Shi Yang unfolded the letter with slow, deliberate fingers. The single line inside was written in a looping, mocking hand:
"Hopefully you'll buy me drinks again in the future~."
He stared at the words a long moment, then a grin split his face. A laugh bubbled up—sharp, amused, entirely his. "My mortal mind can't comprehend these kinds of schemes," he said aloud, shaking his head as if the joke were only now sinking in. He stepped toward the nearest chest of spirit stones, the metal clinking softly under his palm.
As he reached for them, Han Jie's voice—memory and counsel braided into one—flowed through his mind like a current. "If we can find even a thinning Qi vein, then I can set up a Grade 7 Beginner Formation; a Qi Gathering Circle, and a few other lesser-grade four supporting formations to gather it around you." The words settled, precise and practical.
"One of those alone could power a decent formation," he muttered, half to himself. He opened the second chest and then the one holding the scroll. He untied its thread-seal with a flick of his wrist and unrolled a map: a rough sketch of the countryside, inked lines tracing rivers and ridgelines, and a circled spot annotated in cramped script. A lake—marked as a wild spirit vein—and a note describing it as the nesting place of a razor-blue scaled carp.
Wei Kunshan… the name came to him like a ghost, then recoiled. No. That was an alias too. Doubt knotted through him—how much of the contact, the warmth, the feint of friendship, had been genuine; how much had been bait? He felt the edges of betrayal, tasted it bitter.
Shi Yang crushed the scroll in one hand. His Qi roared in answer, a rising tide that slammed against reason. The windows shuddered in their frames—hairline cracks spidering outward. For an instant the reflected panes painted a different scene: a bleeding stream coursing through glass, a red smear that was not there a heartbeat before. The air thickened; dampness gathered as if a storm were forming between the walls.
Rage sharpened, then transmuted. His fury boiled outward, spilled as raw Dao. A literal storm unfurled from his excess Qi—wind howled in the small chamber, curtains snapping like banners, steam whipping and eddying into a furious vortex. Water from the bath rose in ribbons, circling like silver serpents.
Xiu Mei burst from the bathroom, hair plastered to her cheeks, steam haloing her. She stared at him—at the hurricane of power he now wore like armor—and did not flee. In the roar of his spirit, his inner voice continued, calm and cold.
Thank you, he thought, almost gently, for drawing a knife. Had you not, I would have kept playing at this world and failed to break through, even if I found a spirit vein.
After all I have not been taking anything seriously—until steel pressed to my back, and I tasted the fear of death twice. Now I know my true nature.
His veins stood out like cords beneath his skin. Pressure built, then snapped. He pushed, and the barrier that had caged him buckled. With a sound like stone tearing, he broke through into the late stages of Qi Refinement. Power folded into power; his water Dao deepened, its flow braided with rot and blood—rust married to tide.
I know what I am now, he vowed, voice a low thunder only he could hear. I will kill every one sent to hunt me. If I must worm my way into Willowshade's affairs to do it, so be it. I will feed my enemies to my Dao of blood, and shield what I cherish beneath the steady current of my water way. This is my path—my yin and yang.
He breathed, letting the declaration sink into bone and marrow. The storm around him stilled a fraction, as if the world bent to listen. Then, with a cold, mirthless smile, he named himself aloud—one syllable that tasted of oath and promise.
"Yin Yang Shi."