The blast of golden light shattered the Heaven Enshrouding Ding’s barrier and sent them hurtling toward the ocean below. For an instant, Mo Jian knew only chaos—churning water, pressure, and silence—before instinct seized control. He pulled Bai Ning along and surged upward, tearing through the waves in a burst of azure light.

  They erupted from the sea, dripping and breathless, a new barrier of shimmering blue qi flaring to life around them—only to find Han Wenqing waiting.

  The Nascent Soul cultivator hovered above the waves with an easy, amused smile, as if the ocean itself bowed to his presence.

  Mo Jian froze. His instincts screamed to fight—to flee—but both seemed meaningless before a foe like this. He had already been caught; there was nowhere left to run. Once more, he cursed his luck. There were so many cultivators fleeing, most from factions far more powerful than his, so why had this Nascent Soul monster chosen to pursue him?

  Bai Ning struggled to steady herself behind him, face pale from the blow. She wiped seawater from her mouth and breathed shallowly, barely keeping up with how fast the world had turned.

  Mo Jian clenched his jaw and drew on the last of his strength. If this ended here, he would at least strike once with everything he had.

  “Wait a moment, junior,” Han Wenqing said lightly, one brow arched. “No need to be so hasty. This old man merely greeted you, and already you’re so eager to leave?”

  Mo Jian hesitated, then forced himself into a low bow. “Senior, forgive my presumption, but your greeting overwhelms someone of my station. I dare not match myself with you. If you will permit it, I will take my leave and trouble you no more. I hold the Song clan in the highest respect.”

  Han Wenqing ran a hand through his beard, entirely unbothered. “Respect for my Song clan? From any other cultivator on these islands I might laugh, but you—Green Cross Village, near Qingmao City, correct? You grew up close enough to the Song clan to know what you speak of.”

  Mo Jian felt the blood drain from his face. He forced a smile. “The mighty Song clan is as omniscient as ever.”

  “Ha. Not omniscient—just well informed.” Han Wenqing swept his hand to encompass the sea and sky. “You didn’t think we came here without doing our diligence, did you?”

  Mo Jian bowed again, conceding the point, though inwardly his mind was racing.

  What was going on? If the man in front of him wanted to kill them, then they would be dead. Yet, instead he was wasting time, perfectly content to have this meaningless conversation. What for? There was something here Mo Jian was missing, but his panic was subsiding. Whatever it was, a chance for survival was shining before his eyes and he had to grasp it with all he had.

  “Now, junior,” Han Wenqing continued, donning an expression of mock sorrow, “I thought it best you hear this from me. My mistress’s good friend, Ming Taishou, passed away a week ago during closed-door cultivation. She omitted that from the auction to spare the Ming family’s pride. Before he died, however, he asked my mistress to take charge of the Ming family and guide it to greater heights. You understand, yes?”

  Of course he understood. Han Wenqing couldn’t have made the subtext clearer unless he’d spoken it outright.

  Mo Jian tried to mirror that expression of false sympathy, though he doubted he managed it well. “The Thousand Shattered Islands have lost a great man. Still, I’m sure his spirit rests easy knowing the mighty Song clan will carry his legacy forward. I did not know him well, but I have no doubt Ming Taishou will raise a toast to your mistress in heaven for her magnanimity and generosity.”

  No, he would not. Mo Jian had already suspected Ming Taishou was dead; now he had confirmation straight from the devil’s mouth. The old man was likely spinning in his grave at how neatly he’d been outmaneuvered—but what did that matter to Mo Jian? He would say whatever he must to ensure that he and Bai Ning walked away alive.

  Han Wenqing smiled, clearly pleased. “Quick to understand. Good. I like that. However, are you not being too humble, junior? I heard with my own ears that you were quite close to Ming Taishou—acting on his behalf and even serving as an honored guest at the auction.”

  Suddenly, everything fell into place. Of course—that was why they were being hunted. That was why he was still alive.

  Adrenaline surged through Mo Jian’s veins. His next words might decide their fate. Even Bai Ning, silent until now, drew in a sharp breath at Han Wenqing’s insinuation.

  Choosing his words with great care, Mo Jian said, “Senior, you jest. I have never met Ming Taishou in person. As for acting on his behalf—well, I won’t hide it. Agents of the Ming family approached me for a few minor tasks. I can give a full account of everything I did, and I swear on my cultivation that none of it harmed the Song clan in any way. It was purely business.”

  Han Wenqing nodded slowly, fingers combing through his beard in thought. “That does have the ring of truth, now that I hear it from your mouth. As for those tasks…” He smiled faintly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Empty boxes and storage-pouch manufacturing facilities hardly concern me. I’ll refrain from hearing the details.”

  His tone wasn’t mocking—but the words certainly were.

  Mo Jian pressed his lips together, terror coiling in his gut. Han Wenqing already knew everything—so why bother asking? Had the Song clan interfered with his missions from the start? Had he been dancing in their palm like a fool all along?

  It was beginning to seem that way.

  After a moment, Mo Jian bowed slightly and spoke with quiet resignation. “Senior, it seems I can hide nothing from you. Then, if I may—please forgive my impudence. Since you already know everything, is there anything I can do for you?”

  He prayed the gamble would not backfire. Han Wenqing had been civil so far, and if he was entertaining this farce of a conversation, it was because he wanted something. Mo Jian could only hope that cutting to the heart of the matter would make things… easier.

  Han Wenqing chuckled, rumbling like distant thunder—amused, but heavy with power. “Good. You learn quickly, junior. Indeed, there is something you can do for me.”

  He gestured lazily, and the air around them seemed to ripple in response. The pressure of his aura pressed down, turning the night sea into a vast, trembling mirror. Behind him, Bai Ning circulated her qi through her meridians to push against it, defiant against the weight. Mo Jian reinforced his shield, though he knew it would do no good if Han Wenqing attacked.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Han Wenqing’s tone remained almost casual. “You see, my mistress has taken a great interest in settling the Ming family’s affairs. Since the responsibility of overseeing them was entrusted to her, she intends to remain here in the Islands to do just that. However…” He sighed, a sound of mock regret. “The world is full of suspicious and wicked men. No doubt, some will claim my mistress has no right and try to overturn Ming Taishou’s final wishes. In such circumstances, if powerful cultivators known to be his friends were to speak up…”

  He trailed off, letting Mo Jian’s imagination complete the thought.

  Mo Jian understood, though the reasoning baffled him. Why would the Song clan care so deeply about the Ming family or what other cultivators thought? Their power was absolute—no one would dare oppose them. Still, none of that mattered. What mattered was that he was being offered a chance.

  Suppressing the surge of hope in his chest, Mo Jian bowed low. “Say no more, senior. This junior understands. Though my words carry little weight, I am honored to lend them to the Song clan in this matter of righteousness. Here—” he drew out a jade slip, “—a statement with my qi imprint, affirming that I, Ming Taishou’s old friend, know and believe with full confidence that he personally requested the mighty Song clan to take charge of his family should misfortune befall him.”

  As he spoke, Mo Jian imprinted the words onto the jade slip with his spiritual sense, then presented it respectfully.

  Han Wenqing regarded it thoughtfully, his expression unreadable. “Good words,” he said at last, though his tone held little praise. “However, you should name my mistress specifically, not the Song clan. Ming Taishou reached out to her in particular—out of their old and… deep friendship.”

  Like the sun breaking through clouds, understanding dawned on Mo Jian. Bai Ning’s hand tightened on his sleeve—she had understood too.

  It wasn’t the Song clan’s will at all. Just a select few within it. Han Wenqing’s careful phrasing made that perfectly clear.

  And just like that, Mo Jian realized he had a card to play.

  “Of course, senior,” he said smoothly, lowering his gaze. “My oversight was shameful. Allow me to correct it.”

  He altered the jade slip, re-inscribing the statement to name Song Shaoyue directly, then tossed it gently through the air. Han Wenqing caught it with a flick of his wrist, his spiritual sense brushing over it before he tucked it away.

  Mo Jian knew this wouldn’t end here—but for the first time, he sensed a sliver of control.

  “I trust that will suffice, senior,” he said carefully. “If so, I beg your leave. It has been my greatest honor to meet you—and Lady Song Shaoyue.”

  Han Wenqing’s smile didn’t change, but something in the air did. The night sea stilled, the faint breeze died, and even the moonlight seemed to hesitate.

  Then he spoke softly. “You’ve done well, Mo Jian. Your tact does you credit. I can see why Ming Taishou found you useful.”

  The casual mention of his name chilled him to the bone. He forced a smile anyway. “Senior overpraises me.”

  “Perhaps,” Han Wenqing said. His smile faded, voice turning mild and cold all at once. “But let me tell you something plainly. If you truly wish to live past tonight, you will forget what we discussed. You will forget our words, our interest, and even that we ever met. If anyone asks about this encounter—” his tone softened, almost tender “—you were attacked by sea beasts while fleeing Jadeflame Island. Nothing more.”

  Mo Jian inclined his head slowly. “As you command, senior.”

  Han Wenqing regarded him for a long moment, then took a scroll out of his storage pouch. Mo Jian’s breath caught; he recognized it from the auction. The map supposedly leading to an ancient cultivator ruin, though he knew it actually led to the Netherworld Domain. The item he had planned to claim as his prize.

  He tossed it. Mo Jian caught it on instinct.

  “We take care of those who serve us well. My mistress may have a task for you someday, so let this map serve as payment until then. It’s what you were planning to bid on as your reward from Ming Taishou, yes?”

  Mo Jian looked down on the battered cloth scroll in his hand and then back to the Nascent Soul cultivator he was negotiating with. In all areas, he was truly outmatched. He couldn’t even refuse this offer. Though, if Han Wenqing ever understood what he had just given up, he might spit up blood, like cultivators in the stories.

  Mo Jian bowed. “Thank you for your generosity, senior. I will keep your words in mind.”

  Han Wenqing nodded and extended a single finger—toward Bai Ning. “And your disciple?”

  Bai Ning started to speak, but Mo Jian caught her wrist, shaking his head ever so slightly. His voice was steady. “She is clever and dutiful, senior. Have no fear. My disciple understands your words and will etch them into her heart.”

  Han Wenqing gave another gentle smile, though something cold flickered in his eyes. “You misunderstand. That’s a clever disguise, but useless against me. Half the reason I allowed this conversation was to gauge her. I am impressed. Seventeen, and already a Foundation Establishment cultivator. My mistress would be pleased to take her.”

  Bai Ning let out a small, strangled sound and took a step forward. “Senior—!”

  Mo Jian’s grip tightened, cutting her off as the stuff of his nightmares unfolded before him. A Nascent Soul cultivator—aware of Bai Ning’s talent.

  A certain cold clarity came over him then. He knew what he had to do.

  “Senior’s eyes are truly profound,” he said in a tone that sounded flat even to him. “However, I cannot claim that Bai Ning is my disciple alone. In truth, she also studies under Lady Fan Mei, who entrusts her to my care whenever she is occupied with tasks for Ancestor Qing. I trust senior understands.”

  For the first time, Han Wenqing’s expression faltered. His gaze sharpened, and the faint golden light around his body flickered like a heartbeat.

  “Fan Mei?” he repeated slowly, the name drawn out with deliberate care. “One of that old monster Qing’s concubines? So—you claim he knows of your disciple and is secretly nurturing her through you?”

  Mo Jian bowed, hiding the tension that knotted his gut. “I cannot speak for Ancestor Qing, senior, but Lady Fan Mei took interest in Bai Ning’s spirit roots some years ago and has been overseeing her secondary cultivation personally.”

  A long silence followed. The air grew heavier, as though the sea itself waited for Han Wenqing’s verdict.

  Then, slowly, the Nascent Soul cultivator’s aura receded. “So that’s how it is,” he murmured, half to himself. His eyes lingered on Bai Ning—measuring, weighing, calculating. “Qing… he intends to use her to advance to the mid-Nascent Soul stage.”

  He exhaled through his nose, almost a sigh, though the edge of his power still lingered. “One of the three powers of this land,” he said at last, voice low and thoughtful. “That complicates things. My mistress respects the old monster—she would not wish to cross his household, not over something so small.”

  Relief pricked at Mo Jian’s chest, sharp and fleeting. He bowed again, deeply this time. “I am grateful for your understanding, senior.”

  Han Wenqing’s gaze flicked toward him, cool and unreadable. “Gratitude is unnecessary. Just see that you don’t forget what we discussed tonight. Now—go.”

  He turned, folding his hands behind his back. The golden light of his aura dimmed and was swallowed by the night. The suffocating pressure vanished all at once, like a storm withdrawing beyond the horizon.

  Mo Jian didn’t hesitate. He seized Bai Ning’s arm, and in the next breath they were gone—a streak of blue light flashing across the waves.

  Only when Jadeflame Island had dwindled to a speck behind them did Bai Ning finally speak, her voice trembling despite her effort to keep it light. “Master… what now? If he ever speaks to Ancestor Qing, won’t we be in trouble?”

  Mo Jian managed a thin, humorless smile. “Before that happens, I intend to get in touch with Fan Mei myself. If fortune favors us, she can intercede with Ancestor Qing. If not…” He hesitated, then sighed. “Well, better to negotiate with someone we know than one we don’t. Ancestor Qing is still the head of the orthodox faction. He’ll demand a price—but it might be one we can live with.”

  Bai Ning shook her head, stubbornness flashing through her fear. “I don’t want to end up as another of his concubines, Master. I’d rather run and take my chances than that.”

  Mo Jian looked at her for a long moment before finally nodding. What could he say to that? In the end, it was his own weakness he cursed most.

  “Still,” he said quietly, “we have time. If I’ve read things correctly, Song Shaoyue and Han Wenqing will be busy for months—perhaps years—trying to seize control of the Ming family’s assets and consolidate power in the Thousand Shattered Islands. This matter may not even arise for quite some time.”

  He looked toward the horizon, where the dark waves danced under gentle moonlight. “And when it does,” he said, more to himself than her, “we’ll be ready.”