Lin Fengyang sat alone in the shadowed chamber, the air thick with the lingering scent of jasmine—her scent.
His body ached, a hollow exhaustion that gnawed deeper than flesh, as if Su Meiyin had carved out a piece of his soul.
Last night's memory burned: her silken touch, her whispered lies, the pull of his essence slipping away.
He'd played the fool, letting her think him hers, but the truth Huo Yan revealed had scorched his heart to ash.
Love for Meiyin was dead, replaced by a cold fire—vengeance, survival, nothing less. She'd used him as a cauldron, a mortal toy to fuel her ascent. Now, he'd turn her game against her.
Dawn had broken when she left, her azure robes gliding out the door, her smile a blade veiled in honey.
"Rest, my love," she'd murmured, unaware he knew her game.
Huo Yan's words echoed in his mind—she'd used him, bled him for power, and would again until he was dust.
He couldn't refuse her, not just because her cultivated allure drowned his mortal senses, but because defiance would bare his heart.
A suspicious Meiyin was a deadly one, and he had no strength to face a Core Formation elder.
His hand gripped the jade ring on his finger, its dragon etchings warm, pulsing like a second pulse.
"Old man," he rasped, voice raw. "You awake, or still dreaming of your filthy shows?"
"Filthy? Hah! You're the one sweating after her touch, boy." Elder Huo Yan's voice dripped with mockery, the Soul Formation voyeur ever eager for his next thrill. "What's it now? Begging already?"
Fengyang slipped into a shadowed alcove, away from prying eyes. "Teach me," he said, voice low, hard.
"She's killing me, and I can't say no—her charm's too strong. I won't last two years unless I fight back."
Huo Yan chuckled, a sound like dry leaves. "Fight? You, a mortal with no cultivation? Bold words for a cauldron."
"Don't toy with me," Fengyang snapped. "You saved me to watch your twisted games. Now give me something, or I'll toss this ring in a latrine."
A pause, then a cackle. "Spunk at last! Fine, boy. I'll toss you a bone—something to kindle that yang of yours. Listen close: the Nine Sparks of Yang Ignition."
Fengyang's breath caught. A technique—a real one, not the village tales of flying swords and immortal feats. "What is it?"
"Simple enough for a dunce like you," Huo Yan said. "Your yang's pure, richer than most cultivators dream. This method wakes it, gathers qi into nine sparks in your dantian. Light them, and you'll step into Qi Gathering Realm. Better yet, it shields your essence—makes it harder for that vixen to suck you dry."
"Show me," Fengyang said, fists clenched.
"Sit. Focus. Feel the heat in your gut." Huo Yan's voice turned sharp, guiding. "Breathe deep—pull the air's qi like thread through a needle. Spin it inward, let it burn."
Fengyang sank to the alcove's floor, eyes shut. He breathed, slow and deliberate, searching for the warmth Huo Yan described.
At first, nothing—just his pulse, his fear. Then, a flicker, like a coal flaring in his core. It grew, searing, and he gasped, sweat beading on his brow. The spark pulsed, alive, but unstable, fading as his focus slipped.
"Pathetic," Huo Yan snorted. "Like a child with a matchstick. Again, boy—hold it this time."
Fengyang gritted his teeth, trying once more. The spark flared hotter, a needle of fire in his gut, but it held, trembling.
His body thrummed, alive in a way it hadn't been since Meiyin's draining began. Yet the effort left him dizzy, mortal limits clawing him back.
"It's... hard," he panted.
"Hard?" Huo Yan's laugh was lewd. "Not as hard as you get when she's on you, eh? That's your problem, boy—you can't say no. She'll sense it if you push her off, and then what? A suspicious Meiyin's a deadly one."
Fengyang's stomach twisted. Huo Yan was right. Meiyin's allure was a cultivated weapon—her voice, her touch, overwhelmed his mortal senses.
Refusing her would betray his awakening, and he had no strength to fight a Core Formation elder.
"I need more," he said. "A way to outsmart her, not just endure."
Huo Yan's tone turned sly. "Outsmart, hmm? Ever notice that guest from Tianluo City? Gu Xingchen, young master of the Gu Clan. Eyes like a wolf on your wife—hungrier than mine, and that's saying something."
Fengyang froze. He'd seen the man twice, richly dressed, his gaze lingering on Meiyin with naked want.
The disdain in those eyes when they flicked to Fengyang had stung, but he'd ignored it then. Now, it clicked. "Him? What's he got to do with this?"
"He wants her," Huo Yan said, voice a conspirator's whisper. "Bad enough to kill you for it. But why make an enemy when you could make a friend? Give him what he craves, boy, and he'll owe you."
Fengyang's mind raced. Xingchen, a Core Formation cultivator, was a threat he couldn't fight—yet.
But Meiyin had used him, bled him. Offering her to Xingchen wasn't betrayal—it was justice, a blade turned back on her. "He'd never trust me," he said, but the idea took root, cold and sharp.
"Trust?" Huo Yan cackled. "He's a schemer. Dangle her beauty, and he'll bite. She's away now, isn't she? Hunting that traitor in the marshes. Perfect time to find your wolf."
Days bled into nights, each one a battle. Meiyin returned to their chamber, her touch a velvet noose, her lips and her soft flower coaxing his yang qi with practiced ease.
Fengyang played his part, yielding to avoid her suspicion, but the
Nine Sparks worked in secret.
The technique gets steady with time as he practiced more, dulled her theft, his essence slipping slower than before.
Yet it wasn't enough—her hunger was relentless, a tide eroding him. Without a plan, the end was the same: death, again, just as Huo Yan had warned.
Relief came on the seventh dawn. Servants' whispers filled the manor—Elder Su was gone, summoned by Sect Leader Yue Wuxin for the
Shadow Hunt Decree.
Fengyang caught the details in snatches: a rogue elder, fleeing with forbidden yin-draining manuals, hiding in the Wraithveil Marshes' ghostly mists.
Meiyin led the hunt, her Core Formation strength pitted against a traitor's cunning and demon-haunted swamps.
No one knew how long—days, weeks, until the elder was caught or killed. That was Fengyang's window, a chance to breathe, to scheme, before she returned to drain him again.
He waited, practicing the
Nine Sparks in secret, the spark's heat a faint anchor. On the third day of her absence, restlessness drove him from the manor.
The sect sprawled under a bruised sky, pavilions of black jade rising like claws. The air hummed with yin, prickling his mortal skin, but the spark urged him forward, a fire against the chill.
Disciples milled in the courtyards, their eyes inevitable. "Cauldron boy," a male disciple sneered, his voice low as he brushed by, sword hilt gleaming at his waist. "Leeching off Elder Su's grace."
Fengyang's jaw tightened, but he kept walking. The men of the sect despised him—a mortal, handsome enough to turn heads, yet tethered to an elder they'd never touch. Their scorn was a daily ritual, spat in glances or muttered slurs.
Women were a beguiling enigma—did they yearn to bed him for his beauty alone, or to drain him as his wife did, their sweetness a mask for hunger?
A female disciple, her robes slit high to flaunt pale thighs, caught his eye as she leaned against a pillar.
Her lips curved, a predatory invitation, and her fingers grazed his arm as he passed. "Young Master Lin," she purred, voice honeyed with envy, "why stay chained to one flower? My pavilion blooms sweeter."
Another bold female, her hair pinned with a jade lotus, blocked his path, her hand brushing his chest. "Young Master Lin," she whispered, "why waste your fire on her? I'd burn brighter."
He pulled away, pulse quickening—not from desire, but from the weight of their gazes. The women's flirtations were relentless: whispered offers, lingering touches, eyes that stripped him bare.
They coveted what Meiyin claimed, jealous of her hold on a man whose face outshone the sect's prettiest youths.
Their boldness only stoked the men's rage, a cycle of lust and resentment that left Fengyang a target for both.
"Young Master!" Lian Xue's voice cut through, sharp yet cloaked in sweetness.
Meiyin's maid appeared, her delicate face a mask of concern, eyes flickering like a hidden flame. "You shouldn't wander—your health's been frail of late. Madam will worry. Return to the manor, for your sake."
Fengyang met her gaze, suspicion stirring. Lian Xue's care was constant—too constant, like a veil hiding something.
"I'm fine," he said, voice flat. "Just walking."
She frowned, stepping closer.
"Please, Young Master. The manor's safer." Her tone was firm, but she didn't press, bound by her role as servant to Meiyin's husband.
With a bow, she turned, gliding toward the guest pavilion where a bustle of activity caught Fengyang's eye—servants unloading crates, their robes marked with Tianluo City's star crest.
His heart skipped. Gu Xingchen. Huo Yan's words flared—find your wolf. Fengyang lingered, feigning interest in a nearby lotus pond, watching the pavilion's bustle.
A servant barked orders, crates piling high with spirit herbs. The sect was distracted, Meiyin gone, Lian Xue occupied. If Xingchen was here, this was his chance.
He turned toward a shadowed path, seeking solitude to think, when a sharp prick stung his neck—a dart, swift and silent, fired from the grove's edge.
His vision blurred, legs buckling as the spark flared in protest. Hands seized him—rough, unseen—dragging him through a veil of leaves into darkness.
Panic clawed his chest, but the poison dulled his limbs, a cold tide swallowing his strength.
This was no choice, no lure he'd followed—someone had hunted him, snatched him like prey in the sect's own shadows.
The air shifted, thick with musk and the tang of dark qi, as he was dumped onto a stone floor.
His senses swam, the poison fading just enough to reveal a chamber carved from nightmare—a den of crimson and shadow, lit by lanterns pulsing like bleeding hearts.
Silk cushions sprawled across the room, strewn with half a dozen women, their robes shed, bodies bare and glistening with sweat.
Their eyes glowed with demonic hunger, yin qi coiling around them like serpents, their forms a gallery of lethal beauty—curves sharp as blades, lips parted in predatory glee.
At the chamber's heart, Gu Xingchen reclined on a low jade bed, star-embroidered silk open to bare his chest, a goblet dangling from one hand.
A beauty perched on his thigh, her skin pale as moonlight, her face gleaming with a feral, predatory grin as she stared at Fengyang—Xingchen's hand rested on her breast, kneading casually, her nipple hardening under his touch.
Another woman pressed against his back, her boob mashed against his shoulder as she sniffed his neck, kissing him from behind with slow, wet reverence, her tongue tracing his ear.
Their laughter was a low hum, a chorus of malice and lust, the air thick with their yin-drenched intent.
Xingchen's gaze locked on Fengyang, cold as a blade, cruel as a storm.
"Meiyin's pet," he said, voice smooth as venom, a smile curling his lips. "Caught like a moth in my web. Don't you think you have lived long enough?"
Fengyang's heart hammered, the spark in his dantian flaring against the lingering poison.
The women rose, circling him, their qi a suffocating shroud—claws grazed his arms, breaths hot against his skin.
"Drain him," the one from Xingchen's thigh purred, her voice a lash of silk, her nails tracing his throat. "His yang's ripe—purer than any man we have tasted, a feast for us."
The woman behind Xingchen giggled, her lips still on his neck. "Let's drain him slow—make him beg before he breaks."
Xingchen sipped his goblet, eyes glinting with Meiyin's phantom—she was a vision to him, the most beautiful woman his Core Formation soul craved.
"You're a stain, mortal," he said, his tone a velvet blade. "A gnat buzzing at her side. I'd have her bed, her beauty, but you linger. We'll fix that—drain you dry, a death no one'll question in this pit of vipers."
Fengyang's mind raced, terror clashing with the ember in his gut. This was no chance encounter—Xingchen had orchestrated it, likely through Lian Xue's unseen hand, to erase him in a way that mirrored Meiyin's own hunger.
A perfect murder, cloaked as sect excess. But Huo Yan's whisper cut through— make him your ally.
He forced his voice steady, a shard of ice against the tide. "Why kill me when I can offer her for you to feast on all you want?"
Xingchen's brow arched, the women freezing mid-circle, their qi a coiled threat.
"Bold for a corpse," he said, waving a hand.
The women paused, claws hovering, awaiting his whim. "Speak, pet, or they'll suck your soul to dust."
Fengyang swallowed, the spark his anchor. "You want Meiyin—her beauty, her bed. I'm no rival, just a chain she forged. Cut me free, and I'll hand her to you."
Xingchen laughed, a sound sharp as shattering jade. "You'd sell your wife? Either you're mad, or you're a snake in a fool's skin."
He leaned forward, the beauty on his thigh shifting, she moaned as his hand squeezed tighter.
His eyes burned, Meiyin a flame in his soul. "What's your play?"
"No play," Fengyang said, truth his shield, cold as stone. "She's a noose I'd slip. She's a noose I'd slip. You've chased her for months—gifts, flattery—but the distance to her bed never shortened. Help me breathe, and she's yours to claim."
A long pause. Xingchen's smile widened, cunning blooming.
"Interesting. I've tried to reach her, you know. Servants, whispers—none could get close enough. She's too sharp, too guarded. But you..." He tilted his head. "You're already in her bed."
Fengyang's stomach lurched, but he nodded. Xingchen reached into his sleeve, producing a small lacquered box.
"The Soul-Binding Lotus Pill," he said, voice low. "Make her consume it when her guard's down. It'll bind her will to the one who claims her after. Do it, and she's yours to command—then mine to take."
Fengyang took the box, its weight heavy in his palm. "Why not use it yourself?" he asked, probing.
Xingchen's smile tightened. "It cost me a Void Jade Talisman—a clan heirloom. One chance, no mistakes. Her senses catch poison in a cup, but you—she trusts you, doesn't she?"
His tone was mocking, but his eyes burned with obsession. "Do this, and we're allies."
Fengyang's thoughts spun, a plan igniting in the spark's heat. A kiss—her lips on his, her hunger drowning her senses as she drained him. The pill could slip then, unseen, a dagger in her own game.
Huo Yan's chuckle rasped in his skull:
Oh, boy, that's a dance to shame the stars.
"Agreed," Fengyang said, voice a honed edge.
Xingchen's grin was a serpent's maw, but he waved the women back, their qi receding like a tide.
The beauty on his thigh pouted, her breast still under his hand, while the other sighed against his neck.
"Brother," Xingchen said, patting Fengyang's shoulder, his grip a false warmth cloaked in menace. "Worry not—I'll pave the way. When she's tamed, we'll set a night. You'll see."
Fengyang nodded, the box a coal against his chest.
Xingchen gestured, and a cloaked servant emerged from the shadows, guiding Fengyang to a hidden exit.
The grove outside was silent, the sect's bustle a distant hum, Lian Xue nowhere in sight—her hand in this trap a thread he couldn't yet pull.
The manor loomed as he returned, its blood-jade walls a beast's maw swallowing him whole.
Servants' whispers trailed him—Elder Su's hunt stretched on, the rogue elder slipping through the marshes' demon wails.
Fengyang's window held, but Meiyin would return, her hunger a blade unblunted. He sat in the chamber, the box in his palm, the spark in his dantian flaring—a vow, a weapon. He'd light all nine, and Meiyin would choke on the fire she'd kindled.
Huo Yan's voice purred, a lewd hymn in the silence. "Got your prize, boy? Oh, this'll be a dance to sear the heavens."
Fengyang's lips curled, a ghost of a smile. The pill was his blade, and he'd carve his freedom with it.