The Ancestral Hall ruins were a perfect stage. The moon was a cold, silver disc, casting long,
black shadows from the broken pillars.
Li Mei had been... inspired.
The air didn't just feel cold; it clung to the skin, a damp, unnatural chill. This was the
'Corpse-Bloom' herb she'd read about, a plant that drew heat from the air. Faint, black,
oily-looking threads of her own Qi—a demonic-looking perversion of her 'Silken Heart'
art—clung to the stones, glistening in the moonlight. And on the broken, central altar, she had
placed a small, gnarled idol carved from a 'Shadow-Root,' which she had then steeped in
'Mind-Fog' toxin.
It radiated a faint, malevolent aura. It was a masterpiece of stage-craft.
Jin Tao arrived, flanked by his two fourth-stage servants. He was arrogant, triumphant, and
radiating a smug, possessive energy. "So," he sneered, "the rat knows when to bow. Good.
Where is she?"
Ren Wei was "cowering" near the broken altar, his face a mask of 'abject terror.' This was his
performance. "She... she is scared, Young Master! She's hiding in the main hall. She... she told
me to give you this. As... as a sign. Of... 'goodwill.'"
He held out the gnarled, black idol.
Jin Tao scoffed, but his arrogance made him take it. "What is this trash?" he said, just as his
fingers closed around the 'Mind-Fog' infused root.
Now.
"JIN TAO! What is the meaning of this?!"
A new voice, sharp and righteous, cut through the night. A second group burst into the clearing.
At the lead was "Young Master Fang," a reedy, sharp-faced youth. And behind him... exactly as
planned... was Elder Liu, one of the sect's most stringent, humorless disciplinarians.
The tableau was perfect.
Jin Tao, stunned, stood in the center of what looked exactly like a demonic ritual circle. The air
stank of dark, cold magic. He was holding a demonic idol. And Ren Wei was cowering in the
corner, the perfect "victim."
"What... Fang? Elder?" Jin Tao was utterly confused. "This... this is not what it looks like!"
"DEMONIC CULTIVATION!" Fang shouted, his voice trembling with manufactured rage and real
greed. "He's using a blood sacrifice! Look at the idol! He... he forced this disciple to help him! He
was... he was going to sacrifice him and his partner!"
The Elder's face was ice. He didn't need Fang's accusations. He could feel the aura. Li Mei's art
was flawless. The evidence was irrefutable.
"Jin Tao," the Elder said, his voice a death-knell. "You will come with me. Now."
"It's a lie!" Jin Tao screamed, finally realizing. "It was the rat! The rat framed me!" His servants
drew their swords.
The Elder just shook his head, and his own entourage—four fifth-stage enforcers—moved. The
fight was over in a second. The servants were struck down, their cultivation crippled. Jin Tao,
screaming his innocence, was bound in Qi-suppressing chains.
The Elder turned to Ren Wei, who was "sobbing" in the corner, a perfect, broken, traumatized
victim. "You... disciple. You were... coerced?"
Ren Wei looked up, his face a mask of terror and profound, shining relief. "He... he threatened
to dissolve me, Elder! He said if I didn't get him the 'artifact,' he would... he would kill me... and...
and my partner!"
The Elder's expression softened... as much as his iron-like face could. "You have done the sect
a great service, disciple. You were brave to... report... this." (He, of course, assumed Ren Wei Ren Wei bowed, "trembling," and fled the scene.
He returned to their courtyard. The moon was high. Li Mei was sitting in the moss garden,
waiting. She was not in her "shy" persona. She was not the "cold" monster. She was just... Mei.
He sat on the stone bench opposite her. They were filthy. Not with blood, this time. But with the
mud of their scheme. The intricacy of their lie.
He looked at his hands. He was... good... at this. This darkness. This manipulation. He was no
longer just a victim of her obsession.
He was an active participant. He had used her darkness, and his own, for their survival.
He was not a good person.
Li Mei reached across the small stone table. She didn't grab his hand. She just laid her hand,
palm-up, on the stone.
An invitation. An offering.
He looked at her hand. The "Hand" that killed. The "Hand" that set the stage.
He looked at his own. The "Head" that plotted. The "Head" that lied.
He slowly lifted his hand.
And he placed it in hers.