Jiho remained slumped against the cracked wall, dust still hanging in the air. His breath was shallow, the taste of blood lingering on his tongue. The warmth of the pill in his palm was fading—just like the presence of the girl who gave it to him.
From across the room, the merchant exhaled long and slow. He had stayed silent throughout the entire ordeal, watching from the corner like a shadow. He was not a cultivator, not someone who had any place in the ruthless world of jianghu. Intervening would've been suicide.
Still, now that the storm had passed, he approached with cautious steps.
He stopped a short distance from Jiho, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Young man," he said quietly. "I fear I'm just a weak man with no strength to speak of, so this may sound foolish coming from someone like me… but you should get up."
Jiho didn't move, though his eyes flicked up slightly.
The merchant gave a sad smile. "If you truly want to see that young lady again... you must become stronger. Strong enough to walk into the world she comes from without being broken by it."
He turned and called toward the hallway. A moment later, his servant appeared. Together, the two of them helped Jiho to his feet—carefully, gently. Jiho didn't resist.
They brought him back to the guest room he had been given before, laying him on the bed once more.
Before leaving, the merchant bowed respectfully.
"You saved my life before. No matter what happens, you have my gratitude. If there's anything you need, just call."
With that, the merchant and his servant quietly withdrew, leaving Jiho alone in the dim room.
Silence returned.
Jiho stared at his hand for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he opened his palm.
The pill Yerin had given him was still there—slightly crushed, a few cracks running through it. He had clenched it too tightly without realizing. A symbol of his turmoil. His shame. His helplessness.
Without a word, he brought the broken pieces to his lips and swallowed them all.
The healing elixir began to take effect almost immediately, warmth spreading through his core. Jiho sat cross-legged on the bed, forcing himself to breathe evenly.
His body ached. His chest was bruised. His pride was shattered.
But his will remained.
'She could've killed me,' Jiho thought. Bai Xueyan. That woman had unleashed a sliver of her true strength, and he'd been powerless to stop it. If she had truly wanted me dead…
And yet, she hadn't.
Instead, she left him with a challenge.
The world of jianghu was cruel and unforgiving. If he wanted to grasp anything—his dignity, his purpose, or even the chance to stand proud in front of Yerin again—then strength was the key.
There were no shortcuts.
He closed his eyes, his breathing steadying as he began to cultivate.
One day, he vowed, I will be strong enough to seize control of my own fate.
---
After everything—the desperate escape from the Tang Sect, the chaos that followed his encounter with Yerin—Shin Jiho finally had a moment to breathe.
In the modest abode of Mr. Wen, the merchant who had taken him in, Jiho found rare stillness. His wounds were slowly healing, and more importantly, he had time. Time to reflect, and time to grow. Mr. Wen, ever considerate despite his status as an outsider to the martial world, made sure Jiho lacked for nothing—providing him with warm meals and a quiet space to recover. Jiho spent most of his hours studying Tang secret manual he had hidden close to his body—the Wusheng Sutra of the Venom Path.
"Black Qi..." he murmured to himself, voice barely louder than the breeze.
The memory still haunted him—how he had once lost control, the venomous qi running wild through his meridians, nearly tearing him apart from the inside. A full qi deviation. The pain had been unbearable.
Now, his body had changed. Hardened. Adapted. He was no longer the frail subject of Tang Sect's cruel experiments. His Venom-Forged Body—the very result of their torture—was his greatest asset.
Outside his room, there was a small open courtyard, just enough space to train. Jiho stepped onto the wooden floor, inhaling deeply. Sitting cross-legged, he gathered his inner energy, circulating it with careful precision.
Then, slowly, he raised his hand.
Dark mist gathered at the tip of his index finger, swirling into a concentrated wisp of black qi. It pulsed faintly, as if alive.
He rose to his feet and approached a wild plant growing at the corner of the courtyard. Without hesitation, he touched a single leaf.
The effect was immediate.
The entire plant withered, curling inward as if recoiling from death itself. Its green faded into sickly gray, then to lifeless black, like decay sped up a hundredfold.
Jiho swallowed hard.
So this... is the true nature of the Wusheng Sutra. Wusheng, meaning "silent"—perhaps that was the point all along. A death that comes muted, without sound, without warning. Not through open confrontation, but through poison that kills quietly, inevitably. A path of power that lurks beneath the surface, striking when it's too late to resist.
He stared at his fingertip, where traces of black qi still lingered. Just a touch, and life withered. This was not a path meant for the righteous… and yet, it was the only one open to him.
It wasn't just a dangerous technique—it was pure destruction. But only someone like him, with a body saturated in dormant poisons and years of painful conditioning, could wield it without falling apart.
For the first time, Jiho felt something unexpected.
Gratitude.
Grateful for the pain.
Grateful for the suffering that had forged his body into what it was now.
But still, no matter how distant the future, the Tang Sect would have to pay for what they did.
But still, no matter how distant the future, the Tang Sect would have to pay for what they did.
And so, Jiho dedicated himself to mastering what they had forced upon him.
He began to experiment with control—learning how to temper the volatile nature of Black Qi, no longer letting it erupt blindly from his body. Instead of simply corrupting whatever it touched, he tried to contain it, to weave it into form. His days passed in quiet repetition: breathe, focus, circulate. Again and again.
Time slipped by unnoticed. The quiet courtyard outside his room became both his sanctuary and his crucible.
Mr. Wen, ever the quiet host, ensured Jiho never lacked food or medicine. The merchant didn't ask questions. Perhaps he knew better than to pry into the affairs of someone who bore that kind of pain in his eyes. Or perhaps he had lived long enough to recognize the look of someone with unfinished business.
One afternoon, while Jiho was seated cross-legged in meditation beneath the swaying shade of a modest tree, his focus was broken.
Voices.
Raised. Urgent.
Then footsteps—scattered, uneven—rushing across the tiled floor of the house.
Jiho opened his eyes slowly.
From the corner of his vision, a figure approached in haste: a maid, one of Mr. Wen's servants, nearly stumbling in her run.
"Wait," Jiho said, voice calm but firm.
The girl flinched but stopped.
"What's going on?"
She hesitated, eyes darting nervously.
"Th-there are people at the front gate, Sir. They're demanding to see Master Wen. They say he owes them something... but they don't look like debt collectors…"
Her voice trembled. "They look like the dangerous kind..."