Chapter 14 

The Third Master’s Healing of the Dark Veins

The Shuilan disciples lifted the boy gently, carrying him away under the watch of two elders. The crowd parted in silence, their faces pale.

Hu Ming’s condition was worsening. His breath came shallow, lips cracked and darkened. The black streaks on his chest pulsed faintly, each throb sending an uneasy ripple through the onlookers. The corruption seemed to breathe with him—slow, deliberate—like something alive and unwilling to let go.

Then, a calm voice rang out across the trial grounds:

“Bring him here.”

It was the Shuilan Third Master.

The elders gave a silent nod, and two disciples moved forward, motioning for the crowd to part. Their steps were steady but urgent as they brought Hu Ming to the judge’s platform, where the Third Master stood. Xuan Luo’s gaze never left the boy; he lowered himself to one knee the moment Hu Ming was set down, eyes narrowing as he studied the twisting black veins up close.

“This is spiritual corruption,” he said, his tone calm but weighted. His gaze rose to meet the two villagers who had carried the boy. “Tell me—what exactly happened to him? Did he attempt to use a spiritual talisman, or anything of the sort?”

The two men shook their heads quickly.

“No, Third Master,” Jin Bao answered. “He went to the forest as usual… but since the day of the trial, he never came back. He’s never been that late. We went to look for him and… we found him like this. So we brought him here.”

In the wavering glow of the trial ground’s lanterns, Xuan Luo gave a single nod before turning back to Hu Ming. As he readied himself, he became keenly aware of the ring of villagers crowding closer, their breaths sharp and uneven in the tense silence. The air grew thick, heavy with unease. With a subtle glance, he signaled his disciples, who moved promptly to urge the people to step back.

With the space cleared, he drew in a slow, measured breath, steadying himself as one hand pressed lightly against Hu Ming’s chest, just above the blackened veins, while the other hovered a few inches above, fingers poised with deliberate precision.

A flicker of turquoise light, laced with fine strands of silver, bloomed between his palms. The glow was steady, almost serene, yet carried a quiet weight. It sank into Hu Ming’s flesh, pushing gently—then firmly—against the corruption.

Lin Ye watched from the platform, heart hammering in an uneven rhythm. The crawling sensation from before had returned, coiling around his skin—stronger, closer.

The black streaks quivered. The veins of poison writhed as though alive, recoiling from the light before lashing back in defiance. Hu Ming’s body jerked; his spine arched, limbs shuddering in weak spasms. A muffled cry escaped his lips, thin and ragged.

Each heartbeat seemed to drain more from the Third Master. The pallor in his face deepened, a sheen of sweat beginning to trace his brow, yet his back remained straight, his hands unwavering. Lin Ye could not look away—there was no triumph in that figure, only a quiet, unshakable endurance, heavy as forged steel.

All around, villagers and disciples stood frozen in tense silence, their gazes locked on Hu Ming’s fragile, trembling form. The air was thick with unease, every breath held in anxious anticipation. Far off, deep within the shadowed forest, a heavy, oppressive presence stirred—an unseen weight pressing against the night.

Xuan Luo felt the darkness coil beneath his skin like a tightening grip, a cold pulse setting his heart racing despite his calm exterior. His jaw clenched subtly, fingers twitching as if resisting some unseen force clawing at his spirit. Nearby, Lin Ye’s chest tightened, breath shallow, as the same oppressive energy stirred within him—a fire crawling beneath his ribs, threatening to ignite.

The sensation echoed faintly in the minds of Lin Shen, Mu Fan, and several disciples, but none dared waver or break their focus. Their attention remained absolute, every ounce of strength and will poured into the fragile boy before them—fighting back the corruption slowly devouring his spirit.

The struggle in Xuan Luo’s hands grew.

The longer he worked, the more his fingers trembled. A thin red thread pulsed at the base of his throat—the cursed mark beneath his robes burning hotter with every breath. His vision blurred; one hand slipped to brace against the wooden floor.

Noticing the subtle falter, a disciple stepped forward instinctively, worry etched across his face.

“I’m fine,” Xuan Luo said firmly without looking up.

Lin Ye’s breath hitched as he watched the Third Master’s trembling fingers. A flicker of unease twisted in his chest—this was no simple healing. Lin Shen’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing with concern, while Mu Fan’s normally calm demeanor was shadowed by silent tension.

Xuan Luo didn’t stop. His brow creased with strain, but his hands remained steady. The light pulsed—once, then again—growing stronger each time.

Gradually, the black streaks receded, peeling back like ink drawn into parchment. The skin beneath was bruised, but the corruption’s pulse faded.

Hu Ming gasped weakly; his eyes fluttered open. Confused, dazed, and clearly in pain, he looked around at the sea of faces but spoke no words.

The villagers stayed silent. The disciples helped lift the boy, who groaned but did not resist.

Xuan Luo rose slowly, pale but composed. His disciples moved to steady him, but he waved them off. Letting the light fade from his palm, he addressed the two villagers:

“Take him home.”

To his disciples, he said:

“Stay with him. Use spiritual music to guide his spirit. Recovery will be slow, but it will lead him back.”

He studied Hu Ming one last time. “The taint lingers in the soul. Watch him closely. If anything worsens, tell me immediately.”

His breathing was tight, his restraint visible. Light still shimmered faintly around him, but the pain in his eyes was harder to hide.

“No one,” he said clearly, voice low but final, “enters the sacred wood.” His gaze swept over the crowd. “The boundary is unstable. Something deeper… is hiding within it.”

Turning to the elders, he added quietly:

“I’ll go—with a few of our disciples. No one else—especially villagers or those without cultivation—may follow. Not until we understand what corrupted the boy.”

With back straight and chin lifted, Xuan Luo stepped toward the Baizhu ancestral pavilion. His chest ached fiercely, the cursed mark clawing beneath his skin, but he showed none of it. He did not waver. He did not wince.

Nearby, Lin Ye, Mu Fan, and Lin Shen watched silently, their eyes following the Third Master’s steady pace. Lin Ye’s breath caught slightly—a swirl of admiration and unease tightening in his chest as he saw the quiet strength masking the pain beneath. Mu Fan’s calm gaze was laced with concern, while Lin Shen’s jaw clenched, tension flickering across his features.

Xuan Luo disappeared into the fog-cloaked path leading to the ancestral grounds, his robes trailing behind like drifting mist.

"Thanks for reading. Any repetition here is intentional, meant to mirror the crowd’s rising fear and the darkness closing in from all sides."