Chapter Six: Undercurrents

The cracked clay pot issued a dull, bubbling sound as the weak flames licked its base. Steam, carrying the distinctive, slightly pungent bitterness of Red Sun Herb, filled the cramped thatched hut, temporarily suppressing the usual mustiness and the metallic tang of blood.

Lin Mo held the coarse, chipped pottery bowl in his hands; its walls were scalding to the touch. Inside was the murky decoction of Red Sun Herb that Zhou Xiaoxiao had just poured, a deep brown liquid with a few overcooked leaves floating on its surface. The searing steam rose to his face, laden with the heavy scent of medicinal herbs, making his eyes sting.

He sipped carefully, feeling the blistering liquid slide down his parched and raw throat, burning as it went, then spreading a gentle warmth down his esophagus, striving to dispel the leaden cold that weighed upon his chest and belly. But the sensation was fleeting. The icy "stone" in his chest seemed to reject this foreign heat, sinking heavily and sending a stronger wave of stagnation that instantly crushed the feeble warmth, leaving only a deeper chill entrenched in his viscera.

He set the bowl down, a residue of warm dregs still clinging to the bottom. The wound on his back, eased slightly by the medicine and heat, throbbed less, but with every breath, the heavy pounding in his chest was brutally clear, carrying a primitive, unsettling force.

"Drink what you can; it's filling and keeps out the cold," Zhou Xiaoxiao said, taking a hefty swig himself. The heat made him grimace as he wiped his mouth with a rough hand. "You rest. I’ll finish checking what’s left in the herb garden before Old Skinner Wang finds fault." He stood, slapped the grass clippings off his pants, lifted the mat, and stepped outside.

The hut fell quiet, apart from the faint crackle of flames under the pot and the wind moaning through the treetops outside.

Lin Mo’s gaze drifted to the corner. There, a few root stems of Red Sun Herb—tossed aside by Zhou Xiaoxiao after boiling—still bore fresh soil, scattered haphazardly on the damp earth. Dark crimson rootlets, wilted leaves. The strange scene from last night—the peculiar sensation at his fingertips, the brief curling of the leaf’s edge—rose again, unbidden, in his mind.

Was it an illusion? A trick of shifting water? Or…

The cold stone in his chest thudded dully, the faint warmth within struggling at its core, each beat making his nerves ache and pulse. An uncontrollable impulse, mingled with fear of the soul-rending power from last night and a sickly curiosity, drove him.

He slowly raised his right hand, his gaze locked on the nearest segment of Red Sun root. It was no longer than his pinky, oozing pale sap from the cut.

Warmth… heat… come alive…

A hazy, half-formed thought—full of longing and probing—gathered in his chaotic mind. All his spirit, all his will, focused on this single point, as if a drowning man had seized his last straw!

The moment that thought reached its peak—

Buzz!

The cold stone in his chest shuddered violently! A surge, far clearer and more intense than the night before, exploded within him like a dam forced open, wild and unruly. A formless, weighty force—like a torrent breaching its banks—crushed his fragile mental barriers and, through some hidden channel in his body, raced down toward his right arm!

“Aaagh!” Lin Mo let out a muffled, agonized cry.

The power was cold, furious, brimming with primal destruction! It ignored his feeble intent, rampaging through his arm’s meridians like a wild beast. Agonizing pain ripped from his arm to his shoulder, his entire right arm feeling as if torn and split by invisible hands, veins bulging ominously beneath the skin in a bruised, unhealthy shade. His fingers spasmed open, trembling uncontrollably.

Out of control! Completely out of control!

That violent force thrashed about, seeking an outlet—its target, the scattered Red Sun roots on the ground!

—

Pop!

A faint sound, like a dry leaf crushed underfoot.

The root stems on the ground—without warning—burst apart, not shattered by external force, but as if detonated from within! Dark red fragments and viscous sap spattered out, speckling the mud and the hut’s walls with stains. Instantly, a pungent, bizarre scent—like fresh blood mixed with rotting vegetation—filled the air.

Lin Mo recoiled as if scalded by boiling oil. His right arm blazed with pain, black dots flickering before his eyes as it spasmed and convulsed, muscles hardening to iron. He gasped for breath, cold sweat soaking through his thin shirt, his back wound torn anew by the seizure, hot liquid seeping out. Yet he felt nothing of that pain—his entire being was consumed by the agony in his arm and the pounding of the icy stone in his chest.

He stared at the shapeless, dark red stains on the ground, a chill racing up his spine. This was no coaxed growth—this was destruction, the most primal, direct outpouring of that wild force!

The Void Heaven Scripture… What demonic thing was this?!

“Mo! Hey, ancestor, what did you do—what’s that smell?” The straw mat was flung aside as Zhou Xiaoxiao burst in, face twisted in disgust. His gaze swept over the fresh, foul-smelling stains on the floor, then to Lin Mo’s pale face, his arm still twitching, forehead slick with sweat. His eyes sharpened instantly.

Lin Mo gritted his teeth against the agony in his arm and the suffocating heaviness in his chest, managing a hoarse, broken reply: “It’s… nothing. I just… knocked over the roots…”

Zhou Xiaoxiao eyed the burst stains and Lin Mo’s arm, skepticism plain on his face. The spatter pattern was nothing like a simple spill. But he pressed no further, just scowled and muttered, “Damn it, this place is cursed. Even roots rot with a stench like that.” He kicked dirt over the stains, mixing them into the earth, then covered the spot with dry grass to hide it.

“Your color’s off,” Zhou Xiaoxiao said, fixing Lin Mo with a stare. “What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Cramp… just a cramp.” Lin Mo bit back the pain, clutching his spasming arm with his left hand until his knuckles turned white.

“Cramp?” Zhou Xiaoxiao clearly didn’t buy it, but he let it go, his gaze flicking between Lin Mo’s face and arm with an unreadable look. At last, he snatched up the nearly empty sachet of Black Jade Balm. “This stuff’s about gone. I’ll go see what I can scrounge from the storeroom. Stay put, and don’t ‘accidentally’ do anything again!”

With that, he hurried out, leaving Lin Mo alone once more.

The pain in his right arm came in waves, each spasm tugging at the cold stone in his chest, making its pounding heavier, more stifling. He slumped onto the straw pile, like a fish cast on shore, left with only harsh, labored breaths. The terror from that loss of control far outweighed the physical pain. That power—utterly unrestrained! Like a beast lurking within, it lashed out at the slightest provocation, turning on him in an instant.

He closed his eyes, trying to steady his ragged breathing and pounding heart. The cold throb in his chest persisted, the faint warmth within now dimmed, almost depleted by the outburst. Just then, from the corner of his eye, he spotted something at the hut’s threshold, where the earth met the doorframe.

There, a patch of soil had been missed by Zhou Xiaoxiao’s hasty cover-up. Amid the dark, wet earth, an almost invisible, peculiar green sprout was forcing its way through.

Lin Mo’s breath caught.

He struggled to turn, enduring the pain in his arm and back, and drew closer, eyes fixed on that speck of green.

—

It was… a Red Sun seedling?

No bigger than a fingernail, two tender, oval leaves of an unnaturally bright green had just pushed through the moist crust, trembling shyly. Its spot was exactly where one of the root stems had exploded!

Impossible. The Red Sun root had been shattered by that wild force—how could it sprout so quickly? And… that color—so vibrantly green it was almost eerie, nothing like the Red Sun seedlings, which should be dark red tinged with purple.

Could it be—

A wild, absurd idea seized him, making his heart pound. Could it be that, amid the destruction, a trace—however faint—of generative intent had, by some twist of fate, fallen on this patch of soil and given rise to this deformed sprout?

He reached out, trembling, to touch the fragile green.

Just as his fingertip was about to brush the tender leaf—

A chill, as sharp as an ice needle, pierced the hut's flimsy shelter without warning, stabbing into Lin Mo’s back! The sensation struck suddenly, imbued with a condescending, icy scrutiny! Every hair on his body stood on end—his heart clenched as if gripped by an invisible fist. He jerked his hand back, body frozen in terror, breath caught in his throat.

Stiffly, ever so slowly, he turned his head toward the hut’s only door, blocked by a tattered mat.

Beyond the gap, the gray-white mountain mist swirled in the dawn light.

Within the depths of the fog, for the briefest instant, a faint pink shadow seemed to flicker—a glimpse, gone in a heartbeat, so fleeting it might have been illusion.

But the icy scrutiny remained, like a maggot on the bone, etched deep into Lin Mo’s senses, carrying a penetrating force that left him chilled to the core.

Was it… her?

Lin Mo’s fingers still tingled with the touch of the frail seedling—cold, fragile. Yet under that vanished, icy gaze, his whole body had turned to stone. The cold stone in his chest thudded heavily, his arm still throbbed with pain, and his back wound, in the grip of terror, seemed to bleed anew. The hut was silent, save for his ragged, stifled breathing, and the eerie, trembling seedling on the earth—silent witness to all that had just transpired.