Chapter Five: Hidden Pain and Secret Gaze

Inside the thatched hut, the mingled stench of mildewed hay, blood, and cheap ointment was enough to make one’s head throb. Dawn had barely broken, and a layer of ashen light struggled through the sparse gaps between the thatch overhead, barely dispersing the thick darkness.

Lin Mo lay prone upon the cold pile of hay, sleepless through the night. The wound on his back, suppressed by the black jade salve, had at last shifted from a tearing agony to a deep, lingering ache—like a heated iron rod lodged between his bones, pulled at with every breath. Yet this pain of flesh and bone was insignificant compared to the “stone” entrenched within his chest and abdomen.

The “stone” remained—cold and heavy, like a nucleus of black ice from the nethermost depths, pressed relentlessly between his heart and lungs. Every heartbeat seemed to crash against its hard, icy surface, sending waves of muffled palpitations and a suffocating sense of stagnation. Stranger still, the chill that had nearly frozen him last night had now lessened. Not vanished, but… submerged. As if something within that icy “stone” had been ignited—a faint, almost imperceptible warmth was seeping ever so slowly from its core, like a seed struggling to sprout beneath frozen winter soil, weakly resisting the shell of ice.

This warmth was tenuous, yet stubbornly present. It did not dispel the cold but created a peculiar standoff. The cold and weight still pressed upon him, but within that heaviness, there was now a subtle, vital pulse. The pulse was as weak as a candle in the wind, yet unnaturally clear—each beat tugged at his meridians, bringing an indescribable soreness and… thrill. It was as though his whole body had become a resonant chamber for the pulsing of that icy “stone.”

He tried to inhale ever so slightly; the sense of stagnation in his chest was still strong, as if a thousand-pound boulder pressed down. Yet in this laborious breath, a faint, unfamiliar sense of power seemed to escape from the depths of the “stone,” flowing for a brief instant through his depleted limbs. The sensation was fleeting, almost illusory, but his numb, exhausted body, like parched, cracked earth, greedily absorbed the first droplet of precious rain.

The Void Heaven Scripture…

Those three words, branded with last night’s chaos and fierce aura, surfaced once more in his muddled consciousness. Was it this? Was the cold “stone” formed from the fragment that fused into his body? Was that pulse of warmth, that faint sense of power… brought by this sinister thing?

“Awake?” Zhou Xiaoxiao’s voice sounded beside him, thick with nasality and the hoarseness of sleep. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, yawning long, his gaze falling on Lin Mo with habitual furrowing of his brows. “Your face still looks like a corpse! Can you move?”

Lin Mo said nothing, only slowly and cautiously propped himself up. The wound on his back was tugged, sending a wave of dull pain, and he groaned, cold sweat instantly breaking out on his brow, his movement stalled midair. The “stone” in his chest sank sharply with the effort; the faint pulse of warmth seemed to halt for a moment, and the cold, suffocating sensation intensified, his vision flickered black, nearly causing him to collapse.

“Enough! Ancestor, just stay down!” Zhou Xiaoxiao, seeing how precarious he looked, hurriedly reached out to steady him, pressing him back onto the hay pile. “Stop pretending to be tough! A hundred days for tendon and bone injuries—you’re nearly down to the bone!”

He stood up, stretched his sleep-stiffened limbs, bones cracking audibly. Outside, the mountain’s damp morning wind, carrying the scent of grass and wood, swept in and dispersed the hut’s stale air, clearing Lin Mo’s muddled mind just a little.

“I’m going to fetch something to eat and check on the herb garden. Stay put, and don’t go feeding lizards in the woods again!” Zhou Xiaoxiao tossed out, lifting aside the ragged grass mat serving as a door and stepping out.

Lin Mo was alone once more. He lay on the haystack, his cheek pressed against the prickly stalks, listening to Zhou Xiaoxiao’s footsteps fading away and the scattered cries of early birds in the distant forest. The cold pulse in his chest remained clear; the warmth and power still flickered intermittently like faint sparks in the darkness.

He slowly raised his right hand before his eyes. The morning light, filtering through the roof, fell upon his palm, smeared with mud and dried blood. At his fingertips, where he had gripped the shard last night, the skin was unblemished. Yet he felt something had changed. As though these hands, this body battered and bruised, had been scoured by last night’s wild power and forcibly filled with some cold, heavy foreign matter, leaving behind a strange, obscure “pathway.”

He tried to concentrate, to catch and guide the faint power escaping with the pulse from the “stone” in his chest. As soon as the thought formed, the “stone” sank sharply! The cold, suffocating sensation intensified instantly, as if an invisible icy hand gripped his heart tight! Golden spots danced before his eyes, his breath seized, and the wound on his back throbbed fiercely!

“Ugh…” He curled up in agony, cold sweat soaking his thin clothes. The faint sense of power vanished like a startled fish, leaving only the oppressive cold and weight.

No! He could not control it at all! That thing was like a primordial beast, lurking within him, fierce and untamed, utterly unwilling to let its feeble master meddle!

Frustration and pain overwhelmed him, like a tide of cold water. Gasping, he lay limp in the hay, forced to feel the slow, heavy pulse of the icy “stone” in his chest and that faint warmth struggling within.

He had no idea how much time passed before Zhou Xiaoxiao’s footsteps returned, hurried this time. He pulled aside the grass mat, entering with two even harder, blacker buns than yesterday and a small bundle of freshly picked Chiyang grass, still dewy, its roots smeared with fresh earth.

“Here, make do! The kitchen bastards wouldn’t even spare a scrap of vegetable today!” Zhou Xiaoxiao shoved the buns into Lin Mo’s hands, and waved the Chiyang grass. “This stuff grows everywhere in the mountain crevices, plenty for you! I’ll boil some for you later.” He deftly found a battered clay pot, tossed the grass in, then used Lin Mo’s chipped bowl to scoop murky creek water and poured it in, setting it atop some stones to prepare for boiling.

Lin Mo gnawed silently on the cold, hard bun, but his eyes were drawn to the fresh Chiyang grass. The dark red leaves carried the scent of earth. The faint warmth from the wilted stalk Zhou Xiaoxiao had given him last night still lingered in his memory.

A bold, even absurd notion flashed unbidden through his weary, chaotic mind.

He stared at the Chiyang grass, and deep within his consciousness, as though led by the pulse of the icy “stone,” he instinctively, faintly “wished”: warmth… heat…

The thought was vague, not a clear command, more a primal yearning, a desperate need to dispel the cold from deep within.

In that instant—

The “stone” in his chest gave a sudden throb! A pulse, so weak it was almost unnoticeable, yet with a strange pulling force, coursed through the forcibly opened, obscure “pathway” in his body and fleetingly projected into the hand clutching the bun!

No glow, no phenomenon.

But Lin Mo distinctly felt that his fingertips, for a moment, brushed against something—a faint, indescribable “sensation”; not warmth, more a subtle, generative ripple.

The ripple was as fleeting as an illusion.

Yet as it passed, the edge of a dark red leaf in the clay pot, soaking in cold water, curled ever so slightly!

The curl was so faint, as if briefly singed by an invisible flame, then restored in an instant—so quick it could have been a ripple in the water.

Lin Mo’s heart skipped a beat! He held his breath, eyes locked on the Chiyang grass in the pot.

Beside him, Zhou Xiaoxiao was bent over, struggling to strike fire from flint, cursing the damp weather. He hadn’t noticed the tiny, nearly imperceptible change in the pot.

Was it an illusion? Water ripples? Or…

Lin Mo unconsciously tightened his grip, nearly crushing the cold bun. The icy “stone” in his chest still throbbed, the faint warmth struggling deep inside. That momentary pulse and strange “touch” felt like a meaningless ripple from the heavy beat.

But that sensation—the feeling of his fingertips truly brushing against some invisible force—was so vivid!

Just then, Zhou Xiaoxiao finally got a fire going, a small orange flame struggling beneath the damp straw, licking at the rough underside of the clay pot. The water inside began to crackle faintly.

“Damn, finally!” Zhou Xiaoxiao wiped sweat from his brow and at last looked at Lin Mo. His gaze swept over Lin Mo’s paper-white face and distracted eyes, brows furrowing habitually. “What are you spacing out for? Pain got you stupid?”

Lin Mo snapped back, lowered his eyes, masking the turmoil and confusion within, and mumbled, “No… just dizzy.”

Zhou Xiaoxiao pursed his lips, asked no more, and turned his attention back to the fragile flame, carefully adding twigs.

Lin Mo’s gaze returned to the clay pot. Amid the rising steam, bitter with herbs, the Chiyang grass swayed with the rolling water, its dark red leaves unfurling in the murky liquid, showing no trace of abnormality. As if that fleeting curl had truly been nothing more than illusion, conjured by light and water.

He lowered his head, staring at his fingers dusted with bun crumbs and mud. Cold, rough, nothing strange.

The icy “stone” pulsed deep within his chest. The faint warmth, like a fish trapped beneath ice, still struggled in vain.

Just now… what was it, really?