Night pressed down like ink.
Around the ruins of Simu Village's shrine, torches ringed the site, throwing jagged shadows across the dug-out trenches. Xuanhu stood at the pit's edge, face black as the bottom of a pot.
A massive cavity stretched several zhang wide. The shrine's form was gone; men ferried soil up in buckets and dumped it far away.
"Faster!"
Xuanhu barked the order, then seized a spade himself, leaping into the pit already four zhang deep.
Soldiers dug, sweat streaming. Dry dirt turned to wet muck. The smell of earth thickened, tainted with an unmistakable copper-sweet tang.
"Lord…" The deputy, wiping sweat, leaned in, voice hushed. "The smell—it's wrong."
Xuanhu did not pause. He took in a deep breath.
It was wrong indeed. The stench of iron, clinging and rancid, wove through the soil. And the traces of spellwork grew sharper under his senses.
One more strike, and the earth softened. From a crack seeped a thick, dark-red liquid.
"Water? No… this is—"
"Blood!" a soldier shouted.
"Blood water! The whole bottom is—!"
Panic broke. Shovels clattered, boots stumbled.
Xuanhu's gaze cut like a blade. He strode to the source, scattering men aside, and crouched.
Two fingers dipped into the seep. Cold. Sticky. Stinking of iron. He lifted them—blood dripped thick, smeared with mud.
Expressionless, he rose. His voice, cold and sharp:
"Keep digging."
"Anyone who stops—lie down in their place!"
The men shuddered and obeyed, shovels striking earth once more.
"Seal off the village," Xuanhu ordered. Staring down at the rising red pool, his voice dropped like stone:
"I don't want a single curious villager near here. And no one—no one—speaks of this."
That night, firelight wavered, rain pelted, blood flooded the pit. No bodies yet, only the weight of malice.
Xuanhu stood waist-deep, axe in hand, and felt the chill settle in his heart.
—
At the little courtyard in Liuxiang, last night's rain left jeweled drops on the leaves, sparkling under morning sun. A new lesson began.
"Xuánqì—you still can't see it. But you already feel it, and can even guide it a little."
Qingshui leaned under the tree, clad in a thin coat, a twig in hand. She sketched a crooked outline of a human form in the dirt.
"People have surface meridians. But once you step into cultivation, hidden channels awaken—shadow-veins different from the visible ones."
She circled the chest on her sketch. "This is the Heartsea—the nexus. The xuánqì you draw from earth-veins and sky-flows also pools here."
Layne squinted at the lopsided doodle, struggling to tell head from foot.
Qingshui noticed, coughed, and tapped the twig, drawing his eyes up.
"Normally, the body's own xuánqì is limited. So techniques and formations work by using your own qi as tinder—to draw on the greater flows of heaven and earth. The more you can channel, the stronger the strike."
"Oh?" Layne tilted his head.
Qingshui preened a little at his eager look. But as soon as she stirred her meridians, a stab of pain lanced through her back.
"Argh—hurts like hell!"
Sweat sprang to her brow. Layne, alarmed, whispered:
"Auntie Bi Hua—I saw it again. Something moving in you. But different—like it's blocked…"
"What?" Qingshui froze, eyes sharpening.
"Right—you can sense flows now. And when I was unconscious, you even nudged my qi around, didn't you?" She beckoned. "Come. Hands out."
He obeyed. She clasped them, gaze intent.
"Send your sense inside—like before."
Layne closed his eyes.
At once, he flinched. Qingshui's qi seemed calm on the surface, but inside her meridians were ragged, torn—that was why every circulation brought pain. The palm-print scar on her back was still a battlefield: two currents clashing endlessly, while foreign qi propped her body, fraying fast.
"You… it hurts a lot, doesn't it?" he whispered.
"Hurts," Qingshui admitted bluntly. "You can feel it?"
"Mm. I want to try… to steer those bad ones away."
Closing his eyes again, he edged closer, brushing a hostile current. At once, icy malice surged back into him—his scalp rang, every hair standing on end.
He gritted his teeth, tugged harder. The stream faltered, pulled off balance. In that instant, Qingshui's qi struck like a hammer—pummeling, scattering the foe.
She froze for a breath. Then, low:
"Again. This time—hand on my back."
Under mottled shade, his palms pressed her shoulders. Faint xuánqì flowed between them, weaving.
This was no longer a mere lesson. Qingshui realized Layne's gift—akin to that tall enemy who once locked onto her qi-paths.
She closed her eyes, and together they turned the tide—pounding the intruding current like a dog in water.
—
Back at Simu's ruins, black clouds boiled, rain lashed down.
In the pit, blood had risen to the knees. Limbs floated in the murk; each step left foul ripples. Xuanhu waded in, axe parting mud and bone.
Within less than an acre, corpses were crammed layer on layer—pressed under crushing weight until entrails burst, limbs shattered.
"They arranged them as a formation… this many bodies…"
The deputy sucked a breath. "A corpse array?"
"Worse." Xuanhu's teeth ground. Bits of cloth and hair drifted in the gore.
He felt it—Earth Yao's hand. They'd reshaped the terrain, dragged villagers down with soul-arts, then restored the ground, squeezing them to pulp.
"Killing not to silence—but to rouse the veins, shatter the land, drive qi berserk."
"They want to break the kingdom's roots."
—
When Bi Hua stepped outside, she saw Qingshui cross-legged, eyes closed, breath steady. Layne stood behind, palms pressed to her shoulders, eyes shut tight.
Perhaps it was illusion, but Bi Hua thought she saw faint black wisps drifting off Qingshui's body.
"…I'll stew fish for lunch," she murmured. "And stop by the south market for sticky rice cakes. Yesterday she kept clamoring for candied haws."
She watched them a moment longer—two silhouettes, small and tall—then wiped her hands and went back inside for a basket.