Chương 57: The Sect Must Not Know (2/3) [Bonus 3/6]

"If some reckless rogue cultivator like me, were to force it open with crude qi, the folded space within would most likely shatter on the spot."

Shi Yan's calloused fingers drummed once against the blood-stained mahogany, the soft thud barely audible beneath the steady drumming of rain against the windows. His pale eyes remained fixed on the row of silk pouches, their pale blue fabric gleaming dully under the flickering amber glow of the spirit-lamps.

"Everything inside would be cast into the void. Worse still, the karmic mark hidden within would immediately alert the sect's elders skilled in divination. Such trouble, I have no wish to invite."

His eyes lifted to meet Su Yin's, cold and sharp as winter frost cutting through mountain fog. The incense smoke coiled between them, a slow spiral of ghostly white threading through the oppressive silence.

What bullshit about karma, he thought. The words tasted bitter in his mind, a soldier's instinct chafing against the elaborate mysticism he'd been forced to memorize. Half of what he'd just said was pure fabrication—calculated guesswork stitched together from fragmented cultivation manuals and overheard sect gossip. But despite that thought, he kept a straight face, his features carved from stone beneath the shadow of his dripping bamboo hat.

"So…I do not like leaving traces behind."

He leaned forward slightly, just enough that the gore-streaked beast-hide of his cloak shifted across his shoulders, releasing a faint smell of marsh rot and old blood into the incense-saturated air. The contrast was sharp—decay mingling with sandalwood and cassia.

"Since this is the Silk & Ash Chamber, your people should have means to break these restrictions cleanly. Cut away the karmic threads, wipe away the sect's imprint, and then open them."

Come on, let my xianxia knowledge be right.

His jaw tightened imperceptibly, muscles flexing beneath mud-streaked skin. Every word was a gamble. Every pause measured the weight of Su Yin's scrutiny like a blade testing resistance before the cut.

On the other hand, upon hearing Shi Yan's words…

"This…" Su Yin hesitated.

Her folded hands on the desk shifted, fingertips pressing together until the knuckles blanched white. The loose strand of ink-black hair against her cheek trembled—whether from the subtle movement of her breath or the tension coiling through her frame, it was impossible to say. Her dark eyes flicked down to the seven pouches, then back to Shi Yan, calculating, weighing.

Opening them was not a problem. The Silk & Ash Chamber possessed the tools, the formations, the methods to strip away even the most stubborn spiritual seals. But the original owners of these spatial pouches had actually come from the Cloud-Mirror Sect—a sect whose influence stretched like spidersilk across three provinces, whose elders commanded power enough to level cities.

But thinking of how she had already handed him the Inner Retainer token…

The black jade with its crimson silk tassel, now tucked securely into his belt. The commitment had been made. The pavilion's mark already lay upon him.

She just sighed, a soft exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of a dozen unspoken calculations. Her pale hand rose to massage her temple, delicate fingers kneading small circles against porcelain skin as though trying to press order back into her racing thoughts.

She actually had many questions—how and why he had encountered them, how he had killed them, what manner of desperate or bloody path had led him to sit here dripping marsh water onto her sodden carpet with a sack full of dead cultivators' belongings—but…

Let's just open them first, she thought while her fingers worked steadily at her temple, feeling the faint pulse of blood beneath skin, the dull ache of incipient headache building behind her eyes.

"Ruo'er," Su Yin said softly, her voice carefully controlled, stripped of the tremor that had threatened to break through moments before.

"Go within and bring the Spirit-Clearing Formation Plate. Seal this room. Not a single trace must remain."

The command was quiet, but absolute—a blade sheathed in silk.

"Yes, Deaconess."

Ruo'er bowed deeply at the waist, her silken robe whispering against itself as she moved, the fabric catching and releasing the amber glow from the vault formations behind her. Her face remained bloodless, the primal terror still etched in the tightness around her eyes, but discipline overrode fear. She turned sharply on her heel and withdrew at once, her footsteps quick and light against the floor, fading into the inner chambers beyond.

Before long, she returned from the inner room carrying a round white-jade formation plate in both hands, cradled as though it were a newborn or a sacred relic.

Upon its surface were carved layer upon layer of lotus-patterned runes, their lines fine and profound, each stroke no thicker than a strand of spider silk, spiraling inward in mandala-like precision. The jade itself seemed to drink in the lamplight rather than reflect it, its surface possessed of a deep, bone-white luminescence that pulsed faintly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat carved into stone.

Faintly exuding a pure and placid aura, the formation plate carried with it the scent of mountain springs and cold snow—a sharp, clean contrast to the suffocating incense that clung to every corner of the room.

She set the formation plate upon the table with great care, her movements slow and reverent, fingertips lingering at its edges as though reluctant to break contact. The moment the jade touched the mahogany, a faint vibration hummed through the wood, felt more than heard—a deep resonance that seemed to settle into the bones.

Her expression grew solemn, the last trace of fear smoothed away beneath a mask of focused concentration. Raising two slender fingers—forefinger and middle finger pressed together in the classical mudra—she slowly guided a stream of gentle qi into the plate. The energy flowed from her dantian, up through meridians worn smooth by years of practice, out through her fingertips in a pale thread of silvery light barely visible to the naked eye.

At once, the white jade gave a low hum, a sound like wind passing over the mouth of a deep well, resonant and hollow. A clear light spread outward from the lotus patterns, rippling across the table in expanding circles, quietly enveloping the seven storage pouches in a dome of translucent radiance. The air within the dome shimmered, distorted, as though viewed through water.

Shi Yan watched from the side, his gaze deep, unblinking.

He leaned back slightly in his seat, one hand resting loose upon his knee, the other still near the edge of the desk. Every muscle in his body held the false ease of a predator feigning rest—relaxed on the surface, coiled beneath. His pale eyes tracked every flicker of light, every shift in Ruo'er's breathing, cataloging, measuring.

As the formation's power pressed down, the restrictions left within the pouches began to stir, reacting like living things cornered and threatened. Faint and sorrowful cries seemed to drift through the air—not sounds, precisely, but echoes that resonated directly in the mind, ghostly impressions of voices long silenced, soul-fragments clinging to their final possessions.

The temperature in the room dropped. Breath misted faintly before lips.

Threads of crimson light rose one after another from the silk pouches—the lingering blood imprints left behind by their dead masters. Each thread writhed like a serpent, twisting upward with blind, desperate hunger. Like resentful spirits denied passage to the afterlife, they sought to cling to Ruo'er's divine sense, grasping for any living consciousness to anchor themselves, to scream their final grievances into.

Ruo'er's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath skin. Her breathing quickened—short, controlled inhales through her nose—but her fingers never wavered.

Yet the white-jade formation plate shone steadily, washing down strands of pure light like rain falling upward. The crimson traces were steadily worn away, their violent writhing growing sluggish, weakening, until they scattered inch by inch into pale smoke that dissolved into the incense-thick air without sound or resistance. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

The sorrowful cries faded. Silence reclaimed the room.

A moment later, soft sounds rang out in succession—seven delicate clicks, like locks turning, like chains snapping free.

The seals on the pouches were undone.

Only then did Ruo'er let out a quiet breath, her shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly as tension bled from her frame. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened at her temples, catching the lamplight. Then she turned the storage pouches over one by one, fingers working quickly now, spilling their contents with practiced efficiency.

At once, their contents spilled across the table in a cascade of wealth and plunder.

Spirit stones tumbled out in gleaming clusters, numbering in the hundreds—low-grade and medium-grade mixed together, each stone pulsing with soft luminescence: pale blue, ghostly green, faint amber. They clicked and rattled against the mahogany like dice thrown by fate, rolling to rest in scattered constellations.

Beside them rolled jade bottles of medicinal pills, each sealed tight with wax stamped with sect insignias—crescent moons, stylized clouds, symbols Shi Yan couldn't fully decipher. The bottles were cool to the eye, smooth green stone that seemed to glow from within, promising healing, advancement, or death depending on what alchemical secrets they contained.

There were also cultivation manuals from orthodox sects—slim volumes bound in embroidered silk, their covers marked with calligraphy brushed in gold leaf and cinnabar. The scent of old paper and preserved ink wafted up, mingling with the medicinal tang from the jade bottles.

Sets of fine robes followed—azure silk edged with silver thread, inner garments of softest cotton, belts inlaid with small spirit stones for circulation assistance during meditation. Folded neatly once, now tumbling loose across the table in ripples of expensive fabric.

And several heavy silver ingots, stamped with merchant house seals, each weighing as much as a clenched fist. They landed with dull, satisfying thuds, their surfaces gleaming dully under the lamplight.

In the blink of an eye, the tabletop was covered in a dazzling heap of spoils, a dragon's hoard condensed into arm's reach. The sheer density of wealth transformed the desk into an altar of greed and violence—every object a silent testament to lives cut short, ambitions ended, bodies left rotting in Black-Ash Marsh.

Oh, perfect. Then can I use it right away without qi? But that was a thought for later.

Shi Yan's eyes swept across the glittering array with the detached assessment of a quartermaster conducting inventory. No greed showed in his expression. No wonder. No triumph. Just cold calculation, measuring value against future need.

The reason he needed them unlocked was not just because of the contents. He also needed an empty or unlocked spatial pouch. Something he could test, probe, see if the system could interface with now that the spiritual restrictions had been stripped away. He would need to do some testing, and perhaps the system could do something about that later—adaptive exploitation of existing cultivation infrastructure. If the pouches operated on dimensional folding principles rather than pure qi manipulation…

For now, ignoring the wealth scattered before him like bait in a trap, Shi Yan reached into the inner fold of his gore-streaked cloak. His calloused fingers found the smooth, cool surface of jade—the slip from Physician Li that he had carried along the way, tucked close to his body, kept dry beneath waxed canvas and beast-hide—and withdrew it with deliberate care.

He placed it on the table with a soft click, the small jade slip somehow commanding attention despite its modest size, its surface pristine and unassuming amid the chaos of plundered wealth.

"Thank you for the help," Shi Yan said, cupping his hands in the formal gesture, his voice rough and even, carrying none of the deference the words themselves implied. Then, pointing at the jade slip with one mud-streaked finger, he added, "I know you must have your own questions. Please take a look at this."

His tone made it clear this was not a request. This was the payment for her cooperation. The explanation she was owed.

Su Yin's brow furrowed, delicate lines appearing between perfectly shaped brows. Suspicion still lingered in the tightness around her dark eyes, but curiosity—or perhaps necessity—won out.

She extended a slender, pale hand, fingers tapering to neatly manicured nails painted with subtle lacquer that caught the lamplight. Her hand hovered over the jade slip for just a heartbeat, as though testing for hidden formations or curses, before her fingers closed around it with practiced confidence.

The jade was cool against her skin, smooth as water-polished stone.

Closing her eyes, Su Yin pressed the cool jade slip to her brow, just above and between her eyes where the upper dantian resided—the seat of divine sense, the throne of consciousness. The world beyond her eyelids vanished. She sent her divine sense within, qi flowing outward in a controlled tendril of awareness, sinking into the jade like a finger pressed into still water.

Unlike Shi Yan, who had relied on cunning means to piece together the truth—stolen glances at sect records, torture-extracted confessions, blood-smeared notes clutched in dying hands—Su Yin was a cultivator of this world. Rather, she was a genuine cultivator who possessed qi, whose dantian burned steady and bright with accumulated power, whose meridians sang with spiritual energy. Unlike him, a Daoless man, a hollow shell wearing the mask of cultivation.

The moment her divine sense entered the jade slip, the remnant intent left behind within it unfolded directly in her sea of consciousness like a lotus blooming in reverse, petals peeling back to reveal rot beneath beauty.

Images flashed through her mind one after another, vivid and immediate, more real than memory—mingled with echoes of voices and the written decrees left behind by what seemed to be an elder of the Cloud-Mirror Sect. The voice was cold, imperious, utterly devoid of warmth or mercy. Each word hammered into her awareness with the weight of absolute authority.

She saw the secret order to poison Physician Li's mortal wife—a young woman with laugh lines around her eyes and flour on her hands, beloved and unremarkable, guilty of nothing save loving the wrong man. The poison: a slow-acting toxin that mimicked wasting sickness, designed to break the heart rather than merely end life.

She saw the cold decrees commanding that the physician's Dao heart be broken step by step, each blow calculated with surgical precision. That a sliver of false hope be dangled before him like bait on a hook, luring him ever deeper into desperation, into madness, until, in his grief and fury, he would step onto the path of flesh-grafting—the forbidden art, the blood-soaked cultivation that turned human bodies into materials, that harvested life as a farmer harvests wheat.

She saw the records of the Yin-Yang Blood Array, diagrams sketched in crimson ink on yellowed parchment, formations that made her stomach twist and bile rise in her throat.

An evil formation meant to harvest the vitality of a hundred mortals—men, women, children, it mattered not; all were fuel, all were raw material—and refine it into a single baleful object: the Crimson Pearl, a Relic-Grade artifact of immense power, distilled suffering compressed into a sphere no larger than a thumb. An artifact which made her shiver despite the stuffy warmth of the incense-choked room, which sent ice crawling down her spine and raised goosebumps along her arms beneath her sleeves.

Go pale—her face, already porcelain, drained to the bloodless white of grave-shroud cloth.

She saw the final purpose: the Crimson Pearl was to be a key. A sacrifice. A toll paid in innocent blood to safely traverse the forbidden ground hidden deep behind the Cloud-Mirror Sect's inner mountains—some ancient ruin, some deadly secret realm whose treasures were worth any price, any atrocity, any mountain of corpses.

When Su Yin opened her eyes again, the last trace of color had already faded from her face, leeched away as thoroughly as if she herself had been drained by a blood array. The calm grace she usually wore like armor was gone, stripped away and discarded. In its place was a chilling darkness, cold and absolute as the void between stars, as though frost had gathered within her gaze and turned her eyes to black ice.

Her fingers trembled faintly where they gripped the jade slip. She could feel her pulse hammering in her throat, taste copper on her tongue from biting the inside of her cheek.

She drew in a slow breath, letting the fragrance of the incense steady her mind—sandalwood and cassia, familiar and grounding, the scent of this room, of her domain, of the life she had built through blood and calculation. Forcibly, with iron-willed discipline honed over decades of surviving in the shadowed world of the Silk & Ash Chamber, she suppressed the turmoil rising within her dantian, the qi that churned and roiled in response to her fury, threatening to lash out, to burn, to destroy.

Control returned, cold and brittle as winter glass.

So the Cloud-Mirror Sect had dared to make use of my Vermilion Pavilion as a knife in their schemes?

A cold light flickered through her eyes, there and gone like distant lightning.

Su Yin was no ignorant maiden fresh from some sheltered mountain temple, nor was she some soft-hearted disciple of the righteous path who still believed the world was fair or that heaven rewarded virtue. Having climbed to her present station within the Silk & Ash Chamber—through cunning, through ruthlessness, through knowing when to smile and when to slide the knife between ribs—she had long since seen through much of the filth of this world, the rot beneath the painted façade of sect righteousness.

Not to mention the order of Heaven had long been broken, shattered in some ancient cataclysm whose echoes still rippled through the present. In this age, the strong fed upon the weak without apology or shame. Might made right. Power justified itself. Such things were neither strange nor rare. She had orchestrated similar schemes herself when necessity demanded.

But in Skycloud City, there had always been an unspoken rule between the various factions, a boundary even the most ruthless powers dared not cross lightly: The Silk & Ash Chamber remained neutral territory, and no one was allowed to use the Chamber as a pawn in their games without paying the price—a price measured in blood and worse than blood.

A trace of cold mockery touched her lips, a smile sharp enough to draw blood if pressed against skin.

You call yourselves orthodox, she thought, venom dripping from every word in the silence of her mind, yet your methods are fouler than those of demons. More hypocritical. More cruel. At least demons wore their nature openly.

They had slaughtered a mortal village—every man, woman, and child, reduced to components in a formation, their screams the raw material of power.

They had poisoned a physician's wife, watching her waste away over months, feeding on her husband's anguish like spiritual nourishment.

They had driven a man into madness, breaking his Dao heart with calculated precision until he became the monster they needed him to be.

And turned Black-Ash Marsh into a land of calamity, a wound in the earth that would fester for generations, spreading corruption and death like a plague.

All this had been done merely to refine a demonic pearl, so that their own elders might pass safely through the forbidden ground hidden behind their sect, so that they might plunder ancient treasures and return draped in glory, hailed as heroes while the ashes of their victims fertilized the marsh.

What angered her most was not merely the cruelty of it—cruelty was common currency in the cultivation world, spent freely and without remorse.

It was the Cloud-Mirror Sect's insolence. The sheer arrogance of it. The assumption that they could act with impunity, that the Vermilion Pavilion would simply bow and scrape and accept being used.

They had brought forth the disaster with their own hands, orchestrating every atrocity from the shadows, then issued a reward in the open—posted it on the bounty boards, made it public, legitimate—intending to let others wear down Physician Li for them, to let rogue cultivators and desperate fools do the bleeding and dying, before stepping in at the final moment to reap the harvest like farmers arriving after others had tilled and planted and watered the fields.

Using the pavilion's infrastructure. Leveraging its reputation. Turning its neutrality into a weapon aimed at itself.

"How shameless," Su Yin said softly, unable to keep the contempt from her voice. The words dripped with venom, each syllable sharp and cold as an icicle driven through flesh.

She put the jade slip down upon the table with exaggerated care, as though it were something filthy, something that might contaminate her further through contact. It clicked softly against the mahogany amid the scattered wealth, suddenly more valuable and more damning than all the spirit stones and pills combined.

When she looked again at Shi Yan, the wariness in her eyes had lessened, the hard suspicion softening—not into trust, never trust, but into something more complex. Calculation. Respect. The recognition of one predator acknowledging another. What remained was the calm, ruthless clarity of one accustomed to surviving among hidden knives, of navigating a world where every smile concealed poison and every gesture carried three meanings.

"Daoist Shi," she said, her voice low and controlled, stripped of the earlier frost but no less dangerous for its softness.

"You need not take my earlier reaction to heart."

She gestured subtly toward the seven silk pouches, toward the jade slip, toward the evidence of massacre and conspiracy laid bare upon her desk.

"By killing that party from the Cloud-Mirror Sect, you have done the Vermilion Pavilion a favor—one that will not be forgotten." Her dark eyes held his, unblinking, measuring.

"Had they succeeded, our people would have unknowingly become stepping stones in their scheme, our reputation tarnished, our neutrality compromised. You have cut the strings before the puppet could dance."