Chapter 13 

The Wounded One

The silence that followed his departure still lingered—heavy, unbroken.

Then—
“Help! He’s not waking up—please!”
The cry shattered the stillness like glass.

Two young villagers burst into the trial grounds, half-carrying, half-dragging a third between them. They bore no cultivator’s stance. Their breaths came in loud, uneven gasps, faces flushed with effort and panic. One wore a simple linen tunic, patched at the shoulder and frayed at the hem, his straw-woven belt barely holding a pouch at his side. The other’s sleeves were rolled hastily up his forearms, revealing sun-browned skin slick with sweat, and his trousers bore the reddish stains of clay dust from the mountain paths.

They strained under the unconscious boy’s weight, sandals slipping on the packed earth, stumbling with every step. Neither had the build or training to carry another man so far—their eyes darted among the crowd like deer surrounded by wolves.

The boy hung limp between them. His robes—thin gray wool—were torn at the sleeves and stained with mud and crushed leaves. His straw hat had fallen somewhere along the way, and a mess of dark, sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead in wild tufts. His simple cloth shoes, tied with twine, were scuffed and dirt-stained, the fabric fraying at the edges as if worn thin from weeks of forest trails.

Most disturbing of all were the black veins radiating from his chest—lines that looked scorched into the skin, trembling faintly with an eerie life of their own. They crept upward toward his neck and downward past his ribs, threading poison through his veins.

The two villagers hurried toward the Shuilan disciples near the pavilion, their steps uneven but urgent.
“Someone! Please—help him!” one of the villagers shouted, voice cracking with panic.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd, overlapping in confusion and fear. The villagers nearest the trial grounds stumbled back. Some covered their mouths. Others leaned in to see. Unease swept the gathering like fire across dry grass.

One of the elders—white-bearded and hunched in age—visibly paled, clutching his prayer beads. “What… what is this?”

“What happened to him?” someone shouted.

Though the villagers carrying him hadn’t yet reached the center, the onlookers could already make out the limp body and the dark streaks twisting through his robe.

A man near the front squinted, voice tight with disbelief. “I think… that’s Hu Ming!”
“Hu Ming—the woodcutter! Lives near the stream’s edge, doesn’t he?” someone else called out, brow furrowed in concern.
“Yes, I saw him the day of the forest challenge,” another added, face pale. “He looked fine! What happened to him?”
“Those two carrying him—aren’t they Jin Bao and Tang De? They sell pottery and clay dye?”
“Yes,” someone near the back confirmed, eyes fixed on the struggling pair.

Fear rippled across the villagers’ faces. Nervous glances passed between them as they tried to get a clearer view, instinctively drawn forward by dread.

Mu Fan leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Hu Ming… What’s wrong with him?” he whispered, more to himself than the others.
Lin Shen stood stone-still beside him, gaze locked on the black lines. His arms crossed slowly over his chest. “That’s not a fever or poison I’ve seen before…”
Beside them, Lin Ye pressed a hand lightly to his ribs. The sharp edge of his earlier pain had dulled, but he still felt the smolder beneath his skin. His fingers flexed at the sensation. He said nothing, his gaze fixed quietly on the boy.

The three exchanged glances, unspoken tension drawing their brows together.

The Shuilan disciples near the platform were already in motion—but not with panic. Accustomed to facing the unknown, they moved with calm precision. A few stepped forward instinctively, their robes whispering over the stones. Others shared subtle glances, every detail of the scene observed in silence. Concern showed only in the smallest shift of posture.

The villagers, untrained and unfamiliar, grasped only that something was terribly wrong. They had never seen such marks, nor felt such dread. Whatever had happened to Hu Ming—it wasn’t ordinary.

“Is he… dying?” 

The two villagers struggled to hold their unconscious friend upright, now nearly at the center of the trial grounds. One of them shouted through ragged breaths: “Please—we don’t know what happened! We found him like that in the forest!”

At their call, the Shuilan disciples shifted focus, their expressions tightening as they studied the boy.

The unconscious boy shuddered. His lips were tinged faintly blue. His arms spasmed briefly, then went limp again.
The veins beneath his skin glowed faintly now—pulsing stronger with each beat, as though something alive was digging deeper into his flesh.

A gust of wind blew through the trees. Cold. Leaves rustled softly, carrying an unsettling chill.

At the judge’s platform, Xuan Luo stood unmoving.
The turquoise folds of his robe swayed softly in the wind; his expression didn’t shift—not noticeably. His posture remained upright, composed.

He scanned the scene—the unconscious boy, the bruise-dark lines inching outward through his chest, deliberate and slow, as if drawn from within.

Something flickered behind his gaze. Fear? Recognition? Calculation?
Nothing showed on the surface.

Then, almost imperceptibly, his gloved hand lowered from behind his back. Just a fraction.
Because he had already sensed it—long before the cries for help ever reached the trial grounds.

Lin Ye felt it too.
The presence that had pressed against his ribs earlier, burning like smoke behind his heartbeat, was stirring again.
His breath caught. His fingers flexed faintly against his side.

It wasn’t coming from the boy…
But from something unseen.

“Can you please help him?!” one of the villagers cried again, voice cracking. “We brought him to you—because we don’t know anyone else who could.”

The air seemed to still once more, as if holding its breath.

Lin Ye’s hand slipped from his chest to rest loosely on his knee. He exhaled through his nose. “I’m worried. What if this is just the beginning?”

Mu Fan’s gaze stayed on the boy, but his voice trembled faintly.
“You were right, Ye… about the darkness.”
He swallowed hard, recalling Lin Ye’s quiet warning—It carries a darkness. Something’s coming… I can feel it.
He glanced at Lin Ye again, voice low.
“Do you think they can help him?”

Lin Ye didn’t answer. His eyes stayed locked on the trembling figure in the villagers’ arms, jaw set, breath quiet.

Lin Shen gave a single, silent shake of his head. Not denial. Not agreement.

No one in the crowd moved.
All eyes turned to the Shuilan Sect.
Waiting.