Night wrapped the Amber Viper Clan in an eerie, suffocating silence, though the Golden Snake Pavilion glimmered like a slumbering beast, its many eyes—lanterns set in jade sconces—watchful, unblinking. Green flames flickered at every corner, infused with venomous qi that made the air taste sharp, metallic, and faintly sweet. Serpent statues crouched along the outer halls, their mouths gaping, fangs coated in the faint shimmer of poison inscriptions. Each step inside was a calculated risk; the slightest misstep meant death.
In the narrow alleys beyond the walls, Yan Mei crouched atop a slanted roof, her black-clad form swallowed by shadows. Every muscle was coiled, her eyes sharp, predatory, sweeping over the pavilion grounds with the precision of a hawk circling prey. Her flute rested lightly against her lips, yet she did not play music. Each note she produced was a coded signal—short trills indicated guard rotations, low hums marked wards reactivating, and sharp staccato bursts signaled imminent danger. In the stillness of the night, these notes were inaudible to anyone untrained, but Lu Mao, moving in the shadows below, interpreted each with perfect clarity.
The night air pressed against him as he advanced. Every breath was measured. Every step calculated. His Doppelgänger technique cloaked him in the form of an old servant; hunched back, shuffling gait, faded cap pulled low over his brow. His heartbeat drummed in his chest, steady yet loud in his ears, as he slipped past the outer gates with a bow that betrayed nothing. The guards glanced only briefly, dismissing him as an insignificant servant.
Time was short. Fifteen minutes, maybe less if he stretched his qi too far. Shadow Steps kept him silent, Phantom Veil masked his aura. One misstep, one pulse of qi misjudged, and he would die here.
He forced his breathing slow, steady, feeling the pulse of the pavilion beneath him—trapped air, lingering poison residues, subtle shifts in the wards that hummed faintly in the night. Every motion was practiced deception: a servant carrying trays, a bow at the right moment, a glance toward the corner that said nothing.
Yan Mei's flute hummed low—a note that sent him sliding into a shadowed corridor just as two guards passed with swinging lanterns. The glow reflected on the polished jade floor, and for a heartbeat, his heart skipped. His palms were damp with sweat despite Phantom Veil clinging to his qi. Every shadow became an ally, every faint reflection a potential betrayal.
Ahead, the path narrowed. A lacquered wooden door, intricately carved with serpentine coils, shimmered faintly in his martial awareness. Poisonous wards and spirit locks glimmered along its surface like faintly crawling insects, a deadly web of energy that could shred flesh or soul. He stopped, heart thundering, as a memory from his father surfaced.
"A lock is only a lie carved in steel and spirit. See past the lie, and the truth opens."
He pressed his hand to the wood, feeling the subtle vibrations beneath his palm—the twisting lines of qi, the latent currents of poison energy, the deadly knots meant to mislead intruders. Fingers trembled as he traced invisible paths through the air, mapping the wards, sensing the flow of danger. One miscalculation could end him here.
Sweat trickled down his neck. He inhaled, coaxing his qi to flow more precisely. Touch, breath, intention—all had to align. A wrong thread of energy would trigger the wards. He adjusted, held steady, and pressed again.
A faint click echoed in the silence. The glow faltered. The serpentine wards unraveled like a tide retreating. The door opened silently, almost inviting him forward.
For a heartbeat, triumph surged—but then the world flared green. A sharp hiss filled the chamber as a hidden trap detonated.
Toxic gas erupted, curling through the air with a pungent, metallic stench that clawed at his lungs. Veins darkened, muscles convulsed, and his vision blurred. He fell to one knee, coughing, clutching his chest.
Damn it… I missed one. Poison's inside… spreading fast…
His qi surged instinctively. He felt the golden pulse of his inner vault flare to life, an instinct older than reason. A golden light erupted from his palm, and the venom coursed into it like smoke drawn from a fire. Veins writhed beneath his skin, burning, but the poison did not kill him—it was siphoned, sealed, and contained. When the last threads vanished into golden light, his chest heaved, and his vision cleared.
I… I can store poison too. Not just weapons, not just shards. Even toxins… as treasures.
A fierce grin split his lips despite the lingering pain. "Father… you'd laugh at me now."
He staggered forward, body trembling from the qi surge and physical strain.
The chamber beyond was a treasure trove. Shelves lined the walls, gleaming with jade bottles, scrolls sealed in wax, and countless pills that shimmered faintly in the flickering lanterns. The air was thick with medicinal qi, the pungent aroma of herbs, and faint incense smoke burning in small holders.
At the center, a pedestal held a crystalline case. Inside floated the object of his mission: the blue pill, its surface glowing with a soft yellow flicker like a living flame. The Spirit Transcendence Pill. Its brilliance was hypnotic, almost unbearably alluring. Power, miracles, transcendence—everything promised lay encapsulated in that tiny, perfect sphere.
Lu Mao's hand twitched instinctively toward it—but he stopped.
Too perfect. Too obvious. Any fool could see it and trace its disturbance.
His gaze swept the shelves. A clay jar half-hidden caught his eye. Its label read in hurried brushstrokes: "Close, but flawed." Inside, pale-white pills shimmered weakly, devoid of the divine aura of the Spirit Transcendence Pill, yet containing echoes of Wei Qing's refinement. Beside it lay a bound manuscript, its cover marked in elegant brushwork: "Ways of Spirit Transcendence."
Enough. Not perfect, but enough to shift the balance without drawing immediate vengeance upon himself.
He slipped the jar and book into his vault. The golden glow swallowed them whole, sealing the treasures safely inside.
A shrill, frantic note pierced the night from Yan Mei's flute. Danger.
Chaos erupted. Voices rose in the corridors—prodigy, elders, disciples—all pressing with an invisible force, their qi thrumming like a storm against the walls.
Outside, Bao Fu's laughter echoed faintly amidst collapsing scaffolds. Chen Yuan's traps roared alive—firecrackers, shards, small explosives—and smoke filled the streets. Li Xian's qi blazed in precise bursts, cutting through guards, opening a path for retreat.
And then he appeared: Wei Qing. Seventeen years old, his white robes pristine as snow despite the chaos, hair bound back with a jade clasp, eyes burning with an intensity that could scorch air. His aura radiated sharp power, a blade barely restrained. Elders followed, robes sweeping like storm clouds, faces drawn and grim.
"Here," Wei Qing's voice rang across the hall. He strode toward the pedestal, inspecting the crystalline case with a glare that seemed to pierce reality. His hand hovered above the pill. "Untouched… then why…?"
An elder rifled through the shelves, face pale. "The book! Gone! Some jars too!"
Shouts erupted. Wards flared green, alarms screeched like serpents, and disciples surged in panic.
Lu Mao, however, did not flee. He pressed flat beneath the massive pill-refining table, body curled tight, Phantom Veil cloaking him like shadow itself. A smirk tugged at his lips.
When something is lost, people search outside first. Never inside their own pockets.
Above, Wei Qing's steps were precise, measured, each movement radiating authority and fury. Elders cursed, disciples scrambled, traps snapped and fizzed. The pavilion was a storm of green light, venomous qi, and chaos.
But beneath the table, Lu Mao waited. Patient. Still. Smiling. A predator in the serpent's den, watching his enemies tear themselves apart in the night.
The Spirit Transcendence Pill glimmered silently above him, its promise untouched, as he remained hidden in shadows, the quiet apex of all that fury swirling above.
The Amber Viper Clan had no idea that a single shadow had outmaneuvered their entire vigilance.
And in that silence beneath the table, Lu Mao's grin widened.
He had won this night.