Chapter Eight: Departing Clouds and Buried Seeds

The words “Hehuan Sect leaves tomorrow,” spoken by Zhou Xiaoxiao, landed in Lin Mo’s already turbulent heart like a chunk of ice. They stirred only the faintest ripple before sinking swiftly into a deeper, colder numbness. Su Li… perhaps it was for the best that she was leaving. Those frigid eyes, that piercing, cloud-piercing gaze—all would dissipate with her departure. The invisible chill pressing on him seemed to loosen ever so slightly at this news.

He buried his face in the musty, sweat-stained straw, responding with a muffled grunt, his tone betraying nothing.

Zhou Xiaoxiao gnawed on a cold, hard cornbread, the crunch echoing in the gloom. Yet her gaze, rooted, fixed on the edge of the muddy ground beneath Lin Mo’s curled form, barely visible beneath straw and body. The dim light in the thatched hut came only from a crack at the door, stretching the shadows of the straw long and twisted. That unnaturally vivid green was hidden securely behind Lin Mo’s drawn-up legs, not a trace exposed.

“Tch, boring.” Seemingly unimpressed, Zhou Xiaoxiao stuffed the last of her cornbread in her mouth, brushed the crumbs from her hands, and stood. “The herbs in the medicine patch are all counted. I have to report to Old Skinner Wang. Stay here, save your energy, and don’t tear open your wounds again.” She lifted the straw mat at the door, looked back once at Lin Mo’s hunched silhouette and the shadowed ground, her eyes glinting in the gloom, but said nothing more before disappearing into the swirling mist outside.

As the footsteps faded, silence once again suffocated the hut.

Only then did Lin Mo’s taut body slowly relax, the wounds on his back and the agony in his right arm emerging as acutely as rocks revealed by the ebbing tide—each throb sharpening his suffering. The burning brought by the hemostatic vine powder mingled with the dull ache of torn flesh, every breath dragging at the heavy, pounding “stone” in his chest, a cold, muddy sluggishness clogging his throat.

With great effort, he slowly shifted his body aside, revealing the patch of earth beneath him.

The strange seedling was almost ghostly in the gloom, its green a glaring, unnatural flame. It had grown taller—nearly an inch! Two oval leaves, tender and glistening, had fully unfurled, their veins as clear as jade carvings. The lush, vibrant hue was unsettling, casting a shadow so dense it seemed to bleed into the dark earth. Along the leaf edges, he could see minute, dew-like droplets, an uncanny vitality at odds with the damp soil, pure yet eerie.

It grew too quickly—alarmingly so! This was no ordinary Scarlet Sun Grass. It was the offspring of last night’s out-of-control force—a blade suspended over his head!

Fear, mingled with a fierce urge to destroy it utterly, seized Lin Mo again. He stretched out his left hand, trembling, reaching for the uncanny green.

His fingers drew closer to the tender leaves, the fine hairs visible even in the dimness. He could even catch a faint, sweet yet chilly scent, unlike any ordinary herb.

But just as his fingertips were about to brush the cold leaf—

The “stone” in his chest gave a violent jolt!

A tremor, clearer and stronger than any before, exploded in him like a primordial beast roused from slumber, a brute warning erupting with force. A heavy, sluggish power surged instantly into his left arm! His veins felt flooded with icy lead, swollen and rigid—not painful, exactly, but bound with an undeniable grip, his hand frozen mid-reach!

His fingertips hovered less than half an inch above the leaf, blocked by an invisible, cold, and weighty barrier, separating him from that unnatural green.

Lin Mo’s pupils constricted. He stared at the leaf within arm’s reach, his arm trembling as he fought the unseen restraint, unable to advance a hair’s breadth. The “stone” in his chest thudded heavily, each pulse a hammer blow, radiating a savage, primal will—Do not touch!

This cursed thing… was stopping him?

A chill, tinged with absurdity, swept through him. This remnant that had fused into his body, bringing endless pain and loss of control, was now—protecting this equally sinister seedling?

Clenching his teeth, Lin Mo summoned every ounce of strength, trying to force his rigid left arm through the invisible restraint.

Buzz!

The “stone” in his chest quaked again! A heavier wave of sluggishness, like an icy tide, instantly drowned what little strength he had left! His left arm throbbed with pain, as though the bones would crack under the weight. Blackness swam before his eyes, and even the wound on his back spasmed with agony.

“Ugh…” Lin Mo let out a muffled groan, his arm dropping limply, thudding onto the cold, muddy ground. He panted, sweat soaking through his thin shirt in an instant. He had failed. In the face of that frozen will, his broken body and faint resolve were pitifully fragile.

He collapsed atop the straw like a fish with its bones removed, reduced to labored breaths and the heavy, cold beating in his chest. His gaze fixed on the sinister green seedling stretching silently in the gloom, brimming with unwillingness, terror, and a helplessness at being utterly controlled.

If he couldn’t destroy it… then he would bury it!

A thought flared in the darkness. Struggling, he used his still-movable left hand to claw at the earth beneath him. His fingertips were soon caked in cold, slick mud, his nails packed with rot. Each motion tore at the wound on his back, but he gritted his teeth and dug on, silent and mechanical.

He dug a shallow pit, just large enough for a fist.

With trembling care, he avoided the uncanny leaves and pinched the fragile, seemingly breakable stalk. It was cold to the touch, yet strangely resilient. Holding his breath, he used the last of his strength to gently transfer the strange seedling, soil and all, into the pit.

His fingers never touched the leaves. The “stone” in his chest gave only a faint throb—no fierce resistance.

Relieved, Lin Mo ignored the mud on his hands and hastily covered the unnatural green with soil, packing it down until no trace remained, only the damp, dark earth.

Exhausted, he collapsed on the straw, breathing heavily, feeling more spent than after wrestling with a stone-scaled salamander. His back burned, his right arm throbbed, and the heaviness in his chest remained. But looking at that patch of earth, now bare of any strange signs, the taut string in his heart loosened just a little.

At least… it was hidden, for now.

——

The next morning, the sky was still overcast, and the fog on the mountain thicker than usual, gray-white vapor pressing heavily between the trees, making it hard to see even a few steps ahead.

Lin Mo was half-carried, half-dragged out of the hut by Zhou Xiaoxiao. The wound on his back, suppressed by the harsh hemostatic vine powder, had barely formed a dark red scab, but each movement sent a jolt of pain through the deep muscle. The “stone” in his chest thumped even more distinctly than before, the heaviness making every breath a labor. The swelling in his right arm had eased slightly but remained weak and limp.

“Old Skinner Wang has been merciful—let you go back to the laborers’ dorm so you don’t die on the back mountain and make him find someone to haul your corpse.” Zhou Xiaoxiao supported his staggering steps along the slippery mountain path, chattering, “The fairies of Hehuan Sect left at dawn. Tch, what a sight at the mountain gate—flying ships like clouds…”

Lin Mo listened in silence, gaze lowered to the mossy, slick stone steps. Su Li was gone. That icy gaze had departed with her, and his nerves eased a little more.

As they neared the laborers’ quarters, an unusual commotion reached them. The normally lifeless entrance was crowded with people—mostly grimy outer disciples and laborers—craning their necks toward the main hall, faces alight with awe, curiosity, and barely contained excitement.

“Make way, make way! What are you all blocking here, hoping to see immortals?” Zhou Xiaoxiao shouted, elbowing them through the crowd.

Supported by Zhou Xiaoxiao, Lin Mo peered over the heads toward the front mountain of Qingmu Sect.

Above the thick, gray-white fog hovered three enormous flying ships.

No one knew of what material they were made, but their hulls shone with a warmth like polished jade. At the prow, intricate carvings of hehuan flowers and cloud motifs released a faint, dreamlike pink glow in the grim mist. On either side of each ship stood graceful figures in pale pink robes, their sleeves fluttering gently in the breeze like ethereal blooms in the clouds. Their faces were indistinct, but their otherworldly aura left the mortal disciples below breathless in awe.

At the very front of the leading ship stood a solitary figure.

Su Li.

Even from afar, through dense fog and distance, Lin Mo recognized her instantly. She did not project any deliberate presence, simply standing there, upright as a solitary lotus on a snowy peak. The swirling mist seemed unable to touch her, only accentuating her cold, transcendent grace. Her eyes, like frozen lakes, swept lightly over the ant-like crowd below. Wherever her gaze passed, the clamor fell away, leaving only reverent silence.

Lin Mo’s heart skipped a beat. Instinctively, he lowered his eyes, avoiding that gaze that seemed to pierce all things, though he knew she could never notice a battered laborer like him in such a crowd. The “stone” in his chest seemed to sense something, its pulse quickening, the heaviness deepening.

“Farewell, Niece Su Li!” boomed the Qingmu Sect leader, full of courtesy.

Su Li did not reply, only nodded slightly, her gesture elegant yet distant.

In the next moment, the three immense flying ships glided forward without a sound, their pink halos swirling faster, the vessels like giant petals vanishing swiftly into the dense fog. In the blink of an eye, only a few faint points of light remained, then even those disappeared into the sea of gray-white mist.

They had arrived suddenly and departed in silence.

For a moment, the crowd below stood in awe, then erupted with even greater excitement, full of yearning for the immortal world and dreams of the Hehuan Sect’s fairies.

“Tch, that’s the life of immortals…” Zhou Xiaoxiao sighed, still supporting Lin Mo, yet her gaze did not follow the receding glow. Instead, it flickered over Lin Mo’s downcast face, a trace of probing curiosity in her eyes.

Lin Mo paid no attention to the noise around him, nor to Zhou Xiaoxiao’s musings. He simply lowered his head, staring at his mud-stained left hand. At his fingertips, he could almost still feel the cold, supple touch of that uncanny seedling’s stem.

They were gone.

The cloud that had brought ice-cold scrutiny had finally drifted away from this suffocating mountain gate.

Yet the “stone” in his chest pulsed on, heavy and cold, a seed buried inside, waiting who knew when to explode.

With Zhou Xiaoxiao’s support, he passed through the chattering crowd, heading toward the dark, foul-smelling corner of the laborers’ quarters. Lin Mo cast one last glance at the main hall shrouded in mist, the mountains behind looming like dormant beasts, guarding secrets buried at the edge of the abyss.

He withdrew his gaze, feeling the cold weight in his chest and the dull ache in his back, and step by step, entered once more into those familiar, suffocating shadows.