Chapter 8: Petals Beneath the Blade

The wind tasted different at the edge of the Inner Sect arena.

It was thinner, quieter—like it had learned to hold its breath. Dozens of disciples stood on the obsidian tiles in rigid lines, their silks newly pressed, weapons strapped tight, eyes filled with hunger. Above them, elders perched on the high pavilions, their gazes cold and weighing. Somewhere behind those silent eyes, judgment had already begun.

Wei Xie stood in the second line.

Not the front.

Never the front.

The jade slip with his name had been real. He hadn't imagined that. But no one expected him to show up—especially not dressed plainly, without a weapon. A few whispered.

"Outer court rat."

"Got in through pity."

"Dead in the first round."

He smiled at none of them.

The sigil on his spine had not pulsed since that night in the bell tower. But now, as the formation of the arena hummed beneath his feet, it stirred. Like a hand pressed against the inside of his skin.

An Elder stepped forward. Dressed in black robes embroidered with golden lotuses, he raised a fan and the crowd stilled.

"Inner Sect Induction Trial, First Round," he said. "You are to ascend the Jade Blade Steps. One hundred and eight. Every step cuts deeper than the last. Reach the top, and you pass. Fail… and you fall."

The first disciple stepped forward.

Jian Rong, muscles rippling under tigerhide armor, raised his broadsword and charged.

He made it to step thirty-six before collapsing.

A few gasped. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth.

One by one, they tried.

An Zhi went next—poised and silent. She moved like falling snow, each step deliberate.

Fifty-two.

Qiu Yiren followed. Her lightning footwork gave her speed, and she made it to sixty-one before her legs buckled. She was caught by a formation before she could fall.

Wei Xie waited.

Let the crowd grow restless. Let them forget him.

He was the twenty-seventh to walk forward.

No weapon. No armor. Just silence.

As he stepped onto the first blade, it cut—not skin, but soul.

A whisper.

*"You are nothing."*

He smiled faintly.

Step two.

*"You will break."*

Step three.

*"You deserve to break."*

By the tenth, his heartbeat had slowed to a crawl. Pain layered upon pain. Not screaming pain—but something slower, deeper. Like being carved from the inside.

Others had cried out.

Wei Xie bled inward.

The sigil pulsed.

By step thirty-two, his knees began to tremble. On step forty-four, his vision blurred. At fifty-nine, his legs refused to lift.

He paused.

The crowd whispered.

*"He'll collapse."*

*"Too far for an outer disciple."*

But Wei Xie did not lift his foot.

He shifted his weight.

And he fell forward.

But not down.

He *fell into* the step.

The formation screamed as the air around him twisted. For an instant, petals—not of blood, but black lotus—swirled beneath his robe, shielding his fall.

He rose again.

Step sixty.

He walked slowly, like a man with no body to bruise. On step seventy-two, his vision cleared. On step eighty, the crowd had fallen silent.

Only An Zhi watched him now, her expression unreadable.

He stepped onto the final blade.

The Elder raised an eyebrow. "Name."

"Wei Xie."

"You pass."

No applause. Only silence.

---

Later, they gave him a new robe: dark inner-sect black with silver thread.

Wei Xie folded it neatly in his quarters. He did not wear it yet.

He spent the evening not celebrating, but walking the archives. He asked for nothing. He borrowed nothing. He simply stood in the third hall—where no one dared read past midnight—and studied the mural of the Lotus Blooming from the Mouth of Death.

An ancient tale.

One where rot gave rise to rebirth.

He smiled.

---

Three days later, An Zhi approached him.

No words. Just a gaze.

"I expected you to pass," she said.

"Disappointed?"

"No," she said. "Worried."

"About me?"

"About the Sect."

Wei Xie laughed quietly. "We are the Sect."

"No," she said. "You are something else."

He did not deny it.

Instead, he walked past her and whispered, "Then root me out, An Zhi. If you can."

---

The next trial was combat.

Not to the death.

Not officially.

But if you fell and no one caught you, well… the sect favored survival.

Wei Xie was paired with Lin Fei.

Of course.

Lin Fei, broken by false rumors, desperate to reclaim honor.

He roared before the match began, charging with a cry of vengeance. His blade glowed blue with spirit qi.

Wei Xie sidestepped the first blow. The second.

"Fight me!" Lin Fei spat.

Wei Xie didn't answer.

Instead, he stepped inward, avoiding the blade's arc, and placed a single finger on Lin Fei's temple.

And *pushed.*

Not with strength. With words.

"You never had talent."

Lin Fei faltered.

"Your father pulled strings. You've always known it."

Lin Fei's blade dipped.

"You thought no one noticed. We did."

The sword clattered to the floor.

Wei Xie didn't strike.

He simply turned his back.

"Victory: Wei Xie."

Gasps. Murmurs.

Wei Xie returned to his place.

The Elders said nothing.

But the crimson-robed man watched from the shadows, hidden among servants.

---

Later, in the quiet of the moonless night, Wei Xie stood before the sealed library gates.

The sigil on his back pulsed once.

The door opened.

No key. No formation. Just *will.*

He descended into the dark.

There, beneath layers of dust and forgotten names, he found it:

**The Manual of the Twelfth Root.**

Written in blood. Annotated by madness.

He read.

And understood.

---

The next morning, An Zhi stood before the Elders.

"I believe Wei Xie has corrupted the trial."

Elder Yun looked down at her.

"How so?"

"He never fought. He never used qi. He… whispers. And they fall."

"That is a kind of power," said one Elder.

"It is poison," An Zhi insisted.

Elder Yun leaned forward. "And you fear poison?"

"I fear what it grows into."

"Then watch him," Yun said. "Learn from him. Or destroy him. The sect rewards both."

---

Wei Xie stood at the cliff again, where fog met stone.

The crimson man arrived, as always, silent.

"You've begun to rot them well."

"I'm only pruning."

The man smiled. "Next comes the blossom. We've selected a name."

"A name?"

"For your new face."

Wei Xie tilted his head.

"In the Black Lotus path, names are masks. You'll be known now as **Vessel of the Eighth Bloom.**"

Wei Xie considered it.

"It will do."

---

Back in his room, Wei Xie wore the black robes.

They fit.

But he tucked a single black petal into the inner fold.

For remembrance.

And warning.

---