The washhouse door shuddered open, not with a gentle creak, but a forceful splintering of old wood. Two sentries, clad in obsidian-plate armor, their faces like carved granite, filled the frame. Behind them, the courtyard buzzed with hushed whispers and darting glances, a clear indication that Elder Kuang Shi’s orders carried weight. Lu Qingshan merely grunted, not bothering to look up from the meticulously folded pile of spirit-silk robes he was smoothing. A stray thread had dared to fray, and his brow furrowed at this cosmic injustice. Ding Bo, however, flinched, nearly dropping the heavy basket of waterlogged uniforms he was carrying. His gaze flickered from the stern sentries to his master, who seemed utterly oblivious to the armed intrusion. “You are to come with us,” one sentry rumbled, his voice like grinding stone. “Elder Kuang Shi demands your presence.” He pointed a gauntleted finger at Lu Qingshan. Before the old cleaner could even acknowledge their existence, a shrill, imperious voice sliced through the air, echoing from just beyond the doorway. “Out of my way, you dullards! Do you not see I am unwell?” A figure of ethereal grace, scowling with raw fury, shoved past the men. It was Yao Qinglan, the sect’s most celebrated talent. Her jade-green silk tunic, normally flawless, shimmered with an unsettling, dark rot that seemed to warp the light around her. Her face, usually serene, was pale, etched with discomfort, and her brilliant azure eyes held a frantic edge. As she swept into the laundry shed, a faint, acrid scent, like burnt ozone and metallic decay, wafted from her. She bypassed the men, bypassed Ding Bo, and marched directly toward Lu Qingshan, her gaze fixed on the pristine workbench. “Old man! My garments, now! I require them cleansed immediately! This Qi Deviation… it clings to everything! I need a rush job, beyond urgent!” She extended a delicate hand, gesturing vaguely at the hem of her gown, which, to Lu Qingshan’s horror, bore a faint, spreading patch of dark discoloration where the corrupt Qi had begun to seep into the threads. Lu Qingshan’s eyes, which had disregarded armed men, snapped open wider than Ding Bo had ever seen. His gaze wasn’t on her distressed face, or the sentries, or even the looming threat of the Elder. It was fixed solely on the encroaching stain. “Qi Deviation?” he muttered, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Corrosive sludge? On *spirit-silk*?” His voice rose, laced with a fury that froze even the armored men. “You dare bring *that* into my clean shop? Do you have any idea how delicate the weave of a Verdant Serpent Weave is? This isn’t some common coarse linen!” He snatched a clean, folded linen cloth and carefully dabbed at the edge of the sludge-stained silk, his expression one of horrified concentration. “Master, she… she might be in pain,” Ding Bo ventured, recognizing the signs of Qi Deviation from the tales whispered among outer disciples. “Pain?” Lu Qingshan barked, whirling to face Ding Bo, the towel still clutched in his hand. “The pain of a ruined garment is far greater! This acid will eat through the fibres if not neutralized at once! Boy, bring me the extra-strength lye soap! The one for blood-curses and deep-set arcane grime!” Yao Qinglan, still reeling from the elder cleaner's unexpected outburst, watched in disbelief as Ding Bo, ever obedient, retrieved a rough-hewn block of yellowish soap from a bucket. “What are you doing?” she demanded, a hint of her usual haughtiness returning despite her discomfort. “Are you mad? This is *my* battle tunic, and I am the Bastion’s top talent! You will treat me with respect!” Lu Qingshan did not glance up. He grabbed Ding Bo’s hand, positioning it carefully. “The Deep-Penetration Stain-Removal Palm,” he intoned with gravitas, his voice serious as if imparting a secret cultivation art. “You must apply it with vigor. Focus on the afflicted area. Scrub deeply, until the very essence of the impurity is expunged. Don’t be shy, boy! The silk can take it, but the stain cannot!” He then pushed Ding Bo towards Yao Qinglan. “Her back,” he commanded, pointing to a swirling patch of dark energy beneath her shoulder blade that was visibly discoloring the jade-green textile. “That’s where the filth is most concentrated. Go!” Ding Bo, bewildered but trusting, took the lye soap and, with a fearful glance at Yao Qinglan’s indignant face, began to scrub the upper back of her tunic. His movements were clumsy at first, but under Lu Qingshan’s stern, shouted guidance— “Deeper! More pressure! Get into the weave! You’ll never get that out with a gentle touch!” —he put his full, if unrefined, strength into it. The coarse lye soap, combined with Ding Bo’s burgeoning strength, was brutally abrasive. Yao Qinglan gasped, a sharp cry escaping her lips as the scrubbing sensation turned into a searing agony. It felt as if her very skin was being flayed, raw and burning, right along her spine. “You oaf! Stop! You’re tearing my robes!” she shrieked, struggling. But Lu Qingshan held her firmly by the shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong. “Hold still, girl! It’s for the good of the textile!” he barked, as if she were a particularly stubborn piece of wash. Ding Bo, sweating profusely, continued to scrub, his arm a blur. The dark stain on the material began to fade, but more importantly, Yao Qinglan’s gasps turned into ragged breaths, then a shuddering sigh. A strange warmth spread through her, replacing the burning. The oppressive, corrosive Qi that had been churning in her meridians for days, threatening to shatter her cultivation base, began to dissipate. The harsh lye, forcing its way through the weave and against her skin, had somehow, miraculously, acted as a spiritual abrasive, clearing the blockages in her meridian channels with brutal efficiency. As Ding Bo gave one final, powerful scrub, profound relief swept Yao Qinglan from head to toe. Her muscles relaxed, the tension in her chest eased, and the sickly pallor left her face, replaced by a flush of vibrant health. The dark taint vanished, both from her robes and her aura, leaving behind a faint, clean scent of lye. She stood, breathing deeply, her mind clearer than it had been in weeks. Ding Bo, completely oblivious, stepped back, panting, looking expectantly at Lu Qingshan. “Is it clean, Master?” he asked, a smudge of lye on his cheek. Lu Qingshan peered at the cloth. “A passable job, for a novice,” he conceded, a rare hint of approval in his voice. He patted Ding Bo’s head dismissively. “Now, back to the soiled inner tunics. They won’t wash themselves.” Yao Qinglan, however, was no longer looking at her perfectly cleansed robes. She stared at Ding Bo, her azure pupils dilated. The agony had been immense, but the clarity, the sudden surge of unblocked Qi through her system, was exhilarating. And he had done it. This clumsy, lye-stained boy had, with his rough hands, purged the deepest affliction from her body. A blush crept up her neck, hot and undeniable. He was… so focused. So powerful. So utterly unaware of her. Just then, a chill wind seemed to sweep through the shed. Elder Kuang Shi entered, his silver beard bristling, his hawk-like eyes sweeping over the scene. His gaze lingered on the two sentries, who stood awkwardly, left aside. Then it fell upon Yao Qinglan, who, despite her perfect health, still had a faint, dreamy blush on her cheeks as she watched Ding Bo stumble towards a pile of dirty linens. Kuang Shi’s expression darkened. He had heard the screams, then the silence, and now saw the sect’s most prized jewel looking… *fondly* at a mere scullery boy. The casual dismissal of his men, the blatant disrespect for his authority, and now this inexplicable ‘healing’ by the crippled disciple who had somehow snapped Jian Li’s arm. “Launderer,” Kuang Shi’s voice was like ice. “The Bastion has a new policy. Given the… *unique* talents displayed by your apprentice, Ding Bo will be entered into the Inner Court Selection Tournament.” Ding Bo froze, his face paling. The Tournament. A brutal series of death-matches for entry into the Inner Court, where casualties were common and mercy was rare. Lu Qingshan merely sighed, running a hand over a pristine white tunic. “More bloodstains, I suppose. Just make sure he doesn’t bleed on the good uniforms.” Kuang Shi’s eyes narrowed. “The tournament begins in three days. Prepare your disciple. Or rather, prepare to mourn him.” A thin, cruel smile touched his lips. This was a convenient, legal way to dispose of a troublesome, unpredictable variable. And to teach the insolent washerman a lesson. Yao Qinglan, startled out of her reverie, finally understood the implication. She started to protest, but Kuang Shi merely held up a hand, his gaze still fixed on Ding Bo, who looked utterly terrified. The laundry shed, usually a place of mundane, peaceful toil, had just been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the deadly politics of the Vermilion-Eaves Bastion. Ding Bo, still clutching a grimy rag, could only stare blankly at the Elder, his heart sinking with the terrible realization that his accidental 'victories' had just sealed his doom.

Cleansing the Top Genius