Chapter Ten: Glimmers and Shards

Colder than the deepest icy pool behind the mountain, sharper than the frost-laden winds of midwinter. The chill did not come from outside, but seeped from the marrow of his bones, from the depths of his organs, from every torn inch of his meridians, freezing him solid from the inside out. His consciousness was like a stone sunk beneath ten thousand fathoms of frozen sea—heavy, numb, wrapped in endless darkness and deathly silence.

At this moment, Lin Mo could no longer feel pain. There was only a sense of his body slowly shattering, turning to dust, dissolving into nothingness.

Was he about to die?

The thought had barely surfaced when it was crushed by an even deeper, icier cold. Just as Lin Mo’s awareness was about to sink forever into that eternal abyss, a faint current of warmth—like a lone spark upon a frozen wasteland—pried open his frozen lips and forced its way in.

The liquid was scalding, reeking of acrid herbs, searing his throat and gullet with a violent heat. Wherever it passed, the frozen blood within him seemed forcibly stirred, groaning beneath the strain. A weak yet tangible warmth, like a stream fighting against the tide, struggled to push back the frigid force left by the great mountain-guarding array.

“Cough… cough, cough…” A ragged, wheezing cough tore from Lin Mo’s throat. Thick, dark clots of blood, studded with shards of ice, spilled from the corner of his lips. His eyelids, heavy as millstones, managed to lift a thin slit.

His vision swam, everything blurred and wavering. The stench of blood and powerful herbs, mixed with the sour tang of sweat, flooded his senses.

A round face, smudged with blood and sweat, leaned in close, blocking out the darkness of the ceiling beams above. It was Zhou Xiaoxiao. The usual mischievous grin was gone; his brows were knotted in a deathly frown, his gaze heavy and anxious—an intensity Lin Mo had never seen before, with a hint of… suspicion? One hand gripped Lin Mo’s jaw, the other held a rough earthenware bowl, its rim stained with dark brown dregs, pouring the last of the scalding medicine into his mouth.

“Brother Mo, swallow it! Swallow it, I said!” Zhou Xiaoxiao’s voice was hoarse, laced with a ruthless force that brooked no refusal, as though he were suppressing his own fear.

The burning medicine, mingled with blood, slid down his throat, spasming his windpipe with searing pain. Yet that slender thread of warmth was indeed pushing back the deadly cold in his limbs and bones. He swallowed instinctively, each gulp tugging at the heavy “stone” that still thudded painfully in his chest.

When the medicine was finished, Zhou Xiaoxiao released him, and Lin Mo’s head lolled helplessly to one side, landing hard on the sour-smelling straw mat. He gasped for breath, each inhale scraping painfully through his battered chest, like an old, broken bellows. His vision cleared enough to make out other menial servants huddled in distant corners of the communal room, staring at him in terror as though they’d seen a corpse crawl out of its grave. Steward Wang stood pale-faced at the door, eyes darting; his lips trembled as if to bark an order, but at last nothing came out.

Zhou Xiaoxiao straightened, tossing the empty bowl aside with a sharp clatter. He didn’t spare a glance for the steward or the other servants, his gaze fixed intently on Lin Mo, cold and sharp as a knife, as if trying to see what lay hidden within. His right hand curled slightly, knuckles bruised and purplish, as if frostbitten by extreme cold.

“Steward Wang,” Zhou Xiaoxiao’s voice was low, yet carried an oppressive weight, utterly different from his usual oily tone. “He’s not dead yet, but he’s not far off. So what do you say—toss him out to the wild beasts behind the mountain now, spare us the bad luck, or do we ‘wait a few more days’?” He emphasized “wait a few more days,” his eyes cold enough to chill the blood.

Steward Wang flinched beneath that gaze, his fat face twisting into a smile uglier than weeping. “N-no, Xiaoxiao, what are you saying? We’re all sect members here, how could we just throw him out? Let him… let him rest! Heal! Yes, heal! I’ll send more medicine later!” He babbled as he backed away, leaving the other servants to exchange fearful glances, none daring approach.

Zhou Xiaoxiao watched the steward’s retreating figure, his lips twisting into a fleeting, icy smirk. He turned back, his knife-edged scrutiny settling once more on Lin Mo. Without a word, he drew a small paper packet from his robes, opening it to reveal dark red hemostatic vine powder. With rough hands, he tore away the blood- and sweat-soaked rags from Lin Mo’s back, revealing a wound split open to the bone.

“Bear with it, Brother Mo!” Zhou Xiaoxiao barked, grabbing a handful of powder and pressing it mercilessly onto the raw flesh!

“Ugh—ah!” Lin Mo’s body arched violently, a guttural scream ripping from his throat—harsher than the last time in the shed behind the mountain! The powder, mixing with blood and lymph, burned like fire in his wound. The agony and the medicine’s violent force overwhelmed his remaining consciousness, plunging him into blackness once more.

But this time, the darkness was no longer cold and silent.

Within his mind, twisted images churned like torn banners in a storm, flashing in chaotic fragments through his sea of consciousness!

He saw a battlefield beyond description! Colossal figures battled amidst the obscuring sweep of star rivers—immortal light and demonic flame tangled, chains of law snapping with every clash! Stars shattered like fragile glass beads, exploding into fireworks of annihilation!

He saw a city, towering into the clouds, radiating ancient majesty. Upon its gate’s plaque gleamed three golden characters that made his very soul tremble—Lingxiao Hall.

He saw a blurred figure, exuding an aura of cold that was both familiar and terrifying, clad in battered armor stained with dark golden blood, standing atop a boundless mountain of corpses and sea of blood, all built from the bodies of slain immortals. Broken divine weapons lay beneath his feet; above, the sky itself was cracking. In his hand was a broken, black scripture—neither gold nor jade—seething with the same murderous energy as the “stone” in Lin Mo’s chest. The figure threw back his head, as if unleashing a silent roar at the shattered heavens—filled with defiance, rage, and a sorrow that pierced the ages.

He saw countless twisted runes, burning with myriad immortal flames, pouring from that ruined scripture, weaving, colliding, annihilating—power born of the very rules of the Dao! The source of this power seemed to be… the Void Heaven Scripture.

He saw a dreadful sword light, spanning the star river, carrying a cold will of judgment, cleaving down upon the mountaintop figure like heavenly punishment. The figure neither dodged nor fled, but pressed the broken scripture fiercely to his brow!

Boom—!

The final image was of the scripture shattering, stars extinguished, and the blurred figure disintegrating inch by inch under the sword light, turning to ash. An agony and coldness from the depths of the soul—ten thousand times worse than the mountain-guarding array—seized Lin Mo’s consciousness!

“No—!”

A scream, inhuman in its desperation, tore from Lin Mo’s throat! His body convulsed, wrenching his back wound so that fresh blood and medicine sprayed everywhere, but he was oblivious.

His eyes were wide open, shot through with a web of blood, pupils dilated in terror and confusion. Cold sweat poured from his thin body, veins bulging on his forehead like writhing worms.

"Lin Mo!" Zhou Xiaoxiao’s voice cracked like thunder beside his ear, strong hands pinning his shoulders to the mat.

Lin Mo’s unfocused gaze struggled to coalesce, and he saw Zhou Xiaoxiao’s face, inches away, heavy with suspicion and gravity.

“Bad dream?” Zhou Xiaoxiao’s voice was taut, his grip ironclad.

A nightmare?

Lin Mo gulped for air, his chest heaving, each breath grinding with pain and suffocation. The wound on his back burned with real, searing pain. Those visions—the vast battlefield among the stars, the mountain of corpses, the shattered scripture, the sword light that cut down himself (or was it that other self)—were vivid yet indistinct. The icy despair, the boundless rage, the agony of utter annihilation—all felt so real his soul trembled.

Was it not a dream? Or something else? Lin Mo did not know. Only a name was burned into his heart:

Void Heaven… Immortal Lord…

That name, like a red-hot brand, seared itself into his very being.

He jerked his head down, looking at his hands. Covered in blood and grime, rough, cracked with chilblains and calluses—these were hands that had hauled night soil, chopped firewood, nearly been lashed to death by an inner disciple. How could they belong to the figure who stood atop a mountain of corpses, wielding a murderous scripture, and dared to roar at the heavens?

Absurd! Utter, unbelievable absurdity!

Yet the cold, heavy “stone” in his chest thudded slowly and inexorably, mocking his denial without a sound. The pulse of its weight was identical to the aura that emanated from the broken scripture in those memories.

“I…” Lin Mo tried to speak, but his throat was so dry that only a hoarse rasp came out. He looked into Zhou Xiaoxiao’s piercing eyes—a storm of fear and desperate need to confide nearly tore him apart.

Zhou Xiaoxiao stared back, sharp as a hawk, searching Lin Mo’s every expression for an answer. His strong hand tightened on Lin Mo’s shoulder, his voice low and grave: “What did you see?”

Lin Mo’s lips trembled violently, those wild, apocalyptic visions swirling in his mind. What had he seen? A cataclysmic war? The fall of an existence called the Void Heaven Immortal Lord? The shattering of the Void Heaven Scripture?

How could he explain? Who would believe him? This Zhou Xiaoxiao—slippery at times, fierce at others, with secrets lurking in his eyes? Or the Aoki Sect cultivators who saw him as no more than an ant?

As his thoughts boiled in turmoil, threatening to burst from his throat—

The battered wooden door of the common house was kicked open from outside!

Bang!

Splinters flew! Harsh daylight, mixed with the gloom of twilight, flooded in, illuminating the murky air and swirling dust. A young man in blue inner disciple robes blocked the doorway, backlit so his face was hidden, but his arrogant, tyrannical presence was unforgettable.

Zhao Qing!

He stood with arms crossed, chin lifted, gaze like a poisoned blade—dripping with contempt and a trace of cold calculation—as he stared at the bloodstained, dazed servant in the corner, freshly dragged back from death.

“Steward Wang! Get out here—now!” Zhao Qing’s voice was piercing, oozing with condescension. “The mountain-guarding array was disturbed just now, and the source is right near this filthy hovel! Search it! Inch by inch! I want to see what filthy thing dared to disturb the sect’s great array!”