Fangs Beneath the Lotus

The morning mist clung low to the training fields, coiling like sleeping serpents as the outer sect tried to settle back into its uneasy routine. But unease had roots, and those roots now ran deep. The duel in the Midnight Grove had become legend overnight retold in hushed tones by outer disciples and whispered with trepidation by the servants.

Tang Yun, the Twelfth Young Master once mocked as crippled and cursed, had crushed Elder Tang Liansu and five disciples using poison, cunning, and a forbidden formation.

He hadn't just survived.

He had won.

And in doing so, he had reshaped the balance of fear.

In a quiet pavilion shaded by crimson lotuses, Tang Yun sat cross-legged with his hands resting gently on his knees. A thin line of incense trailed upward beside him, its smoke tinged with the scent of ghost orchid and nightshade.

Across from him, Tang Xiaomei knelt silently, grinding dried toxinflower roots with a pestle far too large for her small hands. Yet her movements were precise. She was learning fast.

"Tell me the three stages of meridian corrosion," Tang Yun said without opening his eyes.

Xiaomei didn't miss a beat. "First: Qi distortion. Second: Spiritual nerve decay. Third: Core dissolution."

"Good. And the cure?"

"There isn't one. Only delay."

He smiled faintly. "You'll be a fine assistant."

Suddenly, footsteps echoed from the path outside. Not rushed. Measured. Someone with confidence or arrogance.

Tang Yun opened his eyes slowly. "We have a guest."

The door slid open.

A boy, draped in the refined robes of an inner disciple, stepped into the room. His face was sharp, his gaze colder than frost. Behind him stood two servants, their expressions blank, but their spiritual energy carefully suppressed.

"I greet the Twelfth Young Master," the boy said with a bow that held no sincerity. "I am Tang Jiuyuan, Ninth Young Master of the main branch."

Xiaomei stiffened. Even Tang Yun paused.

Ninth Young Master. The son of a direct elder. Talented, proud—and ambitious.

"I assume you're not here to borrow poison manuals," Tang Yun said calmly.

Jiuyuan's lips curled into a polite sneer. "You've caused quite a ripple, cousin. The elders talk of nothing else. Some are impressed. Others are... afraid."

Tang Yun gestured to the stone bench. "Which are you?"

Jiuyuan didn't sit. "Neither. I came with an offer."

That drew Tang Yun's interest. "Do tell."

Jiuyuan stepped forward. "You're clever. Stronger than expected. But you're still alone. If you support my candidacy for the clan's inner succession trials, I'll ensure your name is cleared, your cultivation supplied, and your position in the inner sect guaranteed."

A direct proposal.

Tang Yun tilted his head. "And if I refuse?"

Jiuyuan's eyes sharpened. "Then the next time someone comes to kill you... they won't be outer sect trash."

Silence settled.

Then Tang Yun rose. Slowly. Gracefully.

He walked toward Jiuyuan, stopping just close enough for the incense smoke to curl between them.

"Let me teach you something, Ninth Brother," Tang Yun said softly. "Poison blooms best when buried in rot. Pressure doesn't break me it refines me."

Jiuyuan's smile faltered.

Tang Yun leaned in. "And if I wanted to be anyone's shadow... I wouldn't have built my own web."

He turned away and sat once more.

"Now go. I have poisons to brew and kingship to prepare for."

Jiuyuan didn't respond. After a long moment, he turned and left.

But his final glance wasn't one of fear.

It was of calculation.

That night, Tang Yun met with his followers beneath the hollow willow tree.

Three figures knelt: Tang Xiaomei, the mute servant boy he'd saved from the punishment yard, and Lin Mu a recently recruited outer disciple whose older brother was executed by Tang Liansu.

Each had lost something to the clan.

Each now served Tang Yun not out of loyalty...

…but belief.

He drew out a black scroll and unsealed it. It shimmered faintly with green sigils part map, part array, part curse.

"Tonight," he said, "we begin planting the roots of the second web."

They bowed.

A storm was coming.

And in its eye stood not a cripple…

…but a spider clothed in poison and patience.

[End of Chapter 31]

[Tags]: Reincarnation, Murim, Cultivation, Poison Mastery, Clan Intrigue, Cold Protagonist, Slow-Burn Growth, Sect Politics, Inner Conflict, Strategy Over Strength