The sect disciple stood stiffly at the doorway, hands clasped before him, eyes flicking nervously between Mingzhi and Qingyu.

  “We received this letter early this morning,” he said quickly, as if afraid the words themselves might be delayed. “The message stated that something serious had occurred and that it should be delivered to you as soon as possible.”

  Mingzhi felt a faint tightening in his chest.

  “You were away on a mission,” the disciple continued, bowing slightly. “When I heard you had returned, I rushed here immediately.”

  He held the letter out with both hands.

  “I’ll leave you to read it,” he added, already stepping back. “Please… take care.”

  The door closed softly behind him.

  For a brief moment, the room felt unnaturally quiet.

  Mingzhi stared at the envelope.

  The paper was ordinary—slightly yellowed, the edges worn from travel—but the handwriting on the front froze him in place.

  Mother’s hand.

  His fingers closed around it before he realized he’d moved.

  He broke the seal.

  Dear Mingzhi,

  We hope you are doing well in the sect and that your cultivation has been progressing smoothly.

  We did not want to disturb you so soon while you are still adjusting to sect life, but your grandfather’s health has worsened.

  The doctor says… he does not have much time left.

  Knowing how close you are to him, we did not want you to regret anything later.

  If you can spare the time, please come home as soon as possible.

  Much love,

  Mom

  The words blurred.

  Mingzhi’s grip tightened until the paper creased.

  A dull pressure formed behind his eyes. His throat closed, breath catching halfway through an inhale. For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, unmoving, as if loosening his grip would cause something inside him to break loose.

  Qingyu took a step closer.

  “Mingzhi?” she asked quietly. “What does it say?”

  He swallowed once. Then again.

  “My grandfather…” His voice came out hoarse. He paused, steadying himself. “He isn’t well. The doctor says he doesn’t have much time left.”

  Qingyu’s expression softened instantly. “Then you should go,” she said without hesitation. “Right now.”

  “I will,” Mingzhi replied. “But first, I need to settle things here. Just enough so nothing goes wrong while I’m gone.”

  She frowned. “You don’t owe the sect anything more than you’ve already given.”

  “This isn’t for the sect,” Mingzhi said gently. “It’s for you. And your father.”

  Her eyes widened slightly.

  “What do you mean?”

  Mingzhi exhaled slowly and began to explain—carefully, efficiently, leaving nothing important unsaid.

  “I was injured after Wang Hu chased me,” he said. “A Tier Two beast intervened and dealt with him. Then another appeared. They fought each other to the death.”

  Qingyu’s breath hitched.

  “I had to recuperate,” Mingzhi continued. “So I hid in a cave. That’s where I met your father.”

  Her eyes snapped up. “My father?”

  “He was barely alive,” Mingzhi said. “Burning his own foundation with Fire Qi to hold back the Blood Rot Poison.”

  Her hands trembled.

  “I used the remaining layered pills I made for you,” he went on. “Then refined new ones to suppress the poison. He has about two months. Enough time to attempt a breakthrough.”

  For a second, Qingyu didn’t move.

  Then she covered her mouth—and the sound she made was halfway between a sob and a laugh.

  “He’s… alive?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him suddenly, pressing her face against his chest. Tears soaked into his robe.

  “Thank you,” she choked. “Thank you for saving him.”

  Mingzhi rested a hand lightly on her back. “We also made a plan,” he said. “I explained everything to him. Elder Zhang hasn’t returned yet—we have at least two weeks before anything moves. You’ll be safe without me for a while.”

  Qingyu pulled back, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. She forced herself to nod.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “Go home. Don’t hesitate.”

  Mingzhi hesitated anyway.

  “Please tell Rou where I went,” he said. “I don’t want rumors spreading. I’ll leave quietly.”

  She nodded again. “I’ll handle things here.”

  That was enough.

  Night had already settled over the sect by the time Mingzhi finished preparing.

  He pulled his hood low, keeping his presence restrained, and moved through the outer paths without drawing attention. He purchased what he needed quickly—healing herbs, dried rations, spare clothes—and paid in full without bargaining.

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  A horse was waiting by the time he reached the stable.

  Strong legs. Steady breath.

  Good enough.

  As he led it away, the Spirit finally spoke.

  “You are in a hurry.”

  “Yes,” Mingzhi replied inwardly.

  “This journey will delay your plans.”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you are going anyway.”

  Mingzhi mounted the horse, tightening the reins. “Some things aren’t measured in cultivation speed.”

  The Spirit was silent for a long moment.

  “…Then do not waste the time,” it said at last.

  Mingzhi urged the horse forward.

  The sect gates passed behind him without incident. No pursuit. No obstruction.

  Only the quiet rhythm of hooves striking earth as he vanished into the night.

  Grandpa, he thought, jaw tightening. I’m on my way.

  Please… hold on.

  The road home felt longer than Mingzhi remembered.

  Not because of distance—but because of silence.

  The village lay where it always had, tucked between low hills and wide fields, yet something about it felt… muted. Smoke still rose from chimneys, dogs still barked in the distance, but the sounds seemed dulled, as if wrapped in cloth. Even the wind moved more slowly, stirring the dry leaves without its usual liveliness.

  As Mingzhi dismounted at the edge of the village, a faint chill brushed his skin.

  It wasn’t cold.

  It was absence.

  He frowned slightly and tightened his cloak, leading the horse forward. Each step closer to home weighed heavier than the last. His Perfect Seed stirred faintly, not in warning, but in unease—as if it sensed something fundamentally wrong.

  When he reached his family’s courtyard, the gate stood half-open.

  That alone made his heart sink.

  His mother sat on the steps, hands folded in her lap, staring at the ground without truly seeing it. His father stood nearby, shoulders slumped, gaze unfocused. Neither noticed him at first.

  The air around them felt… still. Thick. Like a room after a funeral, even when no one had died yet.

  “Mother,” Mingzhi called softly.

  She looked up.

  For a heartbeat, her eyes widened in disbelief—then she was on her feet, crossing the distance in a few hurried steps. She grabbed his arms, as if afraid he might vanish if she let go.

  “You came back,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You really came back.”

  “It’s natural,” Mingzhi replied, though his throat felt tight. “How is Grandpa?”

  Her grip loosened. Her eyes dimmed.

  “Come inside,” she said quietly.

  The house felt colder than the courtyard.

  Not physically—there was no frost, no visible breath—but the warmth that should have lingered from daily life was gone. Even the wooden floorboards seemed to absorb sound instead of echoing it.

  His father closed the door behind them.

  “We’ve tried everything,” he said, voice hoarse. “Medicines. Warming soups. Qi-nourishing herbs. Nothing works.”

  Mingzhi frowned. “What did the doctor say?”

  His mother hesitated, then answered. “He… didn’t know. He said it wasn’t like any illness he’d seen. His pulse feels… wrong.”

  “Wrong how?” Mingzhi pressed.

  “Cold,” his father said. “And hollow. Like something is missing.”

  Mingzhi’s expression sharpened. “Was the doctor a cultivator?”

  “Yes,” his mother nodded. “A low-level one, but still a cultivator. He examined your grandfather’s meridians personally.”

  “And?”

  “He couldn’t find a blockage. Or poison. Or internal injury,” his father said bitterly. “He said it was as if… life itself was being drained away.”

  Mingzhi didn’t respond immediately.

  Instead, he closed his eyes briefly and extended his senses.

  That faint chill he’d felt earlier sharpened.

  It wasn’t everywhere.

  It was coming from one place.

  The back room.

  Where his grandfather rested.

  The closer Mingzhi stepped, the heavier the air became. What had been a vague unease turned into a tangible pressure, sinking into his chest. By the time he reached the doorway, the chill had transformed into something far worse.

  Bone-chilling cold.

  Not the sharp bite of winter, but a deep, suffocating cold that felt ancient and quiet. The kind that didn’t shock the body—but slowly convinced it to give up.

  Mingzhi stopped.

  His Perfect Seed rotated instinctively, Qi flowing through his meridians to shield him.

  Inside his mind, the Spirit stirred.

  “…This is not illness alone,” it said, its voice losing its usual detachment.

  Mingzhi stepped inside.

  His grandfather lay on the bed, thinner than Mingzhi remembered, skin pale and faintly gray. His breathing was shallow, uneven. Every inhale seemed to require effort, as if the air itself resisted him.

  The room felt wrong.

  The cold wasn’t just present—it was anchored.

  Mingzhi sat beside the bed and gently took his grandfather’s wrist.

  The moment he touched him, his brows furrowed deeply.

  The pulse was there—but weak. Not fading, not erratic.

  Empty.

  Like a well that had been drawn from for too long.

  Mingzhi carefully released a thread of Qi and guided it into his grandfather’s body.

  The moment it entered—

  It slowed.

  No—worse.

  It was being worn away.

  Not devoured violently. Not repelled.

  Eroded.

  The Qi grew thin, dull, losing cohesion as if passing through a field of fine ash.

  Mingzhi pulled it back immediately, his heart sinking.

  “Spirit,” he said quietly. “How is he?”

  The Spirit was silent for a long moment.

  Then it spoke.

  “He has used up most of his Life Qi,” it said slowly. “And something is eroding what little remains.”

  Mingzhi’s jaw tightened. “Something happened to him.”

  “Yes,” the Spirit replied. “Based on his age and condition, he should not be this close to collapse. This is not natural decline.”

  “So he was infected by something?” Mingzhi asked.

  “No,” the Spirit said firmly. “No infection behaves like this.”

  Mingzhi’s thoughts raced. “Then what is it?”

  There was a pause.

  “…There is only one force that erodes Life Qi in this manner,” the Spirit said. “Silently. Persistently. Without leaving obvious traces.”

  Mingzhi swallowed. “And that is?”

  “…Death Qi.”

  The word settled heavily in the room.

  Mingzhi felt a chill crawl up his spine. “That sounds… dangerous.”

  “It is,” the Spirit said. “You could call it the opposite of Life Qi—but that description is incomplete.”

  “Then what is it really?” Mingzhi asked.

  “You will only truly understand it,” the Spirit replied, “after experiencing it yourself.”

  Mingzhi fell silent.

  “Death Qi should not be able to invade a healthy body,” the Spirit continued. “Not without a catalyst. Not without prolonged exposure.”

  Mingzhi’s eyes flicked to his grandfather’s face.

  Then, suddenly, a memory surfaced.

  He looked up sharply. “Mother,” he said. “Do you remember—did Grandpa ever get badly injured?”

  His parents exchanged a glance.

  His father nodded slowly. “A few years ago. He went into the woods behind our fields.”

  “The woods?” Mingzhi repeated.

  “He came back hurt,” his mother said softly. “Deep wounds. He said a wild animal attacked him. He refused to explain more.”

  Mingzhi’s gaze darkened.

  “The woods…” he murmured.

  Inside his mind, the Spirit’s presence sharpened.

  “…That area,” it said slowly. “It overlaps with the outer boundary of the array.”

  Mingzhi’s breath caught.

  “So it is connected,” he whispered.

  “What can we do?” he asked urgently. “There has to be something.”

  The Spirit considered. “We can attempt to counteract it with Life Qi. But only a very small amount.”

  “How?” Mingzhi asked.

  “Dissolve it in water,” the Spirit said. “Extremely diluted. Let him drink it.”

  Mingzhi didn’t hesitate.

  He retrieved a vial and carefully released a single thread of Life Liquid into a bowl of warm water. The liquid dissolved instantly, leaving behind only a faint, almost imperceptible glow.

  He supported his grandfather’s head and helped him drink.

  At first, nothing happened.

  Then—

  His grandfather’s breathing eased slightly.

  Color returned—just a little—to his cheeks.

  His eyelids fluttered.

  “Ming… zhi?” he murmured faintly.

  Mingzhi’s heart clenched. “I’m here, Grandpa.”

  Relief flooded the room.

  His mother covered her mouth, tears streaming down her face. His father exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging as if a great weight had been lifted.

  “He’s better,” his mother whispered. “He’s really better.”

  But Mingzhi didn’t relax.

  Because he could feel it.

  The Life Qi surged—

  And then met resistance.

  The cold recoiled… and then pushed back.

  His grandfather’s expression tightened. His breathing grew uneven again. The faint warmth faded, replaced by something worse.

  The cold deepened.

  His pulse weakened.

  “No—” Mingzhi said sharply. “Spirit!”

  The Spirit’s voice came immediately.

  “Stop,” it said. “Do not give him more.”

  “Why?” Mingzhi demanded. “It worked just now!”

  “It stressed his body,” the Spirit replied. “His meridians are too weak. More Life Qi will cause backlash.”

  Mingzhi clenched his fists. “Then what do we do?”

  “…Nothing,” the Spirit said quietly. “The Death Qi and Life Qi are fighting inside, but his body cannot bear the burden. The only thing that could save him would also kill him.”

  The words hit harder than any blow.

  His grandfather’s condition stabilized again—but only barely, only for a short time. No improvement. No recovery.

  Just… delay.

  Mingzhi sat there, staring at his grandfather’s frail form, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached.

  For the first time since stepping onto the cultivation path—

  He felt powerless.

  And somewhere deep within him, something cold and silent answered back.