Chapter 8
Wuming stood at the window for a long while, the wind tangling his silver hair, but his mind was far from the night's serenity. Through the demon infant, he tracked Lan'er's every movement—her heartbeat, her thoughts, her hesitation. Every whisper from the servants' quarters, every muffled conversation from the Second Lady, every footstep in the halls—it all flowed into him like water.
They think they are hidden. They think I am distracted. Fools.
He let the demon infant spread its senses further, slipping silently along corridors, peering under doors, hovering in empty hallways. Even the faintest sounds—the rustle of a curtain, the clink of tea cups, the murmur of voices—were caught and fed back to him.
Lan'er paused outside the Second Lady's chamber. Her hands trembled slightly, the fatigue from the pill making every step feel heavy. The Second Lady's voice had grown sharper.
"You dare hesitate? If you fail, your head will roll, and do not think your precious master will protect you!"
Lan'er stiffened, but Wuming could see the conflict in her mind. She is obedient but fearful… the perfect tool.
Through the demon infant, Wuming nudged her thoughts subtly: You are strong because I allow it. You survive because I permit it. Every hesitation, every doubt, every fear—all of it serves me.
The Second Lady's words spilled further into the corridor: "This child… he is too clever. But if his precious mother did not intervene, he would already be dead. You have two choices: succeed, or utterly fail."
Wuming's lips curved faintly. She underestimates me. And yet… she is predictable.
He moved the demon infant to eavesdrop on the other servants. Through them, he learned who had loyalties divided, who feared punishment, and who could be manipulated. One servant hesitated near the pantry—he would plant a tiny seed of doubt through the infant: Report immediately, or suffer the consequences unseen. The servant jerked, uncertain, then scurried off. Wuming noted the success quietly.
Lan'er, still unaware, stepped into the Second Lady's chamber. Wuming allowed the demon infant to linger near the Second Lady, sensing the thin cracks in her arrogance. Every microexpression, every shift of weight, every tone of voice—he catalogued it. She spoke of poison, plans, and vengeance, unaware that the demon infant was silently cataloguing everything, converting it into data for Wuming's later use.
They do not see the hand that moves them, he thought coldly. They do not see the threads weaving their fates. And I… I am everywhere and nowhere.
Lan'er finally faltered under the pill's strain, her mind foggy, her will bending slightly as Wuming's influence nudged her choices. Good. She does not resist now. Perfect.
He paused, letting her continue under observation. Every mistake, every hesitation, every plan they attempt—all of it will feed me. Every betrayal, every lie—they cannot hide from me. And when the time comes… every piece will fall exactly where I want it.
After what felt like hours, Wuming withdrew the demon infant, letting it curl silently at his feet. The threads of the night, the scheming, the plotting—all were under his control.
He walked quietly to the edge of the window, looking down the empty corridors. They think I am fragile. They think I am just a child. They will learn the price of misjudging me… slowly, subtly, inevitably.
And in the shadows, the night stretched endlessly, filled with silent wars, whispered schemes, and manipulated loyalties—all moving exactly according to his mind, his strategy, and his patience.
When will you come wei zhi?
It's been more than 4 days now.
It's not that I am eager to meet you, I am eager to see how useful you can be from what little wuming said.
The Xuan estate was built like most ancient noble compounds — layered courtyards, stone pathways, koi ponds reflecting tiled roofs, carved wooden corridors that carried whispers farther than voices intended.
Wuming walked alone.
Seven-year-old body.
Centuries-old patience.
Morning mist still lingered over the inner garden.
He passed beneath hanging lanterns and into the secondary courtyard — the one belonging to the Second Lady, Lady Meihua.
She had five children.
Two sons. Three daughters.
The youngest boy was in the garden, wandering near the ornamental bridge. Lan'er followed at a respectful distance, pretending not to watch too closely.
Wuming's gaze sharpened.
He did not look at the child's face.
He looked at his meridians.
Level Three qi refinement.
The kid must be 5 or 6 years old.
At that age.
Impossible.
Unless—
He narrowed his eyes slightly and focused deeper.
The flow was wrong.
The boy carried Wood elemental qi — soft green, steady, flexible.
But woven through it…
Water.
Thin threads of water-element qi reinforcing the meridian walls from the outside.
External force.
Artificial acceleration.
Wuming's lips curved faintly.
Transmigration?
No.
If he had been reborn like me, the soul density would be different.
This was interference.
Someone is cultivating him.
Quietly.
Secretly.
Lady Meihua was not as simple as she appeared.
He shifted his gaze to the garden beds.
Among decorative plants, something else grew.
Autumn Crocus.
Delicate. Pale. Almost elegant.
Also poisonous.
Rare.
Used in high-grade toxin tempering pills to build poison resistance gradually.
He crouched.
Picked one.Then another.Carefully storing them within his sleeve.
No one stopped him.
Lan'er noticed.
Said nothing.
Silence was loyalty. Or fear. Either worked.
The Corridor Outside His Room
When he returned toward his own courtyard, two of Lady Meihua's senior servants stood near his chamber.
High-ranking.
Pretending coincidence.
Their posture betrayed intent.
He walked past them without slowing.
Children do not notice tension.
He did.
Inside his courtyard stood:
Fifteen royal maids.
Twenty royal guards.
Not Xuan guards.
Royal clan insignia.
He scanned them once.
Breathing steady.
Not an obstacle.
If they move, they die.
The thought came without emotion.
Not arrogance.
Assessment.
Killing in this world was not rage.
It was resource management.
He stepped into his room.
Closed the door calmly.
Sat by the window.
Knife in hand.
Spinning once between fingers.
Outside, the estate remained peaceful.
Inside, invisible currents were forming.
Lady Meihua strengthens her son artificially.
The royal clan increases surveillance.
Poison plants grow in private courtyards.
He leaned slightly against the wooden frame.
The heavens call this balance.
He calls it preparation.
No one here was innocent.
No one here was simple.
And that made it interesting.
Good.
Now we slow it down again.
No exaggeration. No theatrics. Just memory and quiet resentment.
Wuming returned to his chamber.
The room was large but restrained — dark wooden beams, open lattice windows, a low reading table near the inner pond view. No unnecessary ornaments. No bright silks.
He preferred it that way.
Color distracted the mind.
He had already changed into black.
Not because it looked imposing.
Because he disliked colors.
They were loud.
And loud things died first.
He closed the door and placed the Autumn Crocus carefully on the table. The pale petals looked harmless against the dark wood.
Poison always did.
He sat cross-legged and opened one of the volumes he had taken earlier.
The script was elegant. Precise. Every stroke is intentional.
Xuan Ye Xiao.
The first patriarch of the Xuan Clan.
One of the most powerful men recorded in their history.
Wuming read quietly.
Not as a descendant.
As an evaluator.
Xuan Ye Xiao had built the clan from nothing — sealing techniques, sword intent, domain expansion theory. The foundations of everything the clan worshiped today.
Unfortunately…
He was also the descendant of Wuming's former enemy.
History was ironic.
He turned a page.
And memories followed.
There were five.
Five people who stood beside him once.
Five who later stood against him.
First — Xuan Ying Yue.
His closest strategist. The one who understood formations better than anyone. With him from the beginning.
Second — Lan Shen.
Childhood friend. Shared meals. Shared blood oaths.
Third — Shu Xiang of the Zhang Clan.
Politically brilliant. Always thinking three moves ahead.
Fourth — Shen Yue.
The greatest herbalist of their era. Her name still carried weight even now. Medical genius.
And last…
Ye Ying.
The most talented elementalist of her generation.
His disciple.
The one he trusted most.
They had all been exceptional.
The greatest in their respective paths.
And he had been their leader.
Xuan Yin Wuming.
He loved them.
He had believed they loved him.
He stared at the page without seeing the words anymore.
Was it loyalty?
Or convenience?
He closed the book slowly.
Facade.
Of course it was.
Power gathers people.
Not hearts.
He leaned back slightly, eyes calm.
"Listen more to yourself," he thought.
"Most people do not have the answers."
Trust was not a virtue.
It was a liability.
Outside, wind moved through the bamboo courtyard.
Inside, the Autumn Crocus rested quietly beside the volumes of Xuan Ye Xiao — two different kinds of inheritance.
One built by blood.
One born from betrayal.
Wuming picked up the flower again, studying it thoughtfully.
Poison, properly used, builds resistance.
Betrayal, properly remembered, builds clarity.
And clarity…
Was worth more than loyalty.
He closed the volume halfway through a paragraph.
Sometimes, he thought, you just say forget it and do what you want.
The world rarely rewards hesitation.
A knock came.
Soft. Measured.
Laner entered after permission, head lowered.
"Master, Wei Zhi wishes to see you."
"She arrived at noon?" he asked without turning.
"Yes, Master. She has been resting in the east guest chamber."
He had arranged that deliberately.
Not out of courtesy.
Distance was information.
If she could see souls, then proximity was at risk. Let her sit alone. Let her think. Let her doubt her own certainty.
He looked toward the courtyard light filtering through the lattice.
"It is still noon," he said calmly. "Tell her to pay her respects in the evening."
Laner bowed deeply and withdrew.
Silence returned.
He moved to the window ledge and sat there, one leg bent, the other resting loosely against the wooden frame. The sun stretched across the horizon, gold spreading over tiled roofs and carved pillars.
Under sunlight, his silver hair seemed almost unreal — strands catching light differently than his skin, as if they belonged to another existence entirely.
Two entities sharing one outline.
He reopened the book.
Xuan Ye Xiao's writing was disciplined. No wasted phrases. No exaggeration. Every technique explained with mathematical precision — sealing arrays broken into layered logic, sword intent described as a psychological state before a physical one.
It was… admirable.
He rarely used that word.
He traced a line of text with his finger.
Was this a curse?
Or heaven's mockery?
To place his thousand-year-old soul into the body of his enemy's descendant.
Rebirth could have placed him anywhere.
Why here?
Punishment?
Balance?
Entertainment for something watching from above?
He did not believe in fairness.
Only structure.
And structure always benefited someone.
He closed his eyes briefly.
If this was mockery, then it was poorly calculated.
Because he would not waste the opportunity.
Enemy bloodline or not — power was power.
And if heaven thought this ironic…
Then he would make it useful.
Outside, guards rotated posts. Maids crossed the courtyard in disciplined lines. The Xuan estate breathed like an ancient organism — stable, proud, unaware.
He looked toward the western wing where Wei Zhi rested.
Evening would be more interesting.
He turned another page.
If heaven wanted to mock him, it should have chosen a weaker body.
Because now—
He had resources.
He did not rush.
Power that is rushed becomes unstable.
He sat at the low wooden table, the afternoon light stretching long across the floor. The sixth volume of the Xuan archives was stacked beside him, but he was still on the fifth.
Each volume held no fewer than eight hundred pages. Dense script. Diagrams. Sealing matrices layered like geometric riddles. Sword intent broken into psychological stages before physical execution.
The Xuan Clan revolved around three core pillars:
First — Sword Arts.
Not merely cutting techniques, but intent cultivation. The blade moved only after the mind did. Hesitation fractured qi flow.
Second — Sealing Techniques.
Pragmatic. Precise. Used to bind demons, suppress rivals, and even restrain one's own deviation. The mathematics behind them was more complex than most people realized.
Third — Domain Expansion of the Eyes.
The rarest discipline. Fifteen levels. Each level unlocking deeper perception — flow of qi, fracture points in formations, weaknesses in opponents, eventually even distortions in space itself.
Very few had crossed beyond the sixth.
End of 8