Mo Luan’s fury was a tightly coiled viper in her chest, its scales shimmering with violet malice. The entire arena buzzed with unsettled murmurs. Her focus stayed locked on the figure smoothing the dirt with a split-bamboo rake. The man was dressed in the faded, mud-stained tunic of a low-rank laborer, his face obscured by the wide brim of a straw hat. Yet, the way he moved, the almost dismissive grace with which he handled the common tool, resonated with a deep, unsettling familiarity. That was *his* move. The joint-lock, the exact dismantling of Haktu’s defenses. It was too precise, too unique. She had seen it used to break the will of a dozen warlords, to humble even the most arrogant of the Synod’s generals. Mo Luan leaned over the balcony, tracing the angle of his calloused fingers. The Blood-Bramble Sovereign, the most terrifying and capricious leader the Iron-Petal Synod had ever known, reduced to raking dirt in a petty righteous sect? It was either the most elaborate deception or the most profound humiliation. She would peel back every layer of this farce, even if it meant tearing the Azure-Terrace itself to shreds. *** Elder Teng Jian, however, had no such grand conspiracies on his mind. His fury was a more immediate, petty thing. He stormed through the labyrinthine aisles of the sect’s grand conservatory, each heavy bootfall threatening to splinter the delicate display cases. The air hung heavy with damp peat and the sticky musk of blooming Jademist Vines, but Teng Jian tasted only sour bile. His prized disciples, the scions of the Cloud-Cleaver Sword Lineage, had been systematically broken and dislocated by a *gardener’s maid*. The image of Jinxi’s bark-hardened hands twisting an opponent’s limb into a grotesque spiral replayed in his mind, each memory a fresh indignity. He found Kuang Zongyi near the back, humming a tuneless ditty as he meticulously dusted the waxy leaves of a rare, crimson-veined orchid with a badger-hair brush. A small, drawn blade of crackling cyan energy, the edge humming with focused Qi, rested against the groundskeeper’s throat. Teng Jian hadn't bothered to sheathe his Sword of Severed Clouds; its glowing blade pulsed with his ire, casting an ethereal light on Zongyi’s impassive face. “You!” Teng Jian snarled, his voice a low growl that caused a nearby cluster of Sky-Bloom Lilies to tremble. “What abomination have you unleashed upon my sect? That girl… that *brute*… she is uprooting the very foundations of the Ascendancy’s martial traditions! My disciples are in the infirmary, their bones realigned by healers, their Qi channels in disarray!” Zongyi didn’t flinch. He simply blew a minute speck of dust from a particularly stubborn leaf vein. “Abomination? Elder, please. This ‘abomination’ you speak of is merely a vigorous young shoot finally receiving proper structural support. Her root system was neglected for far too long. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this *Crimson Solstice* variety is prone to aphid infestation, and your heavy breathing is disturbing its delicate microclimate.” “Microclimate?!” Teng Jian’s voice rose, the cyan blade pressing a fraction of an inch closer, the hum intensifying. “I am speaking of honor! Of the dignity of the Azure-Terrace! That girl is a walking catastrophe, a wrecking ball in gardener’s robes! What arcane art have you taught her to turn a useless lump of rock into a weapon that shames true swordsmen?” Zongyi sighed, a long, put-upon sound. He slowly, deliberately, picked up a small, ornate watering can. “Arcane art? Elder, it’s just basic pruning. You snip the deadwood, you encourage lateral growth, and you ensure proper nutrient distribution. Nothing exotic. Though, speaking of distribution,” he paused, tilting his head slightly, his eyes not meeting Teng Jian’s, but rather fixed on the sword itself. “Your Sword of Severed Clouds, while admirably sharp, has a rather top-heavy stance. Much like an improperly weighted bonsai. All flourish, no foundational stability. One good gust, and it’ll topple right over.” Teng Jian bristled, his grip tightening on the hilt. “Are you mocking me, you lowly weed-puller? My sword-art is the culmination of generations of elemental mastery!” “Mastery is one thing, Elder, but balance is another,” Zongyi murmured, completely ignoring the implied threat. He began to water the orchid, a thin, controlled stream hitting the soil with pinpoint accuracy. Just then, the iron-framed door of the conservatory burst open, sending a shower of condensation across the tiled floor. Luo Jinxi filled the doorway, her gardener’s tunic still smudged with arena grit, her pupils flared. She had followed Elder Teng Jian, sensing his hostility from afar, and had arrived just in time to see the shimmering blade at her master’s throat. Her mind, now operating on instincts honed by months of Zongyi’s 'gardening' commands, processed the scene with terrifying simplicity: a pest was threatening the primary cultivator. And pests, as her master had patiently explained, must be removed with extreme prejudice to ensure the health of the garden. With a guttural cry that was more growl than human speech, Jinxi launched herself forward. She didn’t draw a weapon, didn’t execute a martial art. Instead, her movements were a terrifying blur of raw, unrefined power. Her right hand, hard as compacted earth, slammed into the flat of Teng Jian’s sword arm, diverting the blade with contemptuous ease. Before Teng Jian could even register the shock, her left hand clamped onto his shoulder. A series of rapid, mechanical rotations, a brutal twist of his entire torso, and then, with a sharp crack that echoed off the damp bricks, Jinxi redirected the elder's momentum. Teng Jian, the proud Elder of the Cloud-Cleaver Sword Lineage, flew across the greenhouse, his shriek cut short as he smashed through the exterior panes with an explosion of crystalline shards and bent copper frames. He struck a bed of crushed Moonpetal Blooms outside, groaning, his silk robes shredded and his forehead bleeding. His Sword of Severed Clouds lay embedded in the soft earth beside him, its glow fading to a weak flicker. Jinxi stood breathing hard, knuckles dark with loam, planted directly between the wreckage and Zongyi. Zongyi, however, was not looking at the retreating Teng Jian, nor at his fiercely protective disciple. He stared at the jagged hole in the wall, where an intrusive gust was already disturbing his orchids. “Luo Jinxi,” he said, his voice a low, exasperated rumble. “Do you have any idea how much reinforced horticultural glass costs? That was imported, triple-layered, temperature-controlled, fungal-resistant, anti-Qi-fluctuation glass. You’ve let in a draft. Now the humidity is going to plummet. The *Crimson Solstice* will drop its buds in protest!” He turned to her, his gaze intense. “Right. New assignment. You have until tomorrow morning. Reach the Spirit-Vault stage. That should cover the property damage.”

Pests in the Garden