The pain in Xie Luan's left wrist was a constant pulse—a dull metronome of agony marking each second as it passed. Li had bound the wound with strips of boiled cloth, tying the knot tight, but the skin around the cut was pale and cold to the touch, like the flesh of a dead fish.
Xie Luan did not complain.
Pain sharpened the mind. It reminded him that he was still alive in a world that wanted him dead.
They were in the Mission Pavilion, a heavy, gray stone structure perched on the boundary between the Outer Sect and the service quarter. It was a place without glamour, where the air smelled of cheap ink and rancid sweat. Here, external disciples and servants fought like stray dogs over degrading tasks—cleaning spirit-beast stables, gathering herbs in poisonous marshes, emptying latrines—in exchange for a few copper coins or defective spirit stones.
It was a boiling pot of information.
The noise of hundreds of voices complaining created the perfect static to hide secrets.
Xie Luan leaned against a wooden pillar, pretending to read a notice board plastered with old edicts and outdated bounties for escaped beasts. His hood concealed his eyes, but his ears were wide open—filtering the white noise, hunting for the undercurrents that mattered.
"…they say Elder Mo's in a dog mood today," whispered a disciple with a rodent-like face to his companion a few steps away. "He beat three servants this morning because his tea was lukewarm. Broke one guy's jaw."
"It's not the tea," the other replied, lowering his voice and glancing around. "He's scared. My cousin works logistics for the Administration Hall. He says the Senior Auditors are checking the Purple Moon Herb inventory. Entire crates are missing—and Mo Zha is the supervisor of that storeroom this month."
Under the shadow of his hood, Xie Luan smiled.
Thin. Cruel.
Bingo.
Corruption was the grease that kept the Frost Edge Sword Sect's gears turning. Everyone stole. Disciples stole time, administrators stole resources, and elders stole futures. It was an ecosystem of parasites in equilibrium.
But steal too much—and get audited at the exact moment you have private plans—that was bad luck.
Or an opportunity.
Xie Luan made a subtle gesture to Li. They left the pavilion, slipping away from the crowd, and walked toward a neglected corner of the rear garden where bamboo grew dense and wild, shielding them from curious eyes.
"Li," Xie Luan said, sitting on a flat stone furred with moss. "Do you have the rice paper and ink I told you to steal from the scribe's desk?"
Li nodded nervously, scanning the area like a cornered animal. He reached into his robe and produced a stolen writing kit: a worn wolf-hair brush, a dry ink stick, and several sheets of yellowish, mid-grade paper.
"Master…" Li whispered, voice shaking. "If we're caught forging sect documents… the punishment is having our hands cut off. Then they burn out our tongues."
"Only if the forgery is bad," Xie Luan said calmly as he spread the paper over the stone. "And I don't do anything badly."
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat—accessing fragmented memories from the original owner of this body and stitching them to his own fresh observations. He visualized the edicts signed by Elder Mo Zha on the notice boards. He remembered the pressure of the strokes: heavy at the beginning, arrogant. He remembered the final hook of Mo's signature: aggressive, always slanted right. He remembered how the ink often bled at the edges—the mark of an impatient man who never waited for anything to dry.
Xie Luan spat lightly on the ink stick and ground it with the brush until the paste became thick and black. His injured left hand rested inert in his lap. His right hand—steady as a surgeon's—hovered above the paper.
Then he began to write.
He wasn't writing a confession. That would be stupid; no one believed spontaneous confessions. He was writing a private ledger—a parallel set of accounts.
The brush danced across the page, imitating Mo Zha's rough, forceful calligraphy perfectly.
Entry 1: Thirty stalks of Purple Moon Herb. Diverted to the Wang Clan of the Lower City. Payment received: 300 Spirit Stones.Entry 2: Bribe to the North Gate Supervisor to omit inspection of night wagons. 50 stones.Entry 3: Gift for the concubine of the Second Elder of the Discipline Hall (Fire-Spider Silk)…
Xie Luan wove a net of lies over a skeleton of truths.
The missing herbs were real—everyone knew inventory was short. But the bribes? The bribes implicated Mo's political rivals within the sect. Xie Luan was constructing a narrative where Mo Zha wasn't just a thief, but a conspirator buying influence.
"What is that…?" Li asked, horrified and mesmerized by the brush's speed.
"A noose," Xie Luan replied without looking up, finishing the final stroke with a violent flourish. "Elder Mo is being audited. He's nervous. If this 'lost ledger' appears today, a routine audit becomes a high-level criminal investigation."
"But…" Li frowned, struggling to follow. "Wouldn't that get him arrested? If he's arrested, we're safe—right? We won't have to kill him."
Xie Luan shook his head, blowing gently over the ink to dry it. "You're naive, Li. They won't arrest him today. Mo has deep connections. He'll burn favors, pay bribes, stall the process, or bury evidence. Bureaucracy is slow."
He looked at Li with eyes like winter stone.
"But he'll be terrified. He'll be furious. Cornered like a rat. And most importantly—he'll need power. Fast."
He folded the paper with care, then rubbed it into moss and dirt, smearing the edges and staining the corners so it looked like something dropped and forgotten.
"When a corrupt, mediocre cultivator feels threatened, his instinct isn't to flee. It's to strengthen himself. Mo Zha will want to break his cultivation bottleneck tonight. He'll need to prove his value with brute force—or prepare to fight if they come for him."
Xie Luan handed the dirtied document to Li.
"And to break that bottleneck in one night… he'll need his 'cauldron.' He'll summon me before the ten days are up. Probably today."
Li went pale and stepped back. "Today?! But you're injured! You lost so much blood making the poison—if you go today, you'll die!"
"The poison is ready. I'm ready." Xie Luan's voice didn't rise; it cut. "The only thing missing was ensuring Mo was desperate and careless enough to make a mistake. A calm man checks his food and distrusts gifts. A panicked man swallows anything that promises relief."
He shoved the paper against Li's chest. "Take this. Go to the Internal Sect administrative area. Find the latrines used by the scribes and elder attendants."
"The… latrines?"
"It's the only place powerful men let their guard down and drop things out of their pockets. You'll leave this on the floor—half-hidden behind a water bucket—like it fell from someone drunk or in a hurry."
"And if they see me?" Li trembled.
"No one looks at the face of a latrine-cleaning servant, Li. You're invisible. That's your superpower. Use it."
Xie Luan gripped Li's shoulders and pinned him with a cold stare. "Do it now. Then return to the cabin and hide. If I don't come back by dawn…"
His voice thinned, turned razor-soft.
"Run. Leave the sect. Go into the forest and don't look back."
Li stared at him—then at the forged paper in his hands. He swallowed, nodded with the kind of determination born from pure fear, and sprinted toward the administrative quarter.
Xie Luan remained alone among the bamboo.
Wind moved through hollow stalks, producing a sound like out-of-tune flutes.
He sat again on the cold stone. Closed his eyes. Began to circulate what little Qi he had left, trying to stabilize his body. His wrist burned. His head swam.
He knew it would work.
The ledger would be found by some ambitious disciple eager for merit, or by one of Mo's enemies. It would be delivered upward. Rumors would spread like fire through dry straw.
By afternoon, Mo Zha would hear: someone found his secret accounts.
He would panic. He would want to burn real evidence. He would want to silence witnesses.
But above all—he would want power.
Fear was the finest aphrodisiac for monsters.
Xie Luan looked at his own hand—the white, soft skin that drew predators like flies.
"Come for me," he whispered to the wind. "Your medicine is right here."
Three hours later.
The sun began to sink behind the mountain peaks, staining the sky a violent, blood-red hue—matching the liquid resting inside the vial hidden against Xie Luan's chest.
Xie Luan sat in his cabin, swallowed by darkness.
He had scrubbed the stove, buried the snake ash, and put on his best robe—still poor, but clean. He waited.
Then the door burst open.
It wasn't Li.
Two older disciples stood in the doorway, wearing blue robes edged with silver—the personal attendants of Elder Mo. Their faces were grim. Urgent. Sweating.
"Xie Luan!" one barked, flooding the small room with oppressive aura. "Get up!"
Xie Luan opened his eyes slowly.
His performance began instantly.
His shoulders hunched. His eyes filled with manufactured tears. His body began to tremble. "Senior brothers… what's happening? The Elder said ten days… I'm not ready…"
"The Elder has changed his mind," the disciple snapped, stepping forward and seizing Xie Luan by the healthy arm. He yanked him off the pallet so roughly Xie Luan nearly felt his shoulder pop.
"He requires you in his pavilion immediately. For… emergency cultivation service."
"But— but I'm dirty!" Xie Luan whimpered as he was dragged. "The Elder will be angry! Please—give me one more day!"
"Shut up!" The guard backhanded him. It wasn't hard by a cultivator's standards, but it split Xie Luan's lip neatly. "The Elder is furious. Someone's been spreading lies about him in the administration. He needs to calm down. Drain the fire. If you're lucky, you'll survive the night. If not…"
He shrugged.
"At least you'll be useful to the sect."
They shoved him out of the cabin.
As they marched him through the external compound under the curious, frightened stares of others, Xie Luan caught sight of Li—hidden behind a rain barrel, eyes wide, biting his fist to keep from making a sound.
Xie Luan didn't look directly at him.
No signal. No nod.
He kept his head bowed and cried loudly, playing the lamb led to slaughter.
But beneath his robe, pressed to the feverish skin of his chest, the vial of Crimson Silence Dew warmed with his body heat.
It worked, Xie Luan thought, feeling a cold, geometric satisfaction click into place.
He's stressed. He's impatient. His judgment is blurred by paranoia and rage. And he's made the mistake of bringing me into his den on his terms—without realizing they're mine.
They arrived at Mo Zha's pavilion.
It was opulent—lit by red lanterns swaying in the wind. It smelled of expensive incense and rot dressed up as luxury. The lacquered wooden doors opened, revealing a dark mouth promising pain.
The guard shoved Xie Luan forward.
"Go in. And don't make him wait."
The door slammed shut behind him—heavy and final.
Boom.
The sound of a trap closing.
Now it only remained to see who was the mouse… and who was the cat.