The midday sun, usually a comforting warmth, felt like a spotlight on Su Lien’s disgrace. He stood in the center of the Azure Veil Academy’s main training grounds, a lone, unmoving figure amidst a whirlwind of cultivated energy. Heirs and scions of the Five Great Clans whirled through intricate stances, their gathered qi rippling with nascent force. Su Lien, by contrast, merely existed, his hands clasped behind his back, gaze distant, as if the bustling arena were nothing more than a passing cloud. “Look at him,” a voice boomed, cutting through the rhythmic thuds of practice. Jiao Fei, a peacock in fine silk robes of the ascendant Jiao Clan, swaggered forward, his retinue of sycophants trailing like pilot fish. His movements were exaggerated, designed for an audience. “The ‘Great’ Su Lien, scion of the fallen Su Clan. Still standing around like a scarecrow, eh?” A ripple of snickers spread among the onlookers. Su Lien didn’t flinch. His eyes, though seemingly empty, held a glacial patience that few noticed, and fewer still understood. “No, no, Jiao Fei, you misunderstand,” a girl’s voice giggled. “He’s not a scarecrow. Scarecrows actually serve a purpose. They frighten birds. What does Su Lien do? He frightens away any hope for the Su Clan. A living, breathing monument to uselessness.” More laughter, sharper this time. Su Lien’s nominal cultivation base, shattered during a childhood accident, was common knowledge. He stood as an empty vessel where inner essence should circulate, barren by the standards of martial houses. Jiao Fei stopped before Su Lien, a smirk stretching his face. His exerted aura, though slight, proved enough to make unranked peers stagger. It washed over Su Lien like a gentle breeze. “Still silent, ‘Young Master’ Su? Not even a whimper? I heard your meridians are so brittle, a strong sneeze could shatter them further. Perhaps a light nudge is all it takes to turn you into dust.” Without warning, Jiao Fei extended a hand, its fingers stiff. Not a punch, not an open palm strike, but a precise, insulting shove to Su Lien’s chest. It was meant to knock him off balance, to send him sprawling in the dirt, a public spectacle of his helplessness. The world seemed to slow. Jiao Fei’s hand made contact. The moment it met cloth, Su Lien’s fingers shifted in an almost invisible twitch. His middle finger, beneath the loose sleeve of his simple tunic, brushed against a specific point on Jiao Fei’s forearm—the Xuanqi Acupoint. It was a pressure point known to very few, one that, when stimulated just so, could send a precise, agonizing current through the cultivator’s nervous system, bypassing their spiritual defenses entirely. Jiao Fei’s smirk vanished. His eyes, wide with sudden incomprehension, began to bulge. A gasp, ragged and strangled, tore from his throat. The oppressive aura he had pushed outward vanished in an instant. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground, thrashing like a fish out of water. “Aaaargh! What… what is this agony?!” Jiao Fei writhed, clutching his stomach, then his head, then his chest, as if the pain were migrating, finding every nerve ending and setting it aflame. His face turned a sickly shade of green, sweat beading on his forehead. The onlookers stared, their snickers replaced by stunned silence. They expected Su Lien to fall, not Jiao Fei to convulse. His retinue rushed to his side, bewildered. “Young Master Jiao, what’s wrong?!” Su Lien remained standing, perfectly still. He hadn’t even taken a step back. His expression was placid, almost bored. His gaze drifted from the writhing Jiao Fei to the clear, endless sky. *Amateur,* he mused inwardly. *One brush of an acupoint, and his internal meridian network collapses from within.* It was a technique from his past life, a forgotten trick of the Myriad Soul Celestial Sovereign, designed for subtle, untraceable disruption. It looked like a random seizure; no one would ever suspect. “He’s… he’s having some kind of fit!” one student exclaimed, backing away. Jiao Fei’s personal physician, a portly man named Elder Shen, rushed over, his brow furrowed with alarm. He quickly began to probe Jiao Fei’s meridians, his expression growing more perplexed with each passing second. “No meridian backlash… no external bruise… it makes no sense!” Su Lien watched the disorder for a breath, detached boredom dulling his stare. He had done his part. The rest was up to the mortals. Without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving behind the spectacle of Jiao Fei’s agonizing, mysterious collapse. *** The air in Su Lien’s room was thick with the scent of dust and neglect. Cobwebs clung to the rafters like forgotten dreams. His quarters, tucked away in the least desirable corner of the Su Clan compound, were a stark contrast to the opulence enjoyed by the other young masters. A narrow, rickety cot, a chipped desk, and a sputtering oil lamp furnished the quarters. He didn’t mind. Opulence was a cage. Simplicity was freedom. He sat at the desk, idly tracing patterns on its grimy surface. The humiliation earlier, if one could call it that, had left no discernible mark on him. It was a minor irritation, a necessary preamble to the grand design. He closed his eyes, the memory of his past self, Emperor Xun Yan, a distant echo in his soul. The plan was centuries in the making, intricate beyond mortal comprehension. He just had to follow the breadcrumbs. A pale shimmer disturbed the gloom. On the rough tabletop, where empty grain had sat a moment before, a polished jade slip rested, radiating faint light across an archaic glyph: 'Pill.' Su Lien’s eyes opened. A quiet half-smirk parted his lips. The first message. Precisely on schedule. *Of course,* he thought. *The path of concoctions. Clean, potent, and utterly beyond the crude divinations of the Celestial Court.* His old self was nothing if not thorough. He picked up the slip, feeling the cool, smooth stone against his palm. The 'Pill' character seemed to thrum with a silent promise of power. He placed the jade slip in a hidden compartment of his desk, the glow fading as it was concealed. His task, for now, was to wait. The next piece of the puzzle would arrive when it was meant to. He knew the pattern, the rhythm of his own meticulously crafted gambit. Just as he settled back, a commotion erupted outside his window. Footsteps, lighter and more measured than those of the common students, approached. A sharp, cool draft laden with crushed dried nightshade and boiled resin wafted across the sill. Only masters of the cauldron carried such bitter, refined essences upon their sleeves. “Hmph. What a wretched corner of the compound,” a cool, melodious voice drawled, laced with disdain. “One would think even a minor clan could afford to clean its gutters.” Su Lien recognized the voice. Bai Meilin. The enigmatic head alchemist of the rival Bai Clan, famed throughout Wu-ling City for her unparalleled skill and equally unparalleled arrogance. She frequently drifted past the lecture courts, pale silk flowing around silver hair, her barbs sharp enough to draw blood. He heard her pause directly outside his window. A soft, rustling sound, like silk brushing against stone. Then, a small thud struck the stone coping beneath the wooden shutter. “Such squandering of clan stipends, letting vermin foul the stones,” Bai Meilin continued, her tone dripping with theatrical disgust. “Perhaps the next strong gust of wind will sweep it all away.” Su Lien didn't move. He heard her footsteps resume, retreating as swiftly as they had arrived. He waited until the scent of her passage had entirely dissipated before rising. He pushed open the lattice, peering down. There, nestled among dust and dead weeds, lay a vibrant verdant sprig. Its leaves emitted a pale phosphorescence, releasing an earthen aroma that cut through the mold. It was a Moon-Vein Sprout, a rare spirit herb notoriously temperamental to harvest, prized for nourishing soul vitality. Su Lien’s gaze sharpened. *A Moon-Vein Sprout? Left in the weeds?* He looked up, scanning the empty corridor where Bai Meilin had just been. He replayed her words in his mind, the sneering contempt, the casual dismissal. Yet beneath the surface contempt of her cadence lay an underlying cadence he recognized: a quiet cadence of enduring allegiance from an epoch long past. He reached down, lifting the Moon-Vein Sprout from the soil. A pulse of raw essence vibrated against his calloused fingertips. This herb… he knew it. He knew it intimately. It was the first, most crucial component for the Ethereal Soul-Mending Elixir, an alchemical concoction he himself had designed eons ago, intended to repair soul damage that even celestials deemed irreversible. It was a formula that should have been lost to time, known only to himself, and perhaps, a select few of his most trusted inner circle. What did Bai Meilin truly know?

A Speck of Dust