The coarse red silk of her wedding dress chafed against Qiao Rulan’s skin, a mockery of the lavish gowns her stepsister, Qiao Meiling, would have expected. Two burly Bai clan guards, their faces impassive as granite, shoved her forward, propelling her into the Crimson Bloom Hall. The heavy double doors slammed shut behind her with the iron thud of a portcullis.
The hall was draped in funereal black, not celebratory crimson. A single, flickering lamp cast long, dancing shadows that made the assembled Bai clan elders resemble predatory specters. The elders watched her with rigid, unblinking hostility. At the center of the morbid display, on a low, ornate bridal bed, lay Bai Zongyuan.
He was a ghost. His skin, a waxy white, was starkly contrasted by the intricate, black veins that snaked beneath the surface, crawling up his neck and disappearing into the depths of his dishevelled hair. A shallow, rattling breath escaped his lips, barely disturbing the stillness of the room. He had been comatose for months, his famed Heavenly Scholar Root supposedly shattered, his genius extinguished. He was a corpse waiting for the earth, and Rulan, a discarded illegitimate daughter, was his designated companion in the grave.
“Look at her,” sneered Elder Lian, her voice thin and sharp as a honed dagger. “The Qiao family’s last-ditch effort. A pawn for a dying pawn.”
Elder Jin, a man whose face was a roadmap of ancient grudges, spat. “She thinks her mere presence will reverse the Vermilion Emperor’s decree? That her ‘auspicious qi’ will resurrect a man already claimed by the Yellow Springs?”
“A sacrificial bride, nothing more,” added Elder Feng, his lips curled in a chilling smile. “She will be buried alive with him when his breath finally leaves. A fitting end for the Qiao family’s refuse.”
Rulan’s fingers curled into fists beneath the scratchy fabric of her dress. Their words were poison, but she would not let them see her flinch. She had endured far worse from her own family. Her gaze fixed on Zongyuan, devoid of pity, filled only with the cold calculation of a survivor. Her freedom, her very life, hinged on this man. She needed to observe. She needed to act.
She took a measured step toward the bed, her mind already cataloging the morbid symptoms. His aura was an unreadable tangle, his spiritual meridians a ruin. The scent of rotting ink and dried lotus leaf clung to his collar.
“Don’t touch him, girl!” Elder Jin barked, mistaking her intent. “You’ll hasten his end with your ill fortune!”
Ignoring the elder, Rulan reached for Zongyuan’s wrist, her fingers brushing the cold, clammy skin. Agony flared behind her ribs, not from the patient, but from within her own skull. A thousand phantom needles pierced her spine, ice-cold and unyielding.
[HESITATION DETECTED. HEALER MUST ACT. PUNISHMENT: SPINAL MERIDIAN BLOCKAGE, STAGE 1.]
She gasped, a barely suppressed sound. The Jade Cauldron System. It was always there, a demanding, emerald calligraphy in her mind, her secret curse and her only salvation. Rulan shoved the pain down, channeling her fury into focus. She clamped her fingers around Zongyuan’s wrist, pressing two digits against his faint pulse.
His pulse was thready, erratic, but it was there. More importantly, the black veins on his skin seemed to pulse with an unnatural rhythm, a slow, viscous throb that was separate from his dying heartbeat. This wasn't a shattered root; this was an infestation.
“It’s not broken,” Rulan stated, her voice cutting through the elders' murmurs. “His Heavenly Scholar Root is bound.”
The elders scoffed. “Bound? Nonsense! The Grandmaster himself, He Qiusheng, has diagnosed irreparable damage!” Elder Lian snapped, her eyes narrowing.
“Grandmaster He is a fool, or worse,” Rulan retorted, her voice low but unwavering. “A parasite, the Shadow Tendril Scourge, is leeching his aura, severing his connection to his root, making it appear shattered. It’s feeding on his vitality.”
[DIAGNOSIS ACCURATE. PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: STABILIZE HOST. REWARD: 100ML SPIRITUAL SPRING WATER.]
The emerald text seared across her vision. Spiritual spring water. A single drop could mend broken bones, dispel poisons. 100ml was a fortune. But stabilization… that was the gamble. She needed to act, and swiftly.
“What insolence!” Elder Feng roared, rising from his seat. “To question Grandmaster He’s judgment! You’ll condemn him with your quackery!”
“He’s already condemned if I do nothing!” Rulan shot back, her gaze burning with an intensity that silenced even the loudest elder. Her eyes scanned Zongyuan’s chest, searching for the densest nexus of black veins. She snatched a jade hairpin from her topknot, its tapered point ground sharp enough to pierce boiled leather.
A collective gasp rippled through the hall. “What are you doing?!” Elder Jin spluttered, horror twisting his features.
Rulan ignored him. She drove the hairpin straight into the center of Zongyuan’s sternum, piercing the nexus where the black veins knotted and pulsed. A fountain of viscous, tar-black blood erupted from the wound, staining the pristine white bridal sheets a grotesque crimson.
The elders recoiled, some choking back cries of outrage. Rulan watched, her face a mask of fierce concentration, as the dark ichor drained away, slowly, steadily. The phantom needles withdrew from her spine, leaving a crisp, bitter focus in her blood.
Just as the flow of black blood began to thin, a splintering crash echoed through the hall. The ornate courtyard window exploded inward, showering the room with shards of crystal. A figure, cloaked in midnight black, landed silently on the polished floor, a poisoned blade gleaming wickedly in his hand, aimed directly at Bai Zongyuan’s throat.