The Whispering Grove hummed with a somber quiet, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves. Qian Jiuyou sat cross-legged on a moss-covered stone, his sanxian resting across his lap. Hua Qingyan knelt opposite him, her face a mask of weary concern as she watched him trace the dormant seed embedded in the instrument’s heart. “The ledger said it needs grief,” Jiuyou murmured, his voice a low rasp. “Tainted qi. It feeds on it.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, the damp air doing little to calm the turmoil within him. “My own blood, steeped in the memories of a discarded life, should suffice.” Qingyan’s head snapped up. “Your blood? Are you insane? You’re still recovering. Your spiritual essence is already depleted.” She reached for his arm, her touch firm. “Let me. My cultivation is robust. I can channel the energy needed.” He recoiled, pulling his arm away with a sharp jerk. “No.” His voice was flat, devoid of negotiation. “It needs *my* grief. *My* despair. Not yours. You haven’t known the chill of being left to rot in the snow, the bite of hunger so fierce it gnawed at your bones until you were naught but a hollow echo.” He clutched the three-string lute, his knuckles white. “Jiuyou, that’s not fair,” Qingyan said, her own voice tightening. “I offered help. Why do you always push away—” “Because I don’t need it!” he roared, his blind eyes flashing with a raw, primal fury that made her flinch. The air around them crackled, the green cane swaying subtly as if mirroring his outrage. “I never needed it! I survived without it! I will do this alone, as I have always done everything else!” He pulled a small, ornate dagger from his belt, its silver blade glinting faintly in the dappled sunlight. He pressed the tip to his left palm, a bead of crimson welling up. But before he could cut deeper, Qingyan moved with a predator’s swiftness. She lunged, pinning his wrist against the rough fiber of a towering stalk, the dagger clattering to the moss. Her body pressed against his, trapping him. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his face, the fierce tension in her stance. He struggled, but her grip was like iron. “Stop it!” she hissed, her eyes blazing with a mixture of exasperation and something deeper, something akin to hurt. “Stop pushing everyone away! You’re not alone anymore, you stubborn fool! This isn’t a weakness, it’s a strength! Let people help you, for once!” Her words, sharp and unexpected, pierced through his defenses more effectively than any blade. His struggles ceased. He could feel the tremor in her hands, the rapid pulse of her heart against his chest. Her gaze, direct and unwavering, held him captive, even through the veil of his blindness. A strange, unfamiliar sensation bloomed in his chest – a warmth that was not from anger, a vulnerability that was not from pain. He felt a profound weariness settle over him, a lifetime of isolation pressing down. But then, a flicker. A memory of icy winds, of small, helpless hands reaching out into the void, of a melody born of desperation. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, turning his head slightly. “Let me go,” he said, his voice softer, the fury having drained, replaced by a chilling resolve. “I will do it my way. But… thank you.” Qingyan hesitated, her grip slackening just enough for him to pull his hand free. She stepped back, her expression unreadable. Jiuyou retrieved his dagger, his gaze fixed on his palm. The tiny bead of blood was still there, vibrant against his skin. He held his hand over the soundbox of the three-string lute, the ancestral wood humming beneath his touch. With a precise, deliberate cut, he sliced a shallow line across his palm. A thin stream of blood, dark and rich, cascaded onto the instrument’s surface, pooling around the dormant seed. He began to play. A mournful, haunting melody, born not of practiced skill, but of raw, untamed emotion. Each note resonated with the echoes of his past: the mocking laughter of strangers, the biting cold of abandoned alleys, the gnawing emptiness of a world that had no place for a blind orphan. He poured every memory of suffering, every forgotten tear, every defiant spark of survival into the music. The blood on the snakeskin hide began to swirl, absorbing the sound, taking on a faint, ethereal glow. He played on, the melody building, weaving a pattern of bitterness and resilience. A small, porcelain cup, conjured from the depths of his spiritual power, appeared on the moss. With a final, resonant chord, the blood-infused energy coalesced, forming a shimmering, crimson liquid within the cup. The Spring-Bitterness Brew. Jiuyou picked up the cup, its warmth radiating through his palm. He lifted it to his lips, and drank. The liquid was bitter, metallic, yet held a strange, earthy sweetness. As the last drop vanished, the instrument vibrated violently, a deep, resonant thrumming that shook the very ground. A verdant light erupted from the instrument’s core, enveloping Jiuyou in its glow. The dormant seed, swollen with the cultivated anguish, pulsed with vibrant life. A slender shoot, no thicker than his thumb, burst forth from the wooden neck, spiraling upwards with astonishing speed. Its leaves unfurled, shimmering with an impossible, vibrant green, before blossoming into a radiant, miniature lotus flower. The World-Tree Lotus sapling. Its purity was staggering. The air crackled with an untainted essence, pushing back against the lingering corruption of the Nine Veins Continent. The surrounding canes, once sickly and tinged with a faint, metallic hue, instantly shed their blight, their leaves deepening to a healthy jade. Twisted vines straightened, blighted blossoms unfurled, their true colors restored. The canopy pulsed with a newly awakened vitality, a chorus of rejuvenated life rising around them. But this sudden burst of pure qi, this radiant beacon of untainted life, was too bright, too stark against the world’s pervasive corruption. A distant, guttural roar echoed through the sky, followed by the shriek of a thousand blades being drawn. The heavens above the Whispering Grove tore open, revealing not sunlight, but a churning vortex of blighted spiritual energy. From its maw, thousands of cultivators, their eyes bloodshot and feral, descended like a plague of locusts, their bodies vibrating with an insane, destructive hunger for the nascent purity of the World-Tree Lotus. Their swords, hungry for the source of their madness, pointed directly at Jiuyou.

Brewing the Spring-Sorrow Tea