The figure reached up and pulled back the heavy wool hood.

  Lin Qingyu stood before him. Her face was pale, framed by stray locks of hair that had escaped her ceremonial headpiece. She looked at him with an expression that tried for aristocratic disdain but landed somewhere closer to brittle exhaustion.

  Mingzhi didn't bow immediately. Instead, his eyes darted to the three gaping holes in the thatch above her head, letting in shafts of cold moonlight. He looked down at the jar of grey clay on the floor, then back to her.

  "Young Sect Master," Mingzhi said, his tone apologetic but practical. "I know I should kowtow, but if it starts raining in the next five minutes, we're both going to be soaked. Do you mind if I seal this first?"

  Qingyu blinked, clearly taken aback. She was the acting ruler of the mountain, and he was worried about a draft.

  "I... suppose," she murmured, stepping aside. "Go ahead."

  Mingzhi didn't waste a second. He took the jar up and dragged the scavenged ironwood crate to the center of the room. He hopped onto it with practiced ease, scooped a handful of the sticky grey clay, and slapped it over the first hole.

  He worked with the efficiency of a master craftsman. Slap. Spread. Seal.

  Qingyu watched him in silence. She watched his hands—calloused, stained with mud, moving with a rhythm that was completely foreign to the delicate art of cultivation. He wasn't using Qi; he was using leverage and friction.

  In less than a minute, the moonlight was blocked out. The hut plunged into shadow, sealed tight against the wind.

  Mingzhi hopped down, wiping the excess clay onto a rag from his sash. He kicked the crate back to the wall and turned to face her, finally giving her his full attention.

  "Much better," he said, dusting off his hands.

  She glanced at the rotting floorboards, then up at the fresh clay patch Mingzhi had just applied to the ceiling.

  "Is this really where the genius who solved the Layering Theory lives?" she asked dryly. "The Waste Sector suits you, Xie Mingzhi. It’s full of... hidden things."

  Mingzhi let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He sensed no Qi flaring, no killing intent. Just a girl standing in a ruined shack, wearing robes worth more than his entire life.

  "Young Sect Master," Mingzhi bowed slightly, a wry smile touching his lips. "To what do I owe the honor? Did you come to fix my roof?"

  Qingyu didn't smile back. She crossed her arms, holding herself tightly as if the damp air of the ravine was cutting through her cultivation.

  "You took a risk today," she said, her voice tight. "Humiliating Elder Zhang. Hiding a Perfect Seed right under his nose. If I hadn't stepped in..."

  "You did step in," Mingzhi countered gently. He stepped closer, abandoning the formal distance. "You sat on that throne and saved me. Just like I knew you would."

  He watched her carefully. On the balcony, she had looked like a goddess of ice. But here, in the dim moonlight, the cracks were visible. Her eyes were rimmed with red, expertly hidden by makeup. Her hands, tucked into her sleeves, were trembling slightly.

  "You played the part well," Mingzhi said softly. "The crowd was terrified of you."

  "They should be," Qingyu snapped, lifting her chin. "I am the authority here. I have to be strong. The Wang family is watching every move, waiting for a sign of weakness."

  "You are strong," Mingzhi agreed. "But..."

  He paused. He looked at the red robes—the robes of the Sect Master. Not the Young Sect Master. The full regalia.

  "Qingyu," Mingzhi asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why were you sitting in the center seat? Where is Uncle Lin?"

  Qingyu froze. The mask of the imperious leader flickered.

  "He... he is in seclusion," she recited, the words sounding rehearsed and hollow. "He is breaking through to the next realm. He entrusted the selection to me."

  "Don't lie to me," Mingzhi said. He didn't say it angrily. He said it with the warmth of the boy who used to catch spirit-crickets with her in the rice paddies. "We are in Hut 404. There are no spies here. No Elders. Just us."

  He took a step forward. "Where is he?"

  Qingyu’s lip trembled. She looked at Mingzhi—really looked at him—and the defiance drained out of her body like water from a broken jar.

  "My father..." she choked out.

  The sentence hung in the air, unfinished.

  She started sobbing, then the dam broke.

  She didn't look like a cultivator anymore. She looked like a fifteen-year-old girl who had lost her world.

  She took a stumbling step forward. Mingzhi opened his arms.

  She crashed into him. Her hands gripped his rough grey tunic, her face buried in his chest. She burst into tears—ugly, racking sobs that shook her small frame.

  "I'm all alone," she cried, her voice muffled against his shirt. "They're all wolves. I don't know what to do. I’m scared."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Mingzhi hugged her back. He held her tight, his hand resting on the back of her head, shielding her from the cold wind whistling through the walls.

  He felt her fear. He felt the immense weight pressing down on her shoulders.

  His eyes hardened. He looked over her trembling shoulder at the darkness outside the hut. The logic in his mind sharpened into a razor edge.

  Elder Zhang. The Wangs. They think she is prey.

  "You're not alone," Mingzhi whispered into her hair. "I'm here."

  He tightened his grip.

  "We're going to fix this, Qingyu. I promise."

  The silence in the hut stretched out, broken only by the whistling wind and Qingyu’s ragged breathing.

  After a long moment, she pulled back. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, her face flushing with a mix of shame and relief. The sobbing girl vanished, replaced by a young woman trying desperately to reassemble her armor.

  Mingzhi didn't rush her. He stepped back, giving her space, and leaned against the rough wooden wall.

  "Tell me everything," he said, his voice low and steady. "Facts only. No speculation."

  Qingyu took a shaky breath. She touched the red jade token hanging at her waist, hidden, then took it out.

  "He isn't confirmed dead," she whispered. "Three months ago, after you gave us those manuals... he had a breakthrough in understanding. He realized he could finally attempt to reach the Pearl Condensing Realm."

  "But the sect lacks stability for that, with the spies known within the Elders members." Mingzhi noted.

  "Exactly. He knew the rival sect nearby, the Blood Yin Sect, had spies in our sect, so he left. He went deep into the woods to find a natural leyline, but didn’t tell me exactly where. He left me this Token and said: 'I will return in two months. If I am not back in three, assume the breakthrough failed or the spies killed me.'"

  She looked up at Mingzhi, her eyes wide with fear. "It’s been three months and four days. He’s late. Elder Zhang knows he’s missing. He must have something to do with this. He’s spreading rumors that Father died after he went out. He wants to call a vote of 'No Confidence' to strip me of the regency."

  Mingzhi’s eyes narrowed. The gears in his mind spun, processing the variables.

  Status: Unknown.

  Enemy Knowledge: Suspicion, not confirmation.

  "This is good," Mingzhi stated.

  Qingyu blinked. "Good? He might be dead!"

  "But no one knows," Mingzhi said, stepping forward, his eyes intense. "As long as there is no body and no confirmation of his death, he is a ghost. And ghosts are terrifying."

  He grabbed a piece of charcoal from the cold fire pit and sketched a circle on the dirt floor.

  "Qingyu, listen to me. Elder Zhang is cautious. He won't strike unless he is 100% sure he can win. If he moves against you, and your father suddenly returns as a Pearl Condensing expert, Zhang and his entire bloodline would be wiped out. That fear is your shield."

  "So... what do I do?" she asked.

  “If I were in your place,” Mingzhi said quietly, “I would freeze the board.”

  "Tomorrow, you issue a Public Decree. You state officially: 'Sect Master Lin has entered Closed Death-Seclusion to break through to the next realm.'"

  Qingyu hesitated. "That’s... that’s a lie."

  "It’s a half-truth. It explains his absence without admitting he's missing. It removes the need for a funeral. And most importantly..." Mingzhi pointed to the circle. "You invoke the Acting Sect Master Rule."

  "The rule?"

  "State that by Ancestral Law, an Acting Sect Master cannot be replaced while the True Master is in Death Seclusion, as it would disturb the flow of destiny. This locks the Council. They can advise you, but they cannot vote you out until your father emerges."

  Qingyu stared at the diagram on the floor. The panic in her eyes began to recede, replaced by a glimmer of understanding.

  "It buys time," she whispered. "It forces the Neutral Elders to wait. They won't back Zhang if they think Father might return stronger than ever."

  "Exactly," Mingzhi said. "You don't need them to love you. You just need them to be afraid of betting on the wrong horse."

  He looked at her. He saw the tremble in her hands stop.

  "You have to be the ice again, Qingyu. You have to walk into that hall tomorrow and look Elder Zhang in the eye and dare him to question his Master's seclusion. We can strengthen your position as Sect Master too this way. The more they see you are a strong and worthy leader, the more they will believe in you. Acting as a true leader is crucial. Can you do these?"

  Qingyu took a deep breath. She smoothed her red robes. She lifted her chin.

  "I can," she said. Her voice was stronger now. "If I know you are behind me."

  "I am," Mingzhi promised. "But I can't be seen with you. I need to be invisible. I need to be the one who handles the dirt while you handle the throne."

  He paused, a calculating light entering his eyes.

  "To do that, I need resources. And I need privacy."

  "Name it," Qingyu said. "Treasury access? Spirit Stones?"

  "No. Too obvious. The Treasury is watched, you can only get me minimal resources, we will use that too," Mingzhi shook his head. "but I want garbage."

  "Garbage?"

  "Give me a Writ of Authority for the Waste Sector," Mingzhi said. "Assign me permanently to the Slag Pit. Give me the right to claim all 'disposed materials' without oversight. And... if you have any broken artifacts or failed pills from your father’s personal stash, send them to the trash pile."

  Qingyu looked confused, but she nodded. "That’s easy. Everyone hates the Slag Pit. If I assign you there, Zhang will think I'm punishing you to keep his suspicion low. He’ll think I abandoned you and won’t think you have use for the waste."

  "Perfect," Mingzhi smiled. It was a sharp, dangerous smile. "Let them think I'm rotting. While they watch the throne, I'll plan the weapon that kills them."

  Qingyu looked at him. For the first time all night, she smiled—a genuine, tired, but hopeful smile.

  "A Sect Master's strength," she murmured, echoing a lesson her father once tried to teach her, "isn't just Qi. It's deciding who waits, and who bleeds."

  "I will issue the decree tomorrow. Mingzhi... don't die down here."

  "I won't," Mingzhi said. "I'm just getting started."

  Mingzhi looked at the charcoal circle on the floor. The board was set. Now onto the next plan.

  "Now that the plan is set, we have the other thing to prepare..." Mingzhi lowered his gaze to the red jade token in her hand.

  "That Token," he asked sharply. "Has anyone seen you holding it? Does Elder Zhang know you have it?"

  Qingyu shook her head. "No. I’ve kept it hidden against my skin since I got it."

  "Good," Mingzhi nodded, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Then that token is no longer a thing you got before he left three months ago. It is evidence. Tomorrow, when you face the Council, you present it. You tell them your father placed it in your hand yesterday morning, right before he entered seclusion."

  Qingyu’s eyes widened as she grasped the implication. "Physical proof that he was here... and that he trusts me."

  "Exactly. But we need a trigger. Why the sudden seclusion?" Mingzhi paced a small circle. "We tell them he was attacked. Claim he encountered an ambush by the Blood Yin Sect while gathering resources outside. He isn't just breaking through; he is healing. That justifies the secrecy and a longer seclusion."

  A cold, calculating light sparked in Qingyu’s eyes, mirroring Mingzhi’s own. She was catching on.

  "If the Sect is under threat from the Blood Yin..." she murmured, her mind racing. "Then we must be vigilant. I can order increased patrols."

  "Precisely," Mingzhi grinned. "Use the 'threat' to clean the board. Send Elder Zhang's loudest supporters on long-range investigative missions to the border. Force them off the mountain to 'hunt the attackers.' If they refuse, they are cowards. If they go, they can't vote against you."

  "And the opportunists?" Qingyu asked. "The Elders who just want benefits?"

  "Feed them," Mingzhi said ruthlessly. "Assign them the safe, higher-profit internal missions. Let them manage the treasury or the pill distribution, but control them. Make them fat and happy. They won't risk overthrowing a generous Regent for an uncertain usurper."

  Qingyu took a deep breath, the trembling in her hands completely gone, her posture was straight as a spear.

  "Isolate the enemies. Bribe the neutrals. Lie to the world." She looked at him. "We are playing a dangerous game, Mingzhi."

  "We are playing to win." Mingzhi corrected. "And lastly…"