Chapter Two: In the Corner of My Eye

The warmth from the root and stem of the Scarlet Sun Grass, pressed against Lin Mo’s chest, hadn’t yet seeped into his bones before the biting wind from the back mountain swept it away completely. The chores assigned to the menial servants were endless. After emptying the night soil, there was firewood to chop. Once the firewood was split, it was time to fetch water. The Qingmu Sect was built along the mountain slopes, and its water source lay deep in the mountain ravines. The winding stone steps were steep and slippery, glazed with frost that made them feel slick as if oiled. Lin Mo carried two wooden buckets nearly as tall as himself, trudging back and forth. The rough carrying pole scraped his shoulders raw, stinging with pain, sweat mingling with the icy frost, soaking his thin coarse clothes. Every time he bent to draw water, every time he climbed those treacherous steps, it drained the last vestiges of strength from his body. The Scarlet Sun Grass at his chest was like a faint ember, reminding him not to collapse—at least, not yet.

Panting heavily, Lin Mo poured the final bucket of water into the massive stone vat outside the kitchen. Splashes of icy water stung his hands. He’d barely straightened his back, ready for a breath, when Steward Wang’s greasy, shining face blocked his view.

“What are you dawdling for, Lin Mo? You call this full? The rim isn’t even wet!” Wang thrust out his belly, saliva flying dangerously close to Lin Mo’s face, his breath reeking of stale alcohol and cheap incense. “The leaves piled up by the training ground are enough to bury someone! Are you blind? Waiting for the elders to slip and fall? Get moving and sweep them clean!”

The training ground was reserved for the inner sect disciples. Paved with stone, broad and level, menials were usually kept at a distance, allowed only to clean from afar. Today, for some reason, things were different. Lin Mo lowered his eyes, didn’t argue, and silently fetched the oversized bamboo broom from the corner, barely taller than himself. Its sparse branches made sweeping the thick autumn leaves especially laborious.

Indeed, the training ground was covered in leaves. Wind spun the yellowed foliage, never ceasing. Several disciples were leaping and sparring in the center, sword glints flashing, the gusts from their moves scattering the freshly fallen leaves anew. Lin Mo kept his head down, staying at the edges, painstakingly gathering the restless leaves disturbed by sword energy. Dust and leaf fragments made his throat itch.

“Hey! Over there! Did you skip breakfast? Sweep properly!” The voice was sharp and impatient. Lin Mo looked up to see a young man in the inner sect’s blue robes, about seventeen or eighteen, his features marked by arrogance. He’d paused his sword practice, arms crossed, glaring at Lin Mo with clear annoyance. The others watched, eager for entertainment.

Lin Mo didn’t reply, only quickened his movements, the broom rasping noisily across the stone slabs.

“Tch! Deaf or dumb? I’m talking to you!” The young disciple’s brows knitted, clearly offended by the menial’s silence. With a flick of his finger, a thin, barely visible stream of azure energy shot out, striking Lin Mo’s wrist.

“Ah!” Lin Mo felt as if a hot needle had pierced his wrist, pain flaring, his fingers instantly losing strength. The heavy bamboo broom slipped from his grasp, crashing to the ground and scattering the leaves he’d just gathered.

“Useless! Can’t even hold a broom!” The disciple scoffed, his voice not loud but carrying clearly across the quiet training ground, prompting laughter from his companions.

Lin Mo clenched his teeth, pressing his numb, aching wrist with his left hand, sweat gathering at his brow. He bent to retrieve the broom. His fingers barely touched the cold bamboo when another sharp sound cut the air!

This time, the target was his calf. A cunning force struck behind his knee, Lin Mo grunted, unable to stay upright, collapsing onto the cold stone with a heavy knee. The dull ache from his knee mingled with the sharp pain in his wrist, sending waves of darkness across his vision.

“Well, look at that, kneeling already? Menials are just spineless.” The young disciple strode over, looking down at Lin Mo, nudging the scattered broom with his boot. “Pick it up! Or should I help you?”

Humiliation, cold and venomous, coiled tighter around Lin Mo’s heart. He could see the spotless cloud-patterned boots, barely half a foot from his own mud-stained trousers. Fingernails dug into his palm, nearly breaking the skin, the sting keeping him barely lucid. He reached with his left hand for the broom.

Just as his fingertips neared the handle, a sudden, shrill crack sliced the air! Not the playful streams of earlier, but a solid, azure wind-whip, whistling as it lashed toward Lin Mo’s bent back!

If it landed, his frail body would be devastated—even survival would be uncertain.

Lin Mo had no time to think, only instinctively rolling aside!

“Crack—!”

The wind-whip struck the stone, a sharp, piercing report echoing, leaving a vivid white mark on the slabs. Shards flew, some striking Lin Mo’s face, burning with pain.

He tumbled awkwardly, his shirt torn open at the back, the cold stone biting through to his skin. His heart hammered so fiercely it threatened to break his ribs. That blow had been meant to kill.

“You filthy dog! You dare dodge?” The young disciple, furious that Lin Mo escaped, was livid, malice flashing in his eyes. He raised his hand to strike again—

“Stop!”

A cold, clear female voice suddenly rang out—not loud, but with a piercing clarity that cut through the noise and reached everyone’s ears.

The young disciple’s raised hand froze mid-air.

At the entrance to the training ground, several figures had appeared unnoticed. Leading them was a stern-faced middle-aged steward from Qingmu Sect, followed by three women.

All eyes shifted instantly, even the would-be assailant turning in surprise.

The three women wore uniquely styled pale pink dresses, their sleeves billowing gracefully as they moved, resembling clouds. The foremost was especially striking—tall and slender, her skin fair as snow, features so exquisite she seemed a goddess from a painting. Most notable were her eyes, the corners slightly upturned, naturally imbued with lazy allure, yet now they held the icy calm of a frozen lake, devoid of warmth, only a distant, cold scrutiny. Her presence stilled the air around her.

Hehuan Sect!

Lin Mo recalled Zhou Xiaoxiao’s morning hints. He struggled to rise, pain from his back wound making him gasp, his movements awkward.

The young disciple, seeing the newcomers, quickly withdrew his hand, his face reshaping into a respectful smile as he bowed. “Greetings, Steward Zhang, greetings to the Hehuan Sect sisters.” His companions hurried to follow suit.

Steward Zhang’s brows were tightly knit, clearly displeased by the scene, but restrained his anger before outsiders, only saying in a low voice, “What is this commotion?”

The young disciple immediately pointed at Lin Mo, still kneeling. “Reporting, Steward: this menial was clumsy, couldn’t sweep properly. I meant to instruct him, but he dodged, nearly disturbing our honored guests! I only—”

“That’s enough.” Steward Zhang cut him off with a stern gaze. “Is this how you conduct yourself before guests? Step aside.”

The young disciple, relieved, cast Lin Mo a hateful look before retreating with his group.

Steward Zhang turned to the Hehuan Sect ladies, forcing a smile. “My apologies, Sister Su Li. My disciples are young and unruly; I failed in my duty.”

Su Li? Lin Mo kept his head down, the name drifting to him on the wind. So she was the leader.

Su Li’s gaze incidentally swept the corner of the training ground. Lin Mo was still hunched, struggling to stand, his torn shirt revealing a fresh, swollen, bleeding whip mark. His body trembled slightly, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound. That silent endurance, like a small beast forced into a dead end, stood out amid the scattered leaves and cold stone.

Her gaze lingered on Lin Mo’s wound for a fleeting moment, her long lashes dropping to conceal a faint ripple in her eyes, barely noticeable. It was like a stone tossed in a calm lake: the ripple vanished before it could spread. She lifted her eyes again, cool and aloof, as if the glance was nothing more than a passing view of fallen leaves.

“It’s nothing,” she said, her voice clear as jade, pleasant yet edged with icy distance. “Steward Zhang, you are too polite. Your sect’s matters are not ours to judge.” Her tone was neutral, betraying no emotion, as if indifferent to the previous conflict, her gaze moving to the distant scenery of Qingmu Sect’s mountains.

Steward Zhang breathed out in relief, quickly leading the way. “This way, Sister Su. The Sect Leader awaits in the main hall.”

Su Li nodded, her steps light as lotus petals, following Steward Zhang and the other Hehuan Sect disciples. Their pale pink skirts brushed the cold stone, untouched by dust.

She never glanced again toward Lin Mo’s corner.

Only once those figures vanished through the archway did the tense atmosphere finally relax. The inner disciples whispered among themselves, their eyes lingering on Lin Mo with disdain and a hint of schadenfreude.

“Bah! Lucky you!” The young disciple who’d attacked him spat from afar, his gaze dark, but he didn’t dare approach.

Lin Mo braced himself with his left hand, gritting his teeth as he slowly pushed himself up from the cold stone. His right knee throbbed, his back burned with pain, every breath tugging at his wound. He limped over, bent to pick up the heavy bamboo broom. The handle was still cold, smeared with mud and specks of his own blood from the fall.

He gripped the broom tightly, sweeping the never-ending leaves, his movements slow and stiff, the bleeding wound aching beneath his coarse shirt.

The training ground rang again with shouts and sword clashes, as if nothing had happened. Only the white mark on the stone and the torn shirt on Lin Mo’s back silently witnessed the earlier danger and humiliation.

Lin Mo kept his head down, focused on the mess before him. Yet in his mind, those icy lake-like eyes flashed again. That brief glance had pierced him, cold, but somehow… was there something else?

He shook his head hard, banishing the absurd thought. Why would a fairy of Hehuan Sect notice a menial who cleaned night soil? It was only his pain clouding his vision.

He gripped the broom handle, the rough bamboo biting into his frostbitten palm, grounding him in reality.

—

In a corner of the menials’ quarters, the air was thick with the bitter scent of herbs, mixed with sweat and mold.

Lin Mo lay face-down on the cold wooden plank bed, his upper body bare. The whip mark swelling on his back was inches long, the edges bruised, the broken skin oozing pale yellow fluid and blood, looking fierce and raw. Every breath tugged at the wound, sending spasms of pain.

“Hss… be gentle!” Lin Mo gritted his teeth, cold sweat dripping from his brow, his fingers digging into the hard edge of the plank.

“Bear with it! If I don’t work out this blood, you won’t even be able to stand straight tomorrow!” Zhou Xiaoxiao crouched beside him, a dry grass stem in his mouth, his usual playful grin replaced by rare concern and irritation. In his hands was a lump of mashed, dark green herbal paste, pungent and strong, which he carefully applied to Lin Mo’s wound. The paste was cool, but on the injury felt like salt, making Lin Mo’s muscles tense and his breath catch.

“Damn it, Zhao Qing, that bastard!” Zhou Xiaoxiao cursed while tending the wound, referring to the inner disciple. “He’s Elder Zhao’s distant nephew, so he bullies menials to feel important! Scum! So vicious!” His motions grew gentler, but his curses did not stop. “If it hadn’t been for the Hehuan Sect’s sudden arrival… hell!”

Lin Mo didn’t respond, burying his face in the rough straw mat, enduring the mingling coolness and pain. Zhou was right: if Su Li and her companions hadn’t appeared, interrupting everything… the consequences would have been unthinkable. He closed his eyes, recalling the wind-whip’s howl, Su Li’s eyes with their strange flicker, and Zhao Qing’s cruel, arrogant face.

“All right, let’s patch this up.” Zhou Xiaoxiao smeared the rest of the paste, then grabbed a relatively clean scrap of cloth and clumsily bandaged Lin Mo’s back. The movements were rough but at least covered the wound. “This ‘Ink Jade Ointment’—I pinched it from the storehouse right under Old Baldy’s nose. It’s great for bruises. Count yourself lucky!”

Lin Mo pushed himself upright, grimacing as his back protested. He pulled on his torn shirt, the cold fabric stinging his wound and making him shiver. “Thanks,” he rasped.

“Don’t mention it! We’re brothers, aren’t we?” Zhou Xiaoxiao brushed off the herbal residue, his playful smirk returning as if the earlier concern had been mere illusion. He leaned in, lowering his voice with a wink. “Hey, on a serious note, did you see that Su fairy from Hehuan Sect today? Damn, what a figure, what a face… Zhao Qing didn’t dare breathe in front of her! Made me feel so much better!”

Lin Mo ignored the teasing, silently tying his shirt. Su Li’s beautiful face and cold gaze lingered in his mind, but Zhao Qing’s unrestrained cruelty was even clearer.

“Zhao Qing…” Lin Mo murmured the name, his voice devoid of emotion, only a chill that sank to the bone.

“What, thinking of revenge?” Zhou Xiaoxiao shot him a sideways look and sneered. “Forget it, Mo! He’s an inner disciple, his uncle’s an elder! Crushing us would be easier than squashing ants. Let today’s incident go—don’t dwell on it!” He stood, stretching with a crack of joints. “Staying alive is what matters! I’m off—gotta check in with Steward Wang before he finds fault again.”

Humming tunelessly, Zhou Xiaoxiao swaggered out of the crowded menials’ dorm. His footsteps faded beyond the door.

Lin Mo sat alone on the cold plank, pale moonlight spilling through the narrow window, casting a stark patch on the floor. He looked down at his frostbitten, calloused hands, rough and dark, their nails embedded with stubborn grime. These hands chopped wood, hauled water, emptied night soil—and today, nearly cost him his life over a broom.

Power.

The word was like a burning iron nail, hammered deep into his numb heart. Without power, in this immortal sect, even breathing was a mistake. Zhao Qing’s whip, Steward Wang’s scolding, the deadly mist of the back mountain—all of it stemmed from his weakness.

There was still a trace of warmth from the Scarlet Sun Grass at his chest. He instinctively pressed his hand against it through the coarse fabric…