Love Burning Amidst the Ashes. - Chapter 12 - Outer Sect Menial

The green-robed Taoist novice guiding the way moved soundlessly along the mountain path leading to the Hundred Herb Valley, as if gliding through mist and clouds. Xu Qing Xuan followed with great difficulty. The charred black wound on his back, corroded by the Yin Malevolent energy, seemed to reignite after Steward Zhao’s undisguised look of disgust and his sharp order of expulsion. A bone-chilling, icy pain, mixed with a burning sensation, spread along his spine, gnawing away at his remaining willpower. The blood-stained leather belt at his waist rubbed roughly against the injury, bringing a constant, dull ache, yet it also felt like the silent support of his younger brother, cinching his tottering body together.

The mist thickened. The damp, cold air, heavy with the rich scent of vegetation and the cloying sweetness of earth, entered his lungs. Strangely, it seemed to gently suppress, for a fleeting moment, the rampaging Yin Malevolent force within him. The Yin Yang jade pendant pressed against his chest, a bastion against the pain and exhaustion. On the other side, the icy black compass lay heavy, like a shard of frozen abyss, a reminder of the persistent shadows behind him.

Rounding a cliff face draped with vines, the scene before him suddenly opened up in a breathtaking expanse.

The Hundred Herb Valley.

Its name was elegant, and the scenery indeed lived up to it. A vast valley nestled on the mountainside of Misty Peak, embraced by mountains on three sides like a giant palm cradling it gently. The terrain within was gentle and open, meticulously divided into countless neat squares—an unbroken expanse of medicine fields. Above them arched an immense, nearly transparent crystalline shield, its surface shimmering with watery light, clearly some formation designed to gather spiritual energy and regulate the climate. Through the shield, one could see lush spiritual herbs of varied shapes in the furrows: “Golden Vein Grass” with leaves like green jade and veins flowing with golden light; “Frostfire Berries” with fiery red stems and icy blue fruit at their tips; “Seven-Colored Luster Vines” with gnarled creepers blooming with bowl-sized, strangely fragrant flowers… An aura of wood and vegetation so thick it was palpable, mingled with countless medicinal fragrances, hung in the valley air. A single breath was enough to slightly invigorate the spirit.

The valley was not entirely serene. Many figures in coarse grey robes labored with bowed heads among the fields—weeding, loosening soil, diverting water for irrigation, or carefully harvesting. Their movements were mechanical, their expressions weary, standing in stark dissonance with this vibrant spiritual land, like smudges of dull ink marring a splendid tapestry. In the distance, leaning against the mountain slope, stood several rows of crude wooden huts, presumably the living quarters for the outer sect laborers.

“This is the Outer Sect Laborer Section of the Hundred Herb Valley,” the green-robed novice stated, his voice flat and devoid of inflection. “Your task is to tend to the ‘Azure Rain Grass’ in the Ding Third Sector.” He raised a hand, pointing towards the valley’s outermost edge, near the foot of the mountain. The medicine plots there were noticeably less orderly than those in the central area, and the protective crystalline shield shimmered with a much dimmer light. The “Azure Rain Grass” in the furrows appeared sparse, its leaves long and narrow, showing a sickly greyish-green hue devoid of vitality, far less radiant than the other spiritual herbs.

“Work commences at Chen hour (7-9 AM) daily and concludes at You hour (5-7 PM). No tardiness, no early departure. Do not damage spiritual flora. Do not pilfer medicinal herbs. Violators will be severely punished.” The novice recited the rules mechanically. His gaze swept over Xu Qing Xuan’s pale face and the faintly visible charred marks beneath his ragged clothing, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. “Your dwelling is the last hut in the western row. Find Steward Wang yourself for your supplies and identity token.” With that, he offered no further words, turning and departing as lightly as he had come, as if staying a moment longer would taint him with misfortune.

Xu Qing Xuan remained silent where he stood, his clear yet weary gaze slowly sweeping over this valley teeming with life yet rigidly stratified. A blessed land of immortals? The corner of his mouth twitched, forming an almost indiscernible, icy curve. Merely a larger, more ornate cage. The dense spiritual energy in the air was both a temptation and a burden for his Yin Malevolent-corroded meridians. Every inhalation, drawing in pure spiritual energy, clashed violently with the stubborn Yin force within him, sending pinpricks of pain shooting through his body.

Dragging his heavy footsteps, he made his way towards the western row of huts the novice had indicated. The wooden huts were low and crude, emitting an odor of damp timber mingled with the sour smell of sweat. The last one was particularly dilapidated, its door slightly askew. Pushing it open, a musty smell assaulted him. The interior was narrow and gloomy, containing only a bare plank bed, a rickety wooden table, and a chipped wooden basin. In the corner, damp stains and blotches of green mold were visible on the wall.

The Steward Wang in charge of distributing supplies was a thin, desiccated old man with drooping eyelids, appearing utterly listless. Seeing Xu Qing Xuan’s wretched state, he merely tossed him a set of similarly drab grey laborer’s coarse clothing, a wooden identity token (carved with “Ding Three-Seven”), a worn-out hoe with a chipped blade, and a battered wooden bucket. Muttering “Ding Third Sector, under Steward Zhao’s charge,” he then paid him no further mind.

Changing into the grey laborer’s garb, the coarse fabric scraped against the wound on his back, causing waves of stinging pain. Xu Qing Xuan carefully folded the blood-stained belt and, together with the icy black compass, hid them in the deepest crevice beneath the bed board. Only the Yin Yang jade pendant remained against his skin, pressed close to his heart—his sole comfort in this strange and perilous place.

The next day, before dawn had fully broken, the harsh clang of a copper gong echoed through the valley, jolting the slumbering (or perhaps unconscious) inhabitants awake. Xu Qing Xuan forced himself to rise. The severe pain from his back wound and the dizziness caused by the conflict between Yin Malevolence and spiritual energy within him made his vision swim. Gritting his teeth, he picked up the old hoe and bucket, merging into the silent, weary stream of grey-clad figures heading towards his assigned Ding Third Sector.

In charge of the Ding Sector was none other than the same Steward Zhao from the mountain gate the previous day, with his rat-like whiskers and deep blue steward’s robe. Pacing along the furrows with his hands clasped behind his back, his slightly protruding belly leading the way, his two thin mustaches twitched with each vitriolic reprimand.

“Worthless! A bunch of useless fools! Look at this Azure Rain Grass you’re tending! Wilting, lifeless, its spiritual energy thin as air! Do you know this herb is the main ingredient for ‘Qi Gathering Powder’? If the alchemy hall’s supply is delayed, even ten of your worthless lives wouldn’t be enough to make up for it!” He ranted, flecks of spittle flying. A long, slender cane in his hand lashed out intermittently at laborers whose movements were the slightest bit slow, producing sharp, unsettling thwacks. Those struck merely grunted, bowing their heads even lower, not daring to pause their labor for an instant.

Xu Qing Xuan was assigned the outermost furrow. Here, the Azure Rain Grass fared particularly poorly. The leaves were not just greyish-green but also edged with unnatural yellow curling and dryness. The soil at the roots seemed unusually compact and parched. The rich medicinal fragrance permeating the air seemed much fainter here, replaced instead by a faint, almost imperceptible, cloyingly sweet odor of decay.

He did not begin work immediately, but crouched down to observe carefully. His fingertips brushed against a curled leaf—dry and rough to the touch, lacking the glossy moisture a spiritual plant should possess. He pinched a bit of soil between his fingers, rubbing it. The grains were coarse, mixed with tiny, black, sand-like hard particles that emitted a faint, chilling aura—the unmistakable trace of Yin Malevolent energy! Though exceedingly weak, its presence in this spiritually fertile field felt utterly incongruous.

What made his heart sink even more was the discovery of several uprooted Azure Rain Grass plants carelessly discarded in a corner of the furrow. These were not withered; they were clearly broken or brutally harvested, fresh sap still oozing from the fresh breaks. Their roots were robust, and the leaves (the un-yellowed parts) still retained spiritual energy, clearly not yet at optimal harvest time! They lay abandoned here, like trampled refuse.

Xu Qing Xuan’s gaze followed the furrow towards the central area of the medicine field. There, a few laborers were carefully placing several Azure Rain Grass plants of noticeably superior quality and vibrant spiritual energy into specially crafted jade boxes. And receiving these jade boxes was none other than the pompous Steward Zhao! He opened a box, glanced inside, a satisfied smile appearing on his face before he casually tucked it into the wide sleeve of his robe. Then, with a dismissive wave towards the laborers responsible for those plots, he seemed to grant his approval.

A clear chain of logic snapped into place within Xu Qing Xuan’s ice-cold, rapidly calculating mind: Steward Zhao was abusing his authority! He was prematurely and brutally harvesting the best Azure Rain Grass that rightfully belonged to the Ding Sector, skimming it for his own pockets! The inferior grass with poor appearance and weak growth—even the ruined plants he deliberately damaged and discarded—were left for lowly laborers like them to tend. They served as proof of the laborers’ “incompetence,” the perfect cover for his embezzlement! And that faint, almost imperceptible trace of Yin Malevolent energy… could it be some vile method he employed to suppress the growth of certain plants, to create the illusion of “inferior” quality? The unremarkable charm pouch at his waist now seemed to Xu Qing Xuan to be brimming with sinister implications.

“Ding Three-Seven! Stop daydreaming!” A shrill rebuke cut through the air, followed by the sound of something whistling toward him!

Thwack!

A searing pain exploded on Xu Qing Xuan’s arm. Steward Zhao had somehow appeared behind him. The cane in his hand lashed out mercilessly against the sleeve of his newly donned grey robe, instantly tearing the fabric and leaving a glaring red welt.

“Dawdling! Trying to slack off? Look at the grass you’re tending! Wilted to death! Worthless!” Steward Zhao’s spittle nearly hit Xu Qing Xuan’s face. His rat-like whiskers quivered with anger, his eyes filled with undisguised contempt and malice. “If you don’t perk these plants up by today, don’t even think about getting your ‘Yellow Sprout Pill’!”

The Yellow Sprout Pill? A cold sneer echoed in Xu Qing Xuan’s heart. That was the lowest-grade fasting pill and meager spiritual energy supplement allotted daily to outer sect laborers—just enough to sustain their grueling labor. Not content with embezzling the spirit herbs, he even controlled this pittance essential for survival!

He lowered his eyelids, veiling the flash of icy frost in his eyes. No argument, no resistance. He merely picked up the notched old hoe in silence and began weeding and loosening the soil, just like the other numb laborers. His movements appeared clumsy and unpracticed, yet each fall of the hoe cleverly avoided the fragile root systems of the Azure Rain Grass, and the depth of his tilling was precisely measured.

Seeing him so “docile,” Steward Zhao snorted through his nose, hurled a few more insults like “rotten mud that won’t cling to a wall,” and then, puffing out his chest and clasping his hands behind his back, sauntered off to other furrows to continue his “inspections” and “harvests.”

The sun was brutal. Even weakened by the crystalline shield, prolonged bent-over labor was pure torture for the severely injured Xu Qing Xuan. Sweat drenched his grey robe, sticking it to his back. The salt stung the charred wound, sending heart-piercing jabs of pain. The Yin Malevolent energy within him grew increasingly restless in the spiritual environment; the conflicting sting with the spiritual energy felt like countless fine needles pricking his meridians. Every swing of the hoe, every bend to fetch water, pulled at the muscles in his chest and abdomen, bringing tearing agony. The scenery before his eyes flickered between clarity and a blurry, wavering haze.

Yet his lips remained tightly pressed together, not a single sound escaping. Deep within his clear eyes, all suffering was forcibly suppressed. His gaze acted like the most precise ruler, measuring the growth of every Azure Rain Grass plant, the color of each leaf, the moisture of the soil. His ears caught every word of dialogue, every command exchanged between Steward Zhao and the other laborers carried on the wind. His nose distinguished the various medicinal fragrances, the earthy scent, the sour sweat, and that deliberately masked, exceedingly faint cloying odor of decay in the air.

He noticed Steward Zhao’s skimming wasn’t without pattern. The plants with the best appearance and strongest spiritual energy were always harvested by him personally or by designated lackeys, placed into jade boxes. Those of secondary quality were mostly taken under the pretext of “submission to the alchemy hall,” with only a few left to maintain appearances. The worst were entirely blamed on the laborers’ “poor care.” He also noticed that the few laborers responsible for the central furrows moved with a deliberate obsequiousness and fear toward Steward Zhao—clearly his trusted cronies.

During the brief midday rest, the laborers gathered under a thatched shelter by the ridge to receive their daily lifeline—the “Yellow Sprout Pill.” Xu Qing Xuan dragged his nearly broken body over. Distributing the pills was a young disciple with an indifferent expression, his attire indicating a rank lower than Steward Zhao’s.

When it was Xu Qing Xuan’s turn, the disciple picked up a Yellow Sprout Pill that was dull in color, even sporting fine cracks, its spiritual energy noticeably much thinner, and tossed it casually into Xu Qing Xuan’s outstretched, mud-stained palm. It felt cool to the touch, its rough surface grating against his skin.

“Ding Third Sector. Azure Rain Grass growth poorest. Ration halved,” the young disciple announced coldly, not even lifting his eyelids.

The surrounding laborers seemed accustomed to this. They glanced over numbly before lowering their heads to swallow their own pills. Steward Zhao stood not far away, idly rolling two Yellow Sprout Pills of clearly superior quality—plump and smooth—between his fingers. A faint, mocking smile played on his lips as his gaze swept over Xu Qing Xuan, like someone observing a struggling insect.

Xu Qing Xuan gripped the inferior pill, his fingertips applying slight pressure. Its coarse surface pricked his palm, and a faint aura of low-grade pill toxicity emanated from it. He didn’t argue. He simply turned in silence, walked to a corner, and with the help of some cold water, forced the pill down his throat. A weak warmth spread in his stomach, mingled with a distinct sluggishness from the impurities. It barely replenished his nearly depleted stamina, better than nothing. The skimming—from spirit herbs to pills—had formed a complete chain. This Steward Zhao was practically a local tyrant in this corner of the Hundred Herb Valley!

Just as he closed his eyes, enduring the slight discomfort from the pill’s impurities, an old laborer nearby—similarly gaunt and haggard—collapsed to the ground. Overcome by exhaustion and the scorching sun, his body began to convulse violently. Faint black mist seeped from his nose and mouth, and bluish-black patterns seemed to writhe just beneath his skin!

“Old Wu! Old Wu, what’s wrong?” Several familiar laborers panicked, crowding around him.

“Yin Malevolence invasion! It’s happening again!” someone cried out in alarm.

“Quick! Someone go to Steward Wang for ‘Heart-Cleansing Powder’!” another voice shouted urgently.

However, the laborer sent to fetch help soon returned, crestfallen. “St-St… Steward Wang said… the Heart-Cleansing Powder quota is used up… have to wait three days for the next delivery from the alchemy hall…”

“Three days? How can Old Wu last three days like this!” The crowd watched as Old Wu’s convulsions grew more violent and his life force visibly ebbed away, their faces filled with despair and numb acceptance. Clearly, this was not the first time.

Xu Qing Xuan’s gaze lingered on the bluish-black patterns writhing beneath Old Wu’s skin, then flicked to the dark-speckled soil caked under his fingernails—the same soil from the Ding Sector fields, tainted with Yin Malevolence! Prolonged exposure to this corrupted spiritual earth, combined with backbreaking labor and substandard pills, had allowed the Yin energy to seep deep into the very marrow of these lowly laborers! And the so-called “quota” of Heart-Cleansing Powder had likely long been skimmed dry by the likes of Steward Zhao!

As Old Wu’s breathing grew fainter, the onlookers could do nothing but sigh in utter hopelessness. Then, a calm, hoarse voice cut through the despair.

“Sit him up. Open his shirt.”

The crowd turned in stunned unison. There, crouched beside Old Wu, was the new, severely injured young laborer, Xu Qing Xuan. His face was still deathly pale, sweat beading at his temples, yet his clear eyes held an unnerving stillness, as if insulated from all pain and chaos.

“You… you can save him?” a laborer asked hesitantly.

Xu Qing Xuan didn’t answer. His sharp gaze swept over a few inconspicuous plants discarded as weeds around the shelter. He recognized them: Thistleweed with serrated leaves and pale yellow flowers, Earth Amrita with thick roots oozing milky sap, and Plantain clinging low to the ground. Worthless weeds in the eyes of immortals, but now, they were life-saving medicine!

He rose swiftly, his movements stiff with pain yet precise. He gathered several plants of each kind. Finding a clean stone, he used the butt of his hoe handle, enduring the pain in his right arm, and pounded the plants into a thick, pulpy paste with deliberate, focused strikes. A bitter, astringent aroma filled the air.

“Feed him this,” Xu Qing Xuan said, handing a glob of the dark green paste to a man beside him, his tone brooking no argument. Then, with the remaining paste, he gestured for them to pull back Old Wu’s shirt from his back.

Old Wu’s emaciated back was a grim sight. Along both sides of his spine, several distinct, bulging channels of bluish-black energy twisted like malevolent worms, emitting a chilling aura.

Xu Qing Xuan’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Dipping his fingers into the paste, he began tracing a peculiar pattern, pressing precisely on specific acupoints on Old Wu’s back! His movements were swift and sure. With each press, his fingertips seemed to carry a faint, guiding force, directing the minuscule life-giving energy within the herbal paste into the nodes of Old Wu’s meridians, clogged by the Yin Malevolence.

“Ugh…” Old Wu, still unconscious, groaned in pain. His body shuddered violently, and the bluish-black energy channels on his back writhed as if enraged.

“Hold him down!” Xu Qing Xuan commanded tersely.

Several laborers immediately pressed down on Old Wu’s shoulders and arms.

Undaunted, Xu Qing Xuan continued his methodical presses. The paste beneath his fingers seemed to come alive, its cooling medicinal properties seeping inward. Gradually, the frenzied writhing of the dark energy channels grew sluggish, their movements diminishing. Old Wu’s pained expression softened, and his ragged breathing began to even out.

Just as the onlookers thought the crisis had passed, Xu Qing Xuan suddenly formed his fingers into a sword hand. Channeling a weak yet intensely focused force, he struck decisively at the Xin Shu acupoint between Old Wu’s shoulder blades!

“Pfft—!”

Old Wu’s body convulsed violently as he spat out a thick, black clot of stagnant blood! The blood hit the ground with a faint, sizzling hiss, emitting wisps of icy white vapor!

After expelling the clot, the bluish-black pallor visibly receded from Old Wu’s face. Though still weak, his breathing became steady and deep as he sank into a profound, untroubled sleep, free from convulsions.

Under the thatched shelter, dead silence reigned.

All the laborers stared, dumbstruck, at the scene—at the pool of dark blood on the ground emanating a bone-chilling aura, then at the newcomer who had withdrawn his fingers, his face now paler from exertion, a fine sheen of cold sweat on his temples. For the first time, the numbness and despair in their eyes were replaced by incredulous shock and a faint, fragile flicker of hope.

“He… he actually saved Old Wu?”

“What kind of herbs were those? Looked like the weeds we pull from the fields…”

“That technique… it’s miraculous!”

Xu Qing Xuan ignored the murmurs around him. Silently, he used a scrap of cloth to wipe the herbal paste from his fingers. He walked to the water bucket, scooped up a gourd of murky, cool water, and drank slowly, replenishing his drained stamina and focus. The seemingly simple acupressure and guidance had, in truth, consumed a significant portion of his meager, recovering spiritual energy and had aggravated the wound on his back, sending waves of sharp pain through him.

“Hmph! Charlatan tricks!” A cold, mocking snort shattered the brief calm.

Steward Zhao had sauntered back, unnoticed. He had clearly witnessed the event. Instead of any praise, his face was a thundercloud of gloom and deepening apprehension. He stared fixedly at Xu Qing Xuan, his gaze like a venomous blade scraping over the young man’s pale features. “A bit of backwater quackery, and you dare show off in this sacred immortal sect? Disgusting filth! Get back to work! Neglect the spirit herbs, and you’ll taste the whip!”

He barked the order, dispersing the gathered laborers, and shot Xu Qing Xuan one last, venomous glare brimming with warning and malice. Xu Qing Xuan’s medical skill not only challenged the “justification” behind his pill skimming but also posed a threat of losing control! This wounded “mud-legged” upstart had to be crushed into the dust, and quickly!

Xu Qing Xuan endured the rebuke in silence. Picking up his hoe, he returned to his barren medicine plot. Beneath the surface calm of his clear eyes, turbulent currents churned. Steward Zhao’s reaction only confirmed his deductions. The shadows within the Hundred Herb Valley were even more deeply entrenched than he had imagined. Saving Old Wu had been necessary, but it would inevitably invite deeper hostility and suppression from Steward Zhao. Yet, it was not without gain. He glanced at the grey-green Azure Rain Grass at his feet, then at the retreating, robe-swollen figure of Steward Zhao in the distance.

Skimming spirit herbs, lining his own pockets… Where did these intercepted premium herbs and embezzled pills ultimately end up? Did a mere outer sect steward like Zhao truly have such audacity alone? Was there someone behind him? Were the records of those skimmed “Heart-Cleansing Powder” quotas also hidden in some unknown ledger?

A thought took shape in Xu Qing Xuan’s exhausted yet rapidly calculating mind. To break this deadlock, to secure a breathing space, even to find a way to heal his Yin Malevolence wound… perhaps the key lay in those vanished supplies! He needed to know more, needed to see those hidden “accounts”!

At day’s end, dragging his nearly broken body back to the musty wooden hut, Xu Qing Xuan did not rest immediately. By the last sliver of daylight from the window, he took a piece of scavenged charcoal and, in an obscure corner of the battered table, drew a few twisted lines with extreme discretion. They were symbols—a pattern he had glimpsed earlier in the day, etched on a wooden token hanging from the waist of one of Steward Zhao’s cronies during a covert exchange of jade boxes. It seemed to be a warehouse mark of some sort. This, perhaps, was a lead.

Just as he focused, committing the symbol’s details to memory, his gaze was drawn to the valley entrance in the deepening twilight. A lean figure was being stopped and questioned by a guard disciple. The man bowed and scraped, fawningly offering a small bundle. As his sleeve shifted, Xu Qing Xuan caught the faintest, fleeting glimpse of a blue-purple lightning pattern!

Xu Qing Xuan’s gaze sharpened instantly! That lightning pattern… though it was extremely faint, carried a familiarity that was branded into his very soul! It was Qing Feng’s aura! It was Chen Lao-Jiu!

He had actually come to the gates of the Mystic Mechanism Pavilion! What was he doing here? And what… was in that bundle in his sleeve?