Chapter 17: The Rival’s Suspicion

Chapter 17: The Rival's Suspicion

The mist draped Mistveil Valley in a shroud of muted gray, its tendrils weaving through the sect's shattered perimeter and cloaking the afternoon in a haze of unease. Ming You stood near the herb gardens, his gray robe pristine against the damp earth, his sharp eyes tracing the rows of Bittervine with a predator's patience. 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 keys to his ascent, joined by the Spirit Ginseng he had stolen—a secret hoard that fueled his schemes.

The sect simmered with the aftermath of Ashen Hollow's assault, its eastern wall a testament to his sabotage, its storehouse lighter by his hand. Chen Hao's expulsion had silenced the elders' immediate wrath, his cries of innocence a fading echo Ming You dismissed with cold detachment. Yet the air thrummed with suspicion, a thread he felt tightening around him, its source a rival whose gaze had grown too keen. Lin Xuefeng, the inner disciple whose pride he had bruised in their spar, had returned from the battle unscathed, his presence a shadow Ming You would sever with ruthless cunning.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path, deliberate and heavy, shattering the garden's stillness. Ming You's senses snapped to alertness, his Qi stirring faintly, the Veil of Fortunate Shadows a whisper in his meridians. He turned, his posture rigid, his expression a slab of ice as Lin Xuefeng emerged from the mist—his broad frame clad in a dark robe, his sharp features twisted with a scowl, his eyes burning with accusation. At the 5th stage of Qi Condensation, he carried an air of menace, his spear slung across his back, its tip glinting with faint Qi.

"You," Lin Xuefeng spat, his voice a low growl, his steps halting a mere pace away. "The wall fell too easily. The storehouse was breached, and Chen Hao takes the blame—a boy too weak to scheme. I see your hand in this, Ming You." His words were a blade, sharp and direct, his suspicion a thread Ming You would cut with calculated grace.

Ming You met his gaze, his eyes cold and unyielding, his tone a whisper of tactful ambiguity. "The mist hides many truths," he replied, his words a feint to mask his intent. "Chen Hao held the line—close to the storehouse. Desperation drives even the weak to folly. You see shadows where there are none." His voice carried a veneer of calm, a lie woven with strategic patience, his heart a void of unemotional resolve.

Lin Xuefeng's scowl deepened, his hand twitching toward his spear. "Do not play me for a fool," he snarled, his Qi flaring faintly, a ripple of heat in the damp air. "The array failed where you stood. Herbs vanish, and you walk free while that boy is cast out. I know your kind—scheming, spineless. Prove your innocence, or I will drag you to the elders myself."

The threat hung between them, a spark to ignite the tension Ming You had anticipated. He felt the weight of the Spirit Ginseng in his sleeve, a prize he would guard with unscrupulous resolve, its theft a secret Lin Xuefeng could not prove—yet. His mind dissected the moment, a labyrinth of calculated risks, seeking the path to deflect this blade without drawing blood. The gardens were isolated, the sect's eyes turned inward, a stage for his escape.

"I prove nothing to a rival's whim," Ming You said, his tone a blade of icy purpose, his words a lure to stoke Lin Xuefeng's pride. "The elders saw Chen Hao's guilt—his satchel, his herbs. You chase ghosts while Ashen Hollow laughs. Look to your own failures." He stepped back, his movements deliberate, his Qi rising with cold intent, the Ninefold Mist Barrier weaving into existence before him.

The misty veil shimmered, dense and sharp-edged, its haze obscuring his form as Lin Xuefeng lunged, his spear thrusting through the air with a crackle of Qi. The strike met the barrier, its force rippling through the mist, a tremor that jarred Ming You's bones. He shifted, his senses sharpened by the 4th stage, guiding the haze to absorb the blow, its edges fraying but holding. Pain flared in his chest, a dull ache from the strain, but he crushed it with fearless detachment, his mind a fortress against weakness.

Lin Xuefeng growled, his spear retracting, his stance widening for another strike. "Coward!" he roared, his voice echoing through the gardens, drawing distant shouts from patrolling disciples. "Hide behind your tricks—I will break you!" His Qi surged, a second thrust aimed at Ming You's heart, its speed a blur in the mist.

Ming You moved, his Veil of Fortunate Shadows rippling outward, a nudge of luck that twisted fate's hand. A root protruded from the earth, unseen in the haze, and Lin Xuefeng's boot caught its edge, his balance faltering for a breath. Ming You seized the moment, his barrier collapsing as he darted into the mist, his steps swift and silent, his form a phantom in the gray. The spear's tip grazed his sleeve, a whisper of steel that drew no blood, a miss he attributed to his subtle art.

He slipped through the gardens, the mist his ally, its dampness a cloak for his escape. Lin Xuefeng's shouts faded behind him, drowned by the sect's clamor as disciples converged on the noise. Ming You pressed against a gnarled tree, his breath steadying, his Qi withdrawing to conceal his presence. The Veil had spared him confrontation, its power a quiet blade he wielded with deceptive grace, a shield against a rival too bold for his own good.

He emerged near the hall, his presence unremarked, his robe unmarred save for the faint tear at his sleeve—a mark he would mend with resourceful care. The sect buzzed with activity, the elders distracted by repairs, Lin Xuefeng's accusation a ripple they had yet to grasp. Ming You's lips curled into a mirthless smirk, his mind tracing the threads of his rival's fury. The confrontation was a warning, a sign of enmity he would crush with patient ruthlessness. Lin Xuefeng's distrust was a whetstone, sharpening his resolve, a challenge he would meet with Machiavellian precision.

Chen Hao's absence lingered, a void he had carved with cold efficiency, his expulsion a shield that held—for now. The Spirit Ginseng remained his, a resource to trade or refine, a step toward immortality he would seize with relentless greed. The Heavenly Dao's gaze was a distant thunder, a threat he dismissed with cynical resolve—its wrath was a game he would outplay, a storm he would bend to his design.

He entered the hall, the squalor greeting him with its familiar stench, his mat a throne of solitude. His Qi pulsed stronger now, its quadruple strands a foundation he would build upon with strategic foresight. "The bold strike, but the patient endure," he murmured, a poetic breath of cynical intent, his voice fading into the silence. His mind turned to the future—Lin Xuefeng's vow, the sect's fragility, Ashen Hollow's inevitable return. He would rise above them all, a schemer clad in shadow, his path unyielding, his heart a drum of detached purpose.

The mist swirled outside, a mirror to his soul—elusive, unpredictable, a veil for his ambition. He closed his eyes, his will a flame that consumed all doubt, his schemes a tapestry woven with the blood of trust. Immortality was his star, and he would pluck it from the heavens, leaving no rival unbroken, no weakness unexploited—a predator in a world of prey.