The orchid's recovery was slow, fragile, but undeniable. The violet cracks in its golden petals ceased their spread, and the sickly pulsing of its light stabilized into a steady, if slightly dimmer, glow. For Xiao Qing, it was a miracle, a reaffirmation of her path. For Mo Ye, it was a condemnation. He had looked directly into the mechanism of the hope he was supposed to be dismantling and had, for a fleeting moment, understood its language. The memory of that connection was a splinter in his soul, a persistent, painful reminder of an empathy he had long since burned away.
The dynamic in the greenhouse was irrevocably altered. Xiao Qing's wariness was now layered with a fervent, terrifying gratitude. She saw his diagnosis not as a lucky guess, but as a profound insight, proof that he was not just a fellow laborer, but a kindred spirit who understood the subtle language of life. She began seeking his opinion on everything, her trust rebuilding with a fervor that was more dangerous than her previous suspicion.
"The new seedlings from the western patch," she would say, holding a tender shoot. "They feel… anxious. Do you think the soil is too dense?"
He could feel it too, now. A faint, frantic vibration from the clustered plants. Before his connection with the orchid, he would have perceived only their generic life force. Now, he could discern the emotional texture of their struggle. It was a horrifying expansion of his perception, forced upon him by his own moment of weakness.
He answered her with vague, technically sound gardening advice, steering her toward solutions that involved physical aeration and adjusted watering, anything to avoid further spiritual collaboration. Every interaction was a minefield. To maintain his cover, he had to engage with this world of gentle sentience, all while his core being screamed in revolt. The Soul Flame churned within him, its sapphire light murky with the unresolved conflict.
Elder Song's focus, meanwhile, had returned with a vengeance. The vault breach, while ultimately deemed an attempted but failed intrusion by an unknown party, had shaken him. His subsequent security review had consumed resources and time, but it had also sharpened his hunger for a definitive victory, a tangible asset to justify the recent disruptions. His impatience for results from the greenhouse project was now a palpable, suffocating pressure.
The summons came not through an attendant, but directly. A slip of paper, crisp and official, was left on the doorstep of Mo Ye's shed. It contained a single line: "Report. My office. Sunset."
There was no room for delay, no space for fabricated data. Mo Ye entered the Logistics Hall as the last rays of sun bled from the sky. The atmosphere was tighter than before, the clerks and guards moving with a new, nervous tension. Elder Song was waiting for him, seated behind his desk. The ledgers were pushed to the side. In the center of the desk lay a single, withered leaf. It was from the "anomalous" Spirit Moss in the West Quadrant. It was completely grey and brittle, utterly lifeless.
"The investigation is concluded," Elder Song stated, his voice flat and cold. "The anomaly is extinguished. It provided no usable data. It was a curiosity. A waste." He picked up the dead leaf and crumbled it to dust between his fingers. "Which leaves one remaining project of interest. The girl and her orchid. You have had time. More than enough. I require the method. Now."
Mo Ye stood silently, his mind racing. The lies were exhausted. The complex theories about resonant harmonics and spiritual imprint matrices were ashes. He had nothing left to give but the truth he could not speak.
"I cannot extract it," Mo Ye said, the admission feeling like a surrender. He kept his gaze lowered, his posture that of a failed subordinate. "It is not a technique. It is a state of spiritual alignment. A philosophy. It cannot be codified into a transferable method."
Elder Song's expression did not change, but the air in the room grew several degrees colder. "A philosophy," he repeated, the word a venomous whisper. "You have consumed significant resources, monopolized my attention, and delayed other, profitable ventures, to tell me that the secret to reclaiming poisoned land is a philosophy?"
He stood up, his short stature suddenly imposing. "You have failed. Spectacularly. You are not the sharp tool I believed you to be. You are a blunt instrument that has outlived its usefulness." He gestured to the two attendants who had materialized by the door. "You will be taken to the reflection cells. You will have one night to reflect on your failure. Tomorrow, you will be reassigned. Permanently. To the deep mines."
The sentence was final. The reflection cells were windowless stone boxes where disciples were left to break under isolation and fear. The deep mines were a death sentence, a slow, grinding end in the lightless, spirit-choked tunnels.
As the attendants moved forward, Mo Ye knew this was the end of the line for Mo Ye the gardener. The ghost had been cornered. He could submit, and vanish into the dark. Or he could do what ghosts do best—reveal their true, terrifying nature.
He lifted his head. He did not look at the attendants. He looked directly at Elder Song, and for the first time in this man's presence, he let the void in his eyes show. The carefully constructed veil of mediocrity dissolved, replaced by an ancient, chilling stillness.
"Elder Song," Mo Ye said, his voice no longer that of a menial disciple, but low, resonant, and devoid of all fear. "You are a man who understands value. You are correct. The girl's philosophy is worthless to you. But I am not."
He took a single, deliberate step forward. The attendants froze, unnerved by the sudden, profound shift in the spiritual pressure of the room. It was not an aggressive aura, but an absence, a cold that sucked the warmth from the air.
"I have spent months observing you," Mo Ye continued, his gaze locked on Song. "I know the precise tally of the spirit stones you have embezzled from the sect treasury. I know about the secret trade agreements you have made with the Riverland Merchants Guild, selling sect resources for personal profit. I know which disciples are loyal to you only out of fear, and which would betray you for a handful of coins."
He was no longer bargaining for his life. He was issuing a threat. He was revealing that the ghost knew all the vulture's secrets.
Elder Song's face, for the first time, showed genuine emotion: shock, followed by a dawning, icy fury. "You... you dare?"
"I am not what you think I am," Mo Ye stated, the truth a weapon in itself. "The girl's project was a cover. My true purpose here has always been... observation. And you, Elder Song, have just become far more interesting to my masters than a dying flower ever could be."
He was bluffing. He had no masters. But he was counting on Song's paranoia and greed to fill in the blanks. He was presenting himself as a spy from a rival power, one who had been watching Song's corruption all along.
The gamble was all or nothing. The cage had shattered. The ghost was out, and it was staring the vulture in the eye, its true, monstrous form finally revealed. The next move was Elder Song's. Would he crush the threat immediately, or would his avarice make him wonder what this mysterious "master" might be willing to pay for the secrets he held?