Chapter 16: The Scapegoat

Chapter 16: The Scapegoat

The mist hung over Mistveil Valley like a shroud of ash, its gray tendrils seeping into the sect's stone corridors and cloaking the dawn in a veil of somber stillness. Ming You stood at the edge of the outer disciples' hall, his gray robe pristine despite the blood and chaos of the previous night, his sharp eyes tracing the horizon where Ashen Hollow had retreated. At twenty-three years of age, he wielded the 4th stage of Qi Condensation with a precision honed by relentless ambition, its quadruple strands a silent force he guarded with icy discretion. The jade slip of the Threads of Chance and the scroll of the Ninefold Mist Barrier rested within his sleeve, twin pillars of his ascent, joined now by the Spirit Ginseng he had stolen—a prize concealed with opportunistic greed.

The sect reeled from the assault, its eastern wall a jagged ruin, its disciples whispering of betrayal and loss. The storehouse's breach had been discovered, its shelves lighter by a clutch of rare herbs, a wound Ming You had inflicted with ruthless cunning. The elders prowled the grounds, their voices sharp with suspicion, their gazes seeking a culprit among the weary. Ming You felt the tension like a thread in his grasp, a chaos he would twist to his gain with calculated patience. His sabotage had fractured the sect's defenses, and now he would shift the blame, a shadow cast to shield his schemes.

Chen Hao approached, his steps hesitant, his patched tunic stained with dried blood from a shallow cut sustained in the battle. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, yet his trust in Ming You shimmered beneath his weariness—a loyalty ripe for exploitation. "They are saying someone stole from the storehouse," he murmured, his voice low, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his robe. "How could this happen? We were fighting for our lives."

Ming You turned his gaze to him, his expression a slab of ice, his tone a blade sheathed in velvet. "Chaos breeds weakness," he replied, his words a calculated lure to mask his intent. "The desperate take what they can. Stay silent, and you may avoid their eyes." He offered no reassurance, only a cold directive, his manipulative grace tightening Chen Hao's leash without revealing his hand.

Chen Hao frowned, his naivety surfacing. "But I would never—I fought with you! You saw me hold the line." His earnestness grated on Ming You, a reminder of the boy's simplicity, yet it was a tool he would wield with silent cruelty. He nodded, his face impassive, his mind already weaving the threads of his plan—a scapegoat to bear the weight of his theft, a pawn to sacrifice for his ascent.

The day unfolded in a haze of repairs and interrogations, the elders summoning disciples to the central courtyard, their voices a storm of accusation. Ming You lingered at the periphery, his presence unremarkable, his senses sharpened by the 4th stage's gifts. He watched Elder Liu pace before the gathered, his scarred face grim, his single eye sweeping the crowd. "Herbs are missing—Spirit Ginseng, vital to our strength," he barked, his tone a whip of authority. "Someone betrayed us amidst the attack. Speak, or we will find you."

Murmurs rippled through the disciples, their fear a palpable scent Ming You would twist to his advantage. He slipped away, his steps a whisper on the stone, his destination the hall where Chen Hao slept—a cramped chamber of mats and meager belongings, its squalor a mirror to the boy's simplicity. The Spirit Ginseng weighed heavily in his sleeve, its potency a lure he would plant with tactful precision. He entered, the hall empty save for the snores of the exhausted, his movements a dance of cold efficiency.

Chen Hao's mat lay near the corner, his patched satchel a tattered heap beside it. Ming You knelt, his fingers deft as he slipped a single stalk of Spirit Ginseng—its silver roots unmistakable—into the satchel's depths, tucking it beneath a worn tunic. The Veil of Fortunate Shadows rippled through his Qi, its lattice weaving outward, a nudge of luck to ensure the bag remained undisturbed until the moment was ripe. He rose, his presence a ghost in the dimness, his heart a void of unemotional resolve.

He returned to the courtyard, his timing deliberate, his expression a mask of detached concern. The elders had begun their search, their Qi probing the disciples' belongings with stern efficiency. Ming You joined Chen Hao, his proximity a calculated feint, his voice a whisper of deceptive care. "They will find nothing with you," he said, his tone a lie veiled in wisdom. "Stand firm, and this will pass."

Chen Hao nodded, his trust unshaken, his eyes bright with gratitude. "You are right," he replied, his voice soft. "I have nothing to hide." His faith was a chain, one Ming You accepted with silent disdain, his mind fixed on the unraveling of his scheme.

A shout broke the murmurs, Elder Liu's voice rising with grim triumph. "Here!" he called, his hand clutching the Spirit Ginseng stalk, its silver roots glinting in the dawn's light. He stood over Chen Hao's mat, the satchel torn open, the evidence undeniable. The courtyard fell silent, the disciples' gazes turning to Chen Hao with a mix of shock and scorn. Ming You stepped back, his presence fading into the crowd, his expression a slab of ice concealing the satisfaction within.

Chen Hao paled, his hands rising in protest. "That is not mine!" he cried, his voice breaking, his eyes darting to Ming You with desperate trust. "I swear—I fought for the sect! Ming You, tell them—you were with me!" His plea was a thread Ming You would sever with ruthless precision, a sacrifice to secure his own safety.

Elder Liu advanced, his scarred face a mask of fury, his Qi flaring with the weight of Foundation Establishment. "Lies," he growled, seizing Chen Hao by the collar. "You guarded the line—close to the storehouse. You saw your chance and took it." He turned to the crowd, his voice a thunderclap. "This traitor weakened us when Ashen Hollow struck. He will answer for it."

Ming You stepped forward, his movements deliberate, his tone a whisper of feigned concern—"I saw him fight," he said, his words a calculated ambiguity, offering no defense yet preserving his facade. "But the herbs speak louder than I can." He met Chen Hao's gaze, his eyes cold and unyielding, a silent betrayal masked as helplessness. The boy's face crumpled, his trust shattering, yet Ming You felt no flicker of remorse—only the chill of a predator securing its prey.

The elders dragged Chen Hao away, his pleas echoing through the courtyard, his fate sealed by Ming You's hand. "Expulsion," Elder Liu declared, his voice final. "No traitor remains within these walls." The crowd dispersed, their whispers a chorus of fear and judgment, leaving Ming You alone with his triumph.

He retreated to the hall, the remaining Spirit Ginseng a weight in his sleeve, its potency a resource he would hoard with unscrupulous resolve. The sect was weakened, its trust fractured, and he had emerged unscathed—a shadow among the ashes. Chen Hao's expulsion was a necessary cost, a pawn discarded to protect the king. Lin Xuefeng's absence lingered, a thread of suspicion he would address, but for now, his path was clear.

He sat, his mat a throne of solitude, his Qi refining itself with persistent effort. The mist swirled outside, a mirror to his soul—elusive, unpredictable, a veil for his ambition. "The weak bear the burden of the strong," he murmured, a poetic breath of cynical intent, his voice fading into the silence. His mind turned to the future—Ashen Hollow's next strike, the sect's crumbling arrays, the herbs he would trade for power. Immortality was his star, and he would seize it, leaving no soul unbent, no trust unbroken.

The dawn broke, its light muted by the mist, a testament to his schemes. He closed his eyes, his heart a drum of detached purpose, his will a flame that consumed all doubt. The sect was a battlefield, and he would rise as its master, a schemer clad in shadow, his path unyielding—a predator in a world of prey.