The iron spikes on the enforcer’s gauntlet hung three inches from Hou San’s trembling collarbone. Teng Kui did not summon qi. He did not let the shroud around his core thin by a hair’s breadth. Instead, he stepped forward on the balls of his feet, his fingers hooking around the enforcer's steel-plated wrist like iron clamps snapping shut on a dry twig. A dry crunch echoed against the stone walls. The guard’s mouth dropped open, but before his lungs could push out a scream, Teng Kui leveraged his shoulder, pivoting with mechanical precision. He hurled the two-hundred-pound warrior over the rusted parapet. The descent was quiet until the wet smack against the jagged slate three hundred feet below. "Merciful ancestors," Hou San squeaked. Then his beady eyes locked onto the enforcer's embroidered belt pouch snagged on an iron spar near the edge. He scurried over, his agile fingers stripping every coin, ring, and low-grade mineral chip before the dust even settled. "Seven jade crescents! And an iron-rank pass! Boss, you are a disaster wrapped in butcher's rags, but by the gods, your efficiency is magnificent." "Shut up and move," Teng Kui said flatly. "The corpse will rot cold within an hour. We have five quarters of an hour before the shift bells ring." High above the misty ravines, suspended within the palatial grandeur of the Inner Sanctum's Cloud-Piercing Spire, silk banners rustled in warm, perfumed air. Pure-grade essence braziers banished every trace of soot. Golden wine flowed into horn cups. Ming Xiya leaned against the carved sandalwood balustrade, resting a delicate, manicured hand upon the arm of Ye Cang. Ye Cang, eldest heir of the Cloud-Cleaving Hall and undisputed favorite for the Summit of Falling Scales, wore robes spun from cloud-serpent silk. His Heaven-Bound Bloodline pulsed with the quiet, golden authority of a rising sun. "A toast," Ye Cang murmured, turning his sharp gaze toward the gathering of sycophantic outer elders and high-born scions. "To the purifying of the Pavilion. The refuse has been thrown into the abyss. Now, only pure gold remains." Ming Xiya offered a radiant, rehearsed smile. "The Pavilion's honor was stained too long by those who relied on luck rather than divine inheritance. With the crucible cleansed, nothing stands in your way, Senior Ye." She took a sip of the nectar, savoring the absolute certainty of her elevation. She had personally thrown Teng Kui into the Sunken Crucible's molten maw. She had watched his flesh char. She had taken his mother's treasures and distributed his rank tokens to her cousins. Her position was unassailable. Then, inside the lacquered cedar box tucked against her chest, a muffled chime cracked the air. Ming Xiya froze. Within the box rested the fragments of Teng Kui’s life-token—a piece of Soul Jade she kept as a grotesque trophy, proof that her treacherous past had been turned to ash. Through the carved lattice lid, a putrid, pitch-black glow seeped out. The jagged shards inside were not quiet. They rattled against the polished cedar, stitching together with veins of curdled, abyssal crimson. Ye Cang raised an eyebrow, glancing at the box. "A trinket from home, Xiya?" Her throat seized. Color drained from her lips, leaving her skin like chalk beneath her rouge. Her smile remained pinned to her face through sheer terror. "A... a minor talisman charm, Senior Ye. An old family seal that needs recalibrating. Excuse me for one moment." She turned on her heel before he could answer, her silk train trailing across the marble. Once behind the heavy brocade curtain of her private dressing chamber, she tore the box open. The Soul Jade did not merely glow. It burned with a cold, hateful vibration, the dark crimson light pulsing like an irregular heartbeat. It was impossible. His core had been liquefied. She had seen the white-hot slag consume his bones. "No," she hissed through chattering teeth. "No, no, no. He is dead. The forge consumes everything." Her fingernails bit into her palms until droplets of blood stained her sleeves. If the elders discovered she had botched an execution—if they learned the demon who once ruled the outer ranks was somehow crawling beneath their boots—Ye Cang would discard her like a mongrel. She struck a copper chime hanging beside the partition. Three masked figures melted from the ceiling rafters, their silhouettes featureless in obsidian leather. "To the lower markets. The outer perimeter gates," she whispered, her voice sharp with manic venom. "Someone carries a corrupted aura. Comb every stall. Check every throat. If you see a crippled dog who walks like a ghost... flay him. Bring me his head, or I will feed you to the hounds." "By your will, Mistress," the shadows breathed, vanishing through the high window into the descending twilight. Down below, beneath the smog of coal-smoke and roasting beast meat, the Outer Market reeked of life, sweat, and vulgar trade. Discarded talismans and dull weapons lay heaped upon rough burlap blankets. Cultivators whose bloodlines were too thin for the Inner Sanctum haggled over every copper bit. Teng Kui pulled the borrowed straw conical hat lower over his brow. His ragged hemp robe hid the shifting black lines etched across his reconstructed chest. *"A Blood Lotus,"* Jiao Zang’s voice echoed directly inside Teng Kui’s skull, dripping with greasy greed. *"A three-petal Blood Lotus will do, boy. Give me its crimson sap to wash the ash from my throat, and I will teach you the 'Nine-Fold Sundering Palm'. Without it, your newly formed demonic meridians will burst the first time you try to shatter an earth-tier ribcage. Do you hear me? Find the flower, or choke on your own blood!"* "Quiet, old lizard," Teng Kui muttered internally. "Over here! Over here, boss!" Hou San whispered, tugging Teng Kui’s coarse sleeve. The thief pointed toward a low wooden stall draped in animal pelts. "Old Man Bao’s cart. Look there, in the crystal jar!" Sitting atop a bed of damp river moss was a three-petaled Blood Lotus, its ruby leaves glowing with faint occult warmth. Before Teng Kui could take two steps toward the stall, a loud sneer ripped through the crowd. "Ten low-grade prime crystals? For this weed? Old dog, you should be honored that I, Lu Zhen of the Iron Talon Clan, am willing to grace your wretched blanket with my silver!" A tall youth in turquoise robes shoved the elderly merchant backward, sending the old man sprawling into the mud. Hanging off the youth’s arm was a giggling girl in pink muslin, her gaze fixed with manufactured admiration. "Oh, Senior Brother Lu, you are so generous!" the girl cooed, stroking his silk-embroidered sleeve. "With this lotus, my foundation will finally stabilize before the tournament trials!" "Naturally, Little Mei," Lu Zhen preened, tossing three tarnished copper coins onto the dirt. "Take your pittance, old man, and pack your trash before I burn your cart." "Young master, please!" the old merchant whimpered, clutching his bruised chest. "That lotus took three months of blood-hunting in the mire! Ten spirit gems is already half its worth!" Lu Zhen’s hand dropped to the hilt of his polished saber. "Are you barking at me, dog?" Hou San pulled back behind Teng Kui, his hands instinctively creeping toward his own pockets. "That's Lu Zhen. His uncle is an outer disciplinarian. Arrogant prick, always robbing the hawkers. Don't touch him, boss, he’s got—" Teng Kui walked forward. His boots made no sound against the wet cobbles. "He said ten spirit gems," Teng Kui said. His voice was flat, dry, entirely void of anger. It sounded like millstones grinding together in a tomb. Lu Zhen turned, incredulous. He looked at Teng Kui’s frayed straw hat, his patched hemp coat, and the dead silence hanging around him. "What did you just mumble, beggar? Do you know who my—" High above, an iron gong shattered the market's noise. *CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.* The entrance gates to the market slammed shut with heavy iron thuds. Talisman barriers flared to life, weaving a web of crackling blue suppression light across every alley and rooftop. From the high eaves, three figures in obsidian leather dropped into the thoroughfare, their drawn daggers gleaming with dark poison. The lead shadow raised a parchment scroll, channeling qi to project a massive, luminous image into the smoggy air above the crowd. It was Teng Kui's face. Cold, scarred, and unmistakable. "Inner Sanctum decree," the lead shadow snarled, his voice carrying the authority of an executioner. "No one leaves. Show your faces and bare your necks."

The Ghost in the Pavilion