Chapter Eleven: Fragments Beneath the Blood Scab

The thunderous crash and blinding light that burst through the door struck the thick, stale air of the dormitory hall like a red-hot branding iron. Splinters of wood mingled with dust, whirling madly in the dim yellow glow.

At the threshold stood Zhao Qing, his silhouette outlined against the dusk, like a poisoned dagger planted in the doorway. His inner disciple robes, dyed in cool blue, were spotless, accentuating the arrogant, sinister cast of his face. Arms folded and chin raised, his gaze was as cold and probing as an icy needle, laced with undisguised disdain and a hint of malicious curiosity, as he fixed it upon the far corner of the hall—where Lin Mo lay curled amidst blood and cold sweat, his vacant eyes staring, as if dredged up from hell itself.

“Steward Wang! Are you deaf or dead? Get out here, now!” Zhao Qing’s voice cut sharply, deliberately raised in arrogant scorn, echoing harshly in the silence of the hall. “The mountain warding formation has been disturbed, and the source is right near this filthy kennel! Search everything! Dig three feet deep if you have to, and bring out whatever filth has disturbed the formation!”

From the shadows behind him, two more young men stepped forward, likewise clad in inner disciple attire. Their eyes were cold, hands resting on sword hilts, their gaze sweeping through the dim, squalid room with the precision and wariness of bone-cutting blades.

Several menial workers cowered in the distance, trembling, not daring even to breathe. Steward Wang scrambled inside, his fat face twisted in a contorted smile of sycophancy and terror. “Zhao… Young Master Zhao! Please, calm yourself! This wretched place—how could there be anything here to disturb the formation? Surely it’s just old age…”

“Silence!” Zhao Qing snapped, his gaze fastening on Steward Wang like a venomous serpent. “We’ll know after we search! Or perhaps—Steward Wang, do you have something to hide?” He drew out the last words, his cold eyes pointedly glancing again toward Lin Mo.

Steward Wang’s bulk shuddered in fear, cold sweat soaking his back. He dared not retort, instead barking at the petrified menials, “Are you all deaf? Young Master Zhao has ordered it! Search! Get moving! Turn out every piece of junk you’ve got hidden in here!”

The menials, as if granted amnesty, scrambled to overturn their meager bedding, frantic lest they incur blame by moving too slowly.

Zhao Qing ignored Steward Wang, a cold smile curling at his lips as he strode toward the corner. His boots squelched faintly on the mud floor, stained with filth and dried blood, like a snake slithering through grass. His gaze, sharp as an icy spike, locked onto Lin Mo, who lay on the straw mat, barely breathing.

“Well, isn’t this the ‘hard bone’ from the training grounds?” Zhao Qing halted, looming over Lin Mo, his voice dripping with cruel mockery. “Just a few days, and you’ve turned into a dead dog. Could it be… you did something shameful and the formation punished you?” His words dragged out, eyes glinting like poisoned hooks as they lingered over Lin Mo’s torn, bloodied back, freshly dusted with dark red hemostatic powder, then swept over the dried blood at his lips and his face pale as paper.

Lin Mo trembled on the straw mat, wracked by pain and weakness. Zhao Qing’s footsteps, his venomous stare, and icy taunts stabbed his nerves like countless needles. The cold “stone” in his chest seemed to pulse faster as Zhao Qing drew near, a hint of violated ferocity flickering through the heavy numbness. But more overwhelming were the humiliation and icy fear. The chaos and despair brought by fractured memories from a past life had barely subsided, and now the blade of reality hung over him. He clenched his teeth so hard his gums bled anew, the taste of iron thick in his mouth, yet he dared not utter a sound, only burying his face deeper into the foul-smelling straw.

Zhou Xiaoxiao’s body tensed the moment Zhao Qing burst through the door. He unobtrusively stepped half a pace in front of Lin Mo, the usual sly smile wiped from his face, replaced by a mixture of vigilance, concern, and the numb compliance unique to lowly workers facing authority. His back was slightly hunched, arms at his sides, fingertips unconsciously curled.

“Senior Brother Zhao,” Zhou Xiaoxiao’s voice was gruff and ingratiating, his smile stiff. “You see, Lin Mo’s just a nightsoil worker, barely clinging to life after his injuries. He just drank some medicine to keep him alive, how could he possibly disturb a treasure like the mountain warding formation? Please, show mercy…” As he spoke, he carefully produced a filthy scrap of cloth, seemingly in a panic as he wiped the blood from Lin Mo’s mouth and beneath him, cleverly blocking much of Zhao Qing’s view of Lin Mo’s wounded back.

“Out of the way!” Zhao Qing impatiently waved his arm, releasing a cold gust of force. Zhou Xiaoxiao cried out, stumbling and hitting the wooden boards beside the beds with a muffled thud. He grimaced in pain, clutching his shoulder, but dared not complain, lowering his head and retreating, the sharpness in his eyes hidden deep.

With the obstacle cleared, Zhao Qing’s gaze swept unhindered over Lin Mo’s back, focusing on the wound Zhou Xiaoxiao had just roughly tended.

The injury was hideous, flesh torn and swollen, edged with bruised purple. Dark red powder mixed with fresh blood and yellowish fluid, smeared into a dreadful mess. After Zhou Xiaoxiao’s cleaning, it looked even filthier.

Zhao Qing’s brows furrowed in disgust, yet his eyes flashed with deeper coldness and… a barely perceptible excitement. He bent closer, as if searching for some clue in the mangled flesh. The stench of blood, herbs, and sweat assaulted him, prompting another wrinkle of his nose.

“Tsk, that’s a nasty wound…” His voice was tinged with cruel amusement. He extended his fingers—long, pale, and impeccably maintained—toward the fragile, newly formed dark red scab at the edge of Lin Mo’s wound.

What was he about to do?

Lin Mo’s body instantly tightened like steel. Terror flooded him, icy and overwhelming. Beneath that scab was flesh ravaged by the mountain formation’s power—the very core where fragments of the Void Heaven Scripture were entrenched. If Zhao Qing touched it, would he trigger the formation again? Would he expose the deadly secret hidden within him?

Cold sweat poured from Lin Mo’s forehead and back, soaking the straw. He squeezed his eyes shut, trembling uncontrollably with tension, teeth biting into his lip, blood silently trickling down.

Zhou Xiaoxiao, standing aside with head bowed, seemed cowed by Zhao Qing’s presence. Yet, unseen by Zhao Qing, his right hand’s index and middle fingers flicked imperceptibly against his filthy trousers, as swift as a serpent’s tongue, unnoticed by all.

At the instant Zhao Qing’s well-kept, malicious fingertips were about to touch the vulnerable scab—

Suddenly, a change erupted.

A low, subterranean hum resonated without warning. This time, the sound’s source was not the workers’ dormitory, but deep within the rear mountain, from the direction of the forbidden grounds shrouded in thick mist.

The hum was faint but possessed a heart-stopping heaviness, like the growl of an ancient beast beneath the abyss. An invisible, cold, and obscure ripple swept across the entire Qingshu Sect mountain gate, like ripples from a stone tossed in water.

Almost at the same moment—

Throughout the dormitory hall and the sect’s outer regions, the walls, floor, and even the air itself—the unseen veins of the mountain warding formation—all flashed briefly with a weak, pale blue glow. The light flowed like nervous impulses, the forces suddenly compelled by a higher, irresistible command, converging in a torrent toward the forbidden ground in the rear mountain.

Zhao Qing’s outstretched fingers were mere inches from Lin Mo’s scab. The sudden hum and the shifting power froze his motion, and a fleeting, icy sting pierced his fingertips, like being pricked by invisible needles.

His expression changed, and he withdrew his hand, uncertainly gazing toward the rear mountain. The hum and ripple from the forbidden ground carried an ancient, desolate, and faintly threatening presence, unsettling him.

“What’s happening?” one of the inner disciples behind Zhao Qing murmured, hand tightening on his sword, eyes wary as he peered into the swirling mist outside.

Zhao Qing’s face was clouded. He glanced at his unharmed fingers, then at the barely breathing worker trembling on the bed, a flicker of irritation and doubt in his eyes. Had the source of the disturbance shifted? Was it really nothing to do with this half-dead worker? Was something amiss within the forbidden ground?

The rummaging noises in the dormitory had stopped with the sudden change. Everyone looked, bewildered, toward the rear mountain, where the mist churned, as if hiding some unknown beast.

“Senior Brother Zhao, the forbidden ground in the rear mountain…” another inner disciple reminded him, voice grave and eyes filled with reverence.

Zhao Qing’s gaze lingered on Lin Mo, sprawled like a dead dog, then swept over Zhou Xiaoxiao’s humble, terrified face, and the chaos of the fruitless search. The unsettling ripple from the rear mountain persisted, weak but impossible to ignore.

“Hmph!” Zhao Qing finally snorted, as if to dispel his unease, glaring fiercely at Lin Mo. “Consider yourself lucky! I’ll spare your wretched life today!” He turned to his men and Steward Wang. “Come with me to the rear mountain! The formation’s disturbance is no small matter. If something has happened in the forbidden ground, none of you useless fools will escape blame!”

Without another glance at Lin Mo, he hurried out, his followers and Steward Wang scrambling after him.

In the dormitory, only silence and the thick reek of blood remained.

Zhou Xiaoxiao stood there, watching Zhao Qing and his men vanish into the dusk and mist, the fear and obedience draining from his face, leaving only cold calm. He slowly turned, fixing his gaze on the corner.

Lin Mo still lay on the straw, body rigid with terror and tension, blood seeping anew from his strained wound, staining the dark red powder. His face was paler than death, eyes tightly shut.

Zhou Xiaoxiao approached, his movements gentle again. He crouched, not immediately tending the wound, but first extended a finger, swiftly and discreetly brushing the edge of the scab Zhao Qing had nearly touched.

A faint, cold heaviness lingered at his fingertips, familiar as touching thousand-year-old cold iron buried deep underground. The sensation vanished as quickly as it appeared, almost an illusion.

In the dim light, Zhou Xiaoxiao’s eyes deepened, waves of shock and piercing insight swirling within. He suddenly raised his head, his gaze seeming to pierce the beams of the roof, the churning mist, locking onto the forbidden ground in the rear mountain.