The hushed market bore little resemblance to its bustling daytime counterpart. Gone were the boisterous vendors hawking their wares; in their place stood cloaked figures, faces obscured by shadows and the brims of wide hats. An air of discretion permeated the dimly lit stalls, a stark contrast to the usual clamor. The clientele, a mix of the city's elite and those who preferred to remain unseen, mirrored the vendors in their desire for anonymity, their features veiled beneath hoods and scarves. Here, beneath the cloak of secrecy, transactions of a different nature took place. Whispered conversations replaced the usual barrage of sales pitches, as patrons sought out everything from finely crafted weapons and illicit substances to confidential information and the services of skilled assassins. This was a market for the discerning, a place where secrets were bought and sold, and where anonymity was the currency of choice.
Threading through the throng, the trio slipped into a concealed passage. Beyond lay a labyrinthine route, its twisting corridors finally yielding to an open space. A short distance further, a solitary residence loomed. "Abyss Manor," proclaimed the weathered placard above the entrance, its inscription radiating an unsettling aura, a chilling whisper of something long dead. The attendant, with a single, curt nod in their direction before he melted back into the shadows. The duo stepped across the threshold, their movements measured and wary, the silence of the manor amplifying the sense of foreboding.
The faint jingle of unseen bells, coupled with the mournful sigh of the wind, set nerves on edge. Despite the oppressive atmosphere clinging to Abyss Manor, its surroundings were impeccably maintained, a jarring juxtaposition.
"Welcome, wandering travelers," a voice called out, a saccharine veneer barely concealing the undercurrent of menace.
"What brings you to my lovely abode?" The dui turned sharply towards the source, finding themselves facing an elderly man. He appeared to be in his early sixties, his features unremarkable, yet unsettling. A slightly rugged appearance belied the darkness lurking beneath. His white hair flowed long and untamed, framing a face dominated by eyes – dark, deep, and utterly devoid of light. Approaching the old man, the lady's keen eyes swept over the scene, discerning the shadowy figures of guards lurking in the periphery. "Have a seat," the old man offered, gesturing towards a nearby seating arrangement. A servant materialized from the shadows, bearing a tray of refreshments. The lady poured a cup of tea for her maid, who accepted it and took a sip, a look of quiet appreciation spreading across her face.
"Were you not told never to accept things from strangers?" the old man remarked, a chilling smile playing on his lips.
"Isn't it customary to offer hospitality to strangers, Uncle Zhi Ruo?" the maid asked, a disarmingly innocent smile gracing her lips before she swiftly shed her disguise.
"Princess Guang!" Zhi Ruo exclaimed, his hands snapping together in a belated greeting, though his expression remained carefully neutral.
"What if I decided to kill you?" he countered, his voice smooth and confident, a thin smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"You wouldn't want to cross my Fourth Uncle, would you?" The mere mention of her Fourth Uncle sent a visible tremor through Zhi Ruo, his carefully constructed facade crumbling to reveal a mixture of fear and reverence.
Scowling, Zhi Ruo reluctantly produced a small jade bottle and handed it to Princess Guang. As she unstoppered it, the pungent aroma of medicinal herbs filled the air. Ninth Heavenly Pine Grass Leaf Pills.
These coveted pills were a complex concoction of rare and precious ingredients, chief among them the elusive Mongolian Pine Grass, a prized yet perilous commodity in the world of herbal medicine. Known primarily for its deadly toxicity, the pine grass, in meticulously measured doses, possessed potent medicinal properties.
The princess swallowed the pill. It dissolved instantly, releasing a surge of energy that coursed through her meridians, revitalizing her and neutralizing the poison she had ingested.
"To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Your Highness?" Zhi Ruo asked, his tone wary.
"Infiltrate the forest grounds before the imperial tournament and set traps," she commanded, her voice sharp and clear. "Deliver a map detailing the locations of those traps and any other potential hazards."
"Yes, Your Highness," Zhi Ruo acknowledged with a nod.
Ming Yuan sat stil in his inner chambers, immersed in his cultivation. A palpable, bone-chilling aura radiated from his very essence, each breath solidifying the air around him into crystalline ice. His spiritual energy surged and coalesced, a tempestuous force like the untamed rampage of an ancient ice dragon, weaving and dancing through the deepest winter night.
Having absorbed the energies and consolidated in his cultivation, the tumultuous arctic aura surrounding him gradually receded. The oppressive chill dissipated, and the frozen surfaces of the chamber began to thaw, returning to room temperature.
With a silent, fluid motion, Ming Yuan rose. The last lingering vestiges of frost vanished from him as he strode towards his study, ready to attend to the duties of his study.
The royal banquet and the grand forest hunting expedition loomed in just a few days. Ming Yuan knew he must conclude the bulk of his official duties to personally oversee the preparations, a significant task assigned to him by his father, the Emperor, as part of his training for the throne. His presence was crucial not only for supervision but also to ensure the stringent security measures were flawlessly executed, given the multitude of envoys and esteemed royals arriving from various provinces.
Just then, the doors to his study slid open. Hui Cufen, stepped in, clasping his hands in a respectful greeting before reporting,
"Your Highness," Hii Cufen began, his voice measured, "preparations for the royal events proceed without interference. However, our sources confirm Princess Guang's whereabouts within the imperial palace remain unknown."
"Any clues on the mole in our midst?" Ming Yuan interjected, his gaze sharp.
"The intelligence gathered is not yet sufficient," Hui Cufen replied, a brief pause indicating careful consideration. "However, it has been corroborated by the spy embedded with Prince Chen. It appears Prince Chen is actively maneuvering to eclipse your position and claim the succession."
"Yet, all his recent attempts have proven futile," Ming Yuan mused, his gaze distant for a moment before sharpening. "We must also be wary of the Empress."
Hui Cufen nodded in agreement. "Indeed, Your Highness. She does not appear to be acting alone. One wonders which princes she is conniving with." He paused, the gravity of the situation settling. "Should the royal events descend into disaster, or should any prominent guests suffer harm, it would spell utter doom for Great Wei."
Ming Yuan's jaw tightened. This internal conflict, simmering beneath the surface, now demanded swift and decisive resolution.
Ming Huan completed the final stroke, the delicate tip of his brush leaving a subtle flourish. He set it down s, then leaned closer, blowing a soft breath over the freshly applied ink to hasten its drying. Once satisfied, he handed the scroll to Dai Yu, who nodded silently and withdrew from the study.
A moment of profound stillness settled around Ming Huan. He reached for the painting, his fingers gently tracing the delicate edge of the paper. As his gaze fell upon the portrait, the usual stern lines of his countenance softened, melting into tenderness. It was his bunny. Her beautiful eyes, captured with such exquisite detail, seemed to gaze back at him with the same innocent wonder that always disarmed him. In his mind, he could almost hear the light, melodious echo of her laughter, a sound that always brought a warmth to his chest.
His gaze lingered, drawn inexorably to the painted curve of her lips. An unbidden impulse led his finger to lightly trace their delicate outline on the canvas. He imagined their softness, the gentle pressure, and then, a sudden warmth bloomed across his neck, creeping up to engulf his earlobes in a tell-tale flush. A cascade of fleeting, tantalizing images sparked in his mind – sensations, hushed whispers, and the exquisite, almost forbidden taste of those very lips. His breath hitched, and the bright pink on his skin deepened, betraying the "obscure thoughts" that had just momentarily stolen his composure.
A jolt, like an electric current, coursed through him, sending a flush of insistent heat spreading through his veins and pooling low in his body. Ming Huan's eyes snapped shut, his legs pressing together as if to physically quell the tumultuous stirrings within. He drew a sharp breath, attempting to forcefully dispel the unwelcome, inappropriate thoughts that had dared to intrude. He rose from his seat, his earlier composure now firmly reinstated. He strode swiftly towards his inner chambers, he settled himself into a cultivation stance.
As his breath deepened and his mind centered, a vibrant fire-hue began to coalesce behind him, blossoming from a faint glow into an intense aura. His spiritual essence surged, ascending rapidly through the cultivation realms: from primary, through intermediate, then advanced, finally reaching the pinnacle. A majestic fire phoenix, shimmering with raw power, coalesced from the fiery energy, coiling and surging freely and vigorously around him, its fiery plumes dancing with untamed life.
Suddenly, with a sharp, resonant thrum, the intricate patterns of a confinement spell flared into brilliant activation, shimmering around him.
Ming Huan exhaled slowly, accepting the snap of the activated confinement spell. He had initiated it himself, a necessary precaution. Sometimes, during the demanding process of cultivation, his spiritual totem—that fiery phoenix—would rage, becoming dangerously volatile due to over-exertion or unforeseen spiritual fluctuations. When it went 'mad,' it incinerated everything in its path. He held only a vague, unsettling memory of one such incident, a disquieting sense that he might have scorched something, or someone, though the details remained agonizingly elusive.
Now, as he pushed deeper, reinforcing his cultivation, an alarming sensation prickled through him. His essence, previously stable, began to flicker and churn, a terrifying premonition of instability. His pupils suddenly constricted, then rolled back into his head, leaving only ghastly, luminous white orbs. Simultaneously, a network of dark, serpentine veins rose to the surface of his skin, bulging ominously as the uncontrolled power surged within him.
The fiery red hue enveloping Ming Huan twisted, morphing into a ghastly, malicious green, casting an ominous pallor over his inner chambers. An oppressive, chilling air coiled around him, thick with foreboding, as a insidious whisper slithered into his subconscious mind.
"Ming Huan... Ming Huan..."
The voice, simultaneously loud and quiet, a pervasive echo within his very being, triggered a sudden, jarring flashback. Little Huan's eyes, wide and frantic, darted around a dimly perceived space, his youthful features paling in a mixture of shock and sheer fright. He spun, searching desperately for the source of the insidious sound, his small frame trembling. And in the present, Ming Huan, trapped in the throes of his collapsing cultivation, felt that same terror, that same desperate search, mirroring the raw, primal fear of his younger self.
"Ming Huan..." The insidious whisper intensified, and as if conjured by its malevolent will, massive, ominous chains materialized around him, gleaming with a wicked, malicious intent. They coiled and tightened, binding his limbs, his torso, his very essence. He struggled, a desperate, primal surge of power futilely battling the cold, unyielding iron, but the chains held firm, crushing.
"Join us... join us..." The whispers slithered deeper, a chilling invitation.
Just then, a faint, pure melody began to weave its way into the cacophony of his torment—the familiar, ethereal tune of Mei Dao Shu. It was a beacon of light against the encroaching darkness. Instantly, the malicious voices shrieked, a chorus of agony and fury, as the pure, less evil energy of the music clashed violently with the oppressive, evil essence attempting to consume him.
The struggle raged, a tempest within his spirit, and then, with a disorienting suddenness, a figure appeared before him. It was Ming Huan, undeniably, yet profoundly altered. This version was ghoulishly pale, his skin stretched taut and bloodless, and his eyes—instead of their usual deep, thoughtful amethyst—burned with a terrifying, malevolent crimson.
The internal battle raged within Ming Huan. He wrestled with the ghoulish, crimson-eyed apparition of himself, every fiber of his being fighting to reclaim dominion over his own spirit, his own flesh.
Outside, in the physical realm, Ming Huan's body twitched violently, convulsing in spasms that threatened to tear him from his cultivation stance. Yet, with an almost inhuman resolve, he clung to the pose.
Meanwhile, Dai Yu, his brow furrowed in concentration, continued to play the Mei Dao Shu, it was with desperate, unyielding force, each note a prayer and a shield. The melodic current that flowed from flute was potent, but it came at a steep cost; a searing pain began to build in his chest, radiating outwards, yet he pressed on, his resolve unwavering.
The Mei Dao Shu was more than just a collection of tunes; it was an ancient, cursed compendium, its melodies imbued with such immense power that they held the potential to devastate entire worlds. A double-edged sword, it wreaked havoc not only on those targeted by its notes but also exacted a punishing toll on the musician who dared to wield its formidable energies.