resources and future earnings in exchange for a pittance of aid—were so predatory that even the desperate council could not accept them. The envoys had not seen a potential ally. They had seen a dying patient, and they had no interest in catching the disease.
As the white and silver robes disappeared down the mountain path, a profound and final silence fell over the Verdant Sword Sect. The last hope, however slender, was extinguished. The emotional energy that washed over Mo Ye was one of absolute, bottomless futility. It was the sound of a door slamming shut, forever.
He stood in his garden, the basket of weeds at his feet. The Void-Sapphire flame within him burned with a serene, triumphant cold. He had done it. He had defended his territory. The Verdant Sword was now completely isolated, utterly dependent on its own failing resources. It was the perfect environment for his continued cultivation.
The sect was the poisoned well. And he was the only one who could drink from it without dying. The silent siege was over. The slow, quiet consumption could now begin in earnest. He had ensured his sanctuary remained, a perfect cradle of despair in which to nurture his vengeance until the day he was strong enough to turn his gaze from the Zhao's ashes to the Profound Heaven's towering gates.