The realization was a cold stone in his gut. He had built his sanctuary with such meticulous care, brick by invisible brick, only to find himself pacing its confines like a trapped animal. The silence of the dormitory was no longer peaceful; it was the silence of a holding cell. Every creak of a floorboard, every rustle of straw from a turning disciple, felt like the turning of a key in a lock he himself had forged.
This was not the plan. The plan had been simplicity itself: become a ghost, feed on the sect's decay, and use it as a launching point for his true vengeance. But the ghost had grown attached to its haunt. He had cultivated connections—Li Na's pragmatic alliance, the menial disciples' quiet loyalty, even the perverse patronage of Elder Song. He had allowed variables like Xiao Qing's hope to take root. These were not tools; they were anchors, chains weighing down the very specter he was supposed to be.
He rose before the fourth bell, the darkness his only true confidant. His movements were silent as he slipped out of the dormitory. The Soul Flame within him burned with a restless energy, reflecting his own turmoil. It was time for a reckoning, not with an enemy, but with his own strategy.
He went not to the West Quadrant, nor to the hidden compost heaps, but to the highest accessible point of the outer sect—a crumbling watchtower that overlooked the slumbering compound and the mist-shrouded peaks beyond. From here, he could see the entirety of his cage. The dim glow of the Spirit Herb Gardens, the dark bulk of the main halls, the pinprick of light that was Xiao Qing's greenhouse. He had mapped this territory, learned its secrets, and in doing so, had become a part of its geography. A ghost should be a passing chill, a memory of a draft. He had become a landmark.
Old Man Kui's voice was uncharacteristically soft. "You look upon your kingdom, boy. It is a sorry little kingdom, but it is yours. The question is, does a king serve his land, or does the land serve the king?"
I am no king, Mo Ye thought, the wind pulling at his ragged robes. I am a weapon in a scabbard I decorated myself. I have forgotten the feel of the hilt.
His original purpose—the utter destruction of the Zhao and the Profound Heaven Sect—had been blurred by the daily skirmishes of survival. Luo Feng was a broken tool. The Zhao were a spent force. Yet, the Profound Heaven Sect remained, untouched, observing from their pristine peaks. His vengeance was incomplete. This stagnation, this entrapment within the Verdant Sword's corpse, was a betrayal of his clan's memory.
A plan began to form, cold and sharp as a shard of ice. It was time to stop being a custodian of this ruin and start using it as a stepping stone. Elder Song's greed was not just a threat; it was a lever. Xiao Qing's hope was not just a variable; it was a potential catalyst. The sect's fragile state was not a prison; it was combustible material.
He would not break out of his cage. He would burn it down around him and walk through the ashes.
Descending from the tower as the first hint of dawn touched the sky, his path was clear. He went directly to the Logistics Hall, ignoring the curious glances of the early-rising disciples. He requested an immediate audience with Elder Song.
He was made to wait for an hour, a deliberate power play. When he was finally admitted, Elder Song looked up from his ledgers, his expression one of bored impatience. "Speak. The anomaly has shown no further developments. Your value diminishes by the day."
"The anomaly is a dead end," Mo Ye stated, his voice flat, discarding the humble gardener persona. The sudden shift made Elder Song's eyes narrow. "It is a spiritual echo, nothing more. You are wasting resources."
Song leaned back, a flicker of interest replacing the boredom. "Oh? And you presume to tell me how to allocate my resources?"
"I presume to tell you where true value lies," Mo Ye said, meeting his gaze directly. "The girl in the greenhouse. Xiao Qing. She is cultivating a Sun-Petal Orchid."
"I am aware. A pointless exercise in sentiment."
"It is not the plant," Mo Ye countered. "It is the method. She is purifying corrupted soil without high-level cultivation, using techniques I have not seen in any sect manual. She is achieving the impossible with nothing but will. That knowledge, that technique... it is a resource. One that could be... extracted. Studied. Replicated. Imagine being able to reclaim poisoned land across all our territories. The value would be incalculable."
He was offering up Xiao Qing's hope on a platter of cold utility. He was redirecting the vulture's gaze from a puzzling anomaly to a tangible, exploitable asset.
Elder Song's eyes gleamed with avaricious understanding. The pursuit of pure knowledge for power and profit was a language he spoke fluently. "Extracted how?"
"That would require... finesse," Mo Ye said. "Force would break her, and the secret with her. It requires a subtler touch. Patience. And the right environment." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "An environment you control."
He was proposing a new, darker collaboration. He was volunteering to be the instrument of that extraction, to become the gentle poison that coaxed the secret from its shell. In doing so, he would cement his value to Elder Song, gain greater influence, and position himself to use the sect's remaining resources for his own exodus.
He was trading one cage for another, but this new one would have a door he controlled. The ghost was finally remembering its purpose: to haunt, not to nest. The path to the Profound Heaven Sect began with sacrificing the very sanctuary he had worked so hard to build. It was a cruel calculus, but Lin Tianyao had long since abandoned any pretense of mercy, especially for himself.