The world narrowed to a single, terrifying point: the one good eye of the man called Crow. It was a black, depthless pit that promised a swift and brutal end.
Fear, cold and absolute, seized Yang Kai. His meticulously constructed plans, his fragile hopes, all of it evaporated in the face of this immediate, mortal threat. His mind went utterly blank. He was a mouse caught in the gaze of a viper.
"I asked you a question, pup," One-Eyed Crow rasped, his voice like stones grinding together. He took a slow, deliberate step into the corridor, the rough wood of the floorboards groaning under his weight.
The young Feng Clan hunter, whose arrogance had seemed so formidable just moments before, now looked just as terrified as Yang Kai, his face pale as he scrambled back into the relative safety of the private room.
Crow's gaze flickered down to Yang Kai's worn but distinct robes. "The Yang Clan," he sneered, a grotesque smile twisting his scarred face.
"So, the old dogs have finally learned to send out spies. And they send their weakest little runt. How insulting."
He reached out a hand, not quickly, but with a lazy, inevitable confidence. His calloused, dirty fingers clamped onto the front of Yang Kai's robes, his grip an iron clamp that stole the air from his lungs. In a single, effortless motion, he slammed him back against the rough wooden wall of the corridor.
The impact was a jarring shock, his head cracking against the wood. Stars exploded behind his eyes, a brief, silent firework display of pain.
"Now," Crow whispered, his face inches from Yang Kai's, his breath a foul wave of stale wine and rot. "Let's try again. Who sent you? What did you hear?"
Yang Kai's mind was a maelstrom of terror. He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. This was it. This was the end.
He was going to die here, in a filthy tavern corridor, his throat slit for a secret he hadn't even fully understood.
He saw Crow's other hand ball into a fist. He saw the scarred, calloused knuckles. He braced himself for the blow, for the feeling of his bones breaking, for the final, merciful darkness.
"Crow."
The voice was calm, sharp, and laced with an undisguised authority that cut through the thick, terrified air like a blade of ice.
Crow paused, his fist hovering. He turned his head slowly, his one good eye narrowing with annoyance.
From the curtained doorway, a new figure had emerged. He was a young man in his late twenties, his robes the silver-grey of the Feng Clan, his face sharp and hawkish.
He moved with a quiet, unsettling grace, his hand resting casually on the hilt of a dagger at his belt. He was the leader of the Feng hunting party.
"Feng Xiao," Crow growled, his voice a low rumble of frustration. "This is my business. Not yours."
The man named Feng Xiao took a slow, deliberate step into the corridor. His gaze, cold and analytical, flickered to Yang Kai's terrified face, then back to Crow, his lips thinning into a line of profound annoyance.
"This… thing," Feng Xiao said, his voice dripping with a contempt so pure it was almost a physical force, "is the son of the Yang Clan's Second Master. A known cripple. A famous fool. He is not a spy. He is an embarrassment who likely got lost on his way to the latrine."
He took another step, his presence a different kind of threat—not the brute force of Crow, but the coiled stillness of a serpent.
"Our business arrangement is profitable for both of us, Crow. It would be… inconvenient… if a clan pup, even a useless one, were to be found beaten to death in your tavern. It would attract unwanted attention from the Magistrate. From the Governor. It would be bad for business."
Crow stared at him, a silent battle of wills playing out in the narrow, filthy corridor. Yang Kai could feel the tension, the barely restrained violence in the air. He was a piece of meat being argued over by two wolves.
Finally, with a low growl of pure frustration, Crow released his grip. Yang Kai slid down the wall, his legs trembling too much to support him, and landed in a heap on the floor.
"You're lucky your clan's rivals are here to save your pathetic hide, boy," Crow snarled at him.
Feng Xiao looked down at him, his silver-gray eyes filled with disgust. "Get out," he commanded coldly.
"Go back to your sty and be grateful the Feng Clan just saved your life. If I see your face again, I won't be so charitable."
He didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, his body screaming in protest, and fled. He half-ran, half-stumbled out of the tavern and into the cold, silver light of Selene's Veil, not stopping until he had put several streets between himself and the Silent Pavilion.
He finally collapsed in a dark, deserted alley, his back against a cold stone wall, and vomited the meager contents of his stomach into the gutter, his body wracked with violent, uncontrollable tremors.
The silence in the corridor after the pathetic boy had fled was thick with the scent of spilled ale and resentment.
Feng Xiao watched him go, a flicker of contempt in his sharp eyes. He turned his gaze back to Crow, whose face was a mask of sullen, thwarted violence.
"You are a liability, Crow," Feng Xiao said, his voice a low, flat line. "Your lack of discipline will be the death of this entire enterprise."
"He was listening," Crow grunted, spitting on the floor.
"He is a fool," Feng Xiao countered calmly. "A deaf and blind fool could have overheard you from the main hall. Your idea of a 'private' meeting is a back room with a curtain for a door in the most trafficked tavern in the Dregs. If you want true discretion, you will use the channels I have provided."
He let the threat hang in the air, a quiet reminder of who truly controlled the flow of information in their partnership.
Crow just grunted again, a noncommittal sound of a man who did not like being lectured but was not stupid enough to challenge the point.
Feng Xiao gave him a final, dismissive glance and turned, melting back into the shadows of the tavern and then out into the street.
He walked with a quiet, purposeful stride, his mind already dissecting the evening's events. The Yang Clan pup. An anomaly.
It was a piece that did not fit on the board. A cripple, a famous fool, sniffing around the edges of the Shadow Market. It made no sense. It was too clumsy for a real spy, too bold for a simple errand. It was a loose thread. And his job was to watch loose threads.
He stopped at the corner of an alley and gave a soft, two-toned whistle, a sound like a nightjar's call. A moment later, a thin, nondescript shape detached itself from the shadows across the street.
"Master Xiao," the shadow whispered.
"The Yang Clan's second son," Feng Xiao murmured, his gaze distant. "He is more than he seems. I want to know where he goes. Who he speaks to. What he buys." He paused. "Do not engage. Do not be seen. Just observe. Report everything to me."
"Yes, Master." The shadow bowed and melted back into the darkness.
Feng Xiao continued his walk back to the Feng Clan estate, a faint, predatory smile on his lips. The game had just become a little more interesting.
He finally found the strength to stand and make his way back to the Yang Clan estate, slipping through the servant's gate like a wraith.
The terror of the last few hours was a physical poison in his system. He didn't go to his room. He went to the only place that felt like a sanctuary. The Pavilion of Fading Sunlight. He needed the dusty silence, the comforting presence of the old scrolls.
The library was empty, a tomb of forgotten knowledge. He lit a single, sputtering oil lamp, the small flame pushing back the oppressive darkness.
He didn't read. He just sat at a table, his head in his hands, trying to process the night's events.
He had failed. His attempt to gather more information had been a catastrophic, amateurish blunder that had almost cost him his life.
A soft footstep on the floorboards made him jump.
His Third Aunt, Madam Xue, stood in the doorway, a single candle in her hand, its gentle flame illuminating her pale, hauntingly beautiful face.
His blood ran cold. "I... I'm sorry, Third Aunt," he stammered, scrambling to his feet. "I will leave immediately."
She didn't move. She glided into the library, her lavender robes whispering against the floor. As she moved, the silk draped over the high, sculpted curve of her ass, a subtle, elegant motion beneath the fabric.
"The servants whisper that a Yang disciple caused a commotion at the Silent Pavilion," she said, her voice a flat statement. She placed her candle on a table. Her grey eyes—the color of snow-laden clouds at twilight—studied him, taking in his pale face, his disheveled robes, the faint, lingering stench of vomit that clung to him.
"You smell of fear."
"I was careless," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper.
"What could you possibly be looking for in such a place?" she asked.
The terror of the night had stripped him raw, and the truth, or a version of it, came tumbling out in a desperate, pathetic rush.
"A way out," he whispered. "A way to not be… this." He gestured to his own weak body. "I can feel the Star Essence now, since the bath my First Aunt gave me. I can feel it in the air. But I cannot draw it in. The Grand Elder said my Stellar Seed was shattered. That I can never cultivate. I… I cannot accept that. I thought the smugglers… the Shadow Market… maybe they had heard of a treasure, a strange herb… something that could fix what is broken in me."
He expected her to mock him. To call him a fool. Instead, her face, which had been a mask of cold indifference, softened with a profound, sorrowful pity.
"The Grand Elder was not lying, Nephew Kai," she said softly. "But he did not tell you the whole truth. Because he himself does not understand it. You… you carry a poison in your blood. A poison I have seen before."
He stared at her, confused. "What do you mean?"
She looked at him, and he saw the reflection of a tragedy in her grey eyes, a memory that was not of the Yang Clan.
"My younger brother," she began, her voice a distant, hollow sound. "He was a genius. Our Xue dormant bloodline was a rare, potent mutation. When our family fell and we were taken in by this clan, the elders saw his potential. They rushed his Awakening Trial. They were greedy. They used a common catalyst on him—a drop of a Stage 3 cultivator's heart-blood."
Her voice trembled with grief a decade old. "It was like trying to douse a forest fire with a cup of water. The power of my brother's own awakened bloodline annihilated the catalyst, and with nothing to bond to, the resulting backlash destroyed his Stellar Seed from within. It killed him instantly."
Her gaze grew cold. "The Grand Elder was injured in that backlash. His own foundation was crippled. He has never recovered."
She looked at him, her grey eyes filled with a devastating clarity.
"That is what happened to you, nephew. The fall from the pillar was not just a fall. The spiritual shock must have triggered a spontaneous, uncontrolled awakening of your own tyrannical bloodline. With no proper catalyst to anchor it, the power turned inward and consumed itself. The Grand Elder recognized the symptom—the shattered seed—but he did not understand the cause."
"You do not simply have a shattered seed," she said, her voice a devastating, final verdict. "You have a bloodline that is a poison… unless you find the one, specific, legendary catalyst powerful enough to be its cure. Your path does not lead to a locked door," she finished, her eyes filled with a profound, bitter pity. "It leads off a cliff."
She did not turn and sweep from the library. She simply fell silent, leaving him to drown in the cold, hard truth she had just given him. She remained standing by the shelves, her back mostly to him, a silent statue of lavender silk.
Her mind was a storm of ghosts. She saw her brother's face in the boy's desperate, hopeful expression. The same fire. The same suicidal ambition.
The pain of that memory was a shard of ice in her heart. She thought of her husband and Grand Elder, of the clan's leadership, of their greed and ignorance that had cost her everything.
They had taken her brother's research—his life's work—and locked it away, calling it "heretical" to cover their own failure.
A quiet, cold thought, sharp as a needle, pierced through her sorrow. Her brother had died. But this boy, this impossible, pathetic echo… he had survived the initial backlash. He had already defied the odds once.
What would happen, she thought, her gaze distant, unfocused, if someone who had already impossibly survived the initial backlash, was given the same information as the first?
The question was not one of hope. It was a cold, quiet, and deeply personal curiosity.
A way to see if her brother's mad quest had ever held a sliver of a chance. She would not help him. She would not hinder him.
She would simply watch.
And so she waited, a silent observer in a tomb of forgotten knowledge, to see what the ghost before her would do next.
[Cycle of the Azure Emperor, Year 3473, 5th Moon, 20th Day]