Three days later, a shadow stretched across the dusty grounds of the Weeping Banyan Sect, not from a passing cloud, but from a soaring skiff, carved from obsidian and wreathed in dark, crackling energy. It settled with an audible groan of protesting air directly above the main pavilion, its sleek hull blotting out the morning sun.
From its belly descended three figures, their robes the color of storm-struck jade, emblazoned with the coiled serpent crest of the Heavenly Tribunal. Their faces were stark, humorless, and their presence alone felt like a physical weight, pressing down on the dilapidated buildings, rattling the loose roof tiles and causing the ancient banyan tree to shiver as if in a sudden, cold breeze. Their combined aura fell like iron weights, meant to buckle lesser mortals. Even the sturdy wooden gate, reinforced by generations of half-hearted enchantments, seemed to sag deeper into its hinges.
Inside the main pavilion, Matriarch Pei Wanru’s frantic abacus clattered like a trapped bird. Her fingers, usually nimble, fumbled with the beads, calculating not repair costs, but the exact number of spirit-coins required for a modest, albeit swift, funeral for the entire sect, herself included. Her brow was furrowed so deeply it looked like a freshly plowed field. “A Continental Extermination Edict! For *us*? But… we only have three disciples, and one of them can’t even lift a bucket of water without wheezing!” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the oppressive hum of the judges outside.
Gong Zui, meanwhile, sat on a broken stool, meticulously cleaning the grime from his most favored spanner with a scrap of cloth. He took a bite of a steamed bun, completely unperturbed by the suffocating aura. “Matriarch, less panicking, more paying. These leaks aren’t going to patch themselves. And the rot in the east dormitory? We’ll need at least three bags of pure calc-powder for that. Shen Yimo!”
Shen Yimo, who had been diligently polishing a section of damp wall with a rag, snapped to attention. His eyes, though wide with concern for his Matriarch, held a steadfast resolve. “Yes, Master Gong?”
“The white powder. It’s in the storage shed by the south gate. Carry it to the east dormitory. Mind the dust, it gets everywhere.” Gong Zui gestured vaguely towards the sector of the sect currently being shadowed by the Tribunal’s skiff. “And make sure you use the ‘Rhythmic Brick-Laying Stride’ – those bags are heavier than they look. Don’t want you straining your back.”
Shen Yimo nodded with solemn understanding. “Yes, Master! For the integrity of the compound's foundations!” He saluted, a gesture he’d picked up from a dusty manual on “Basic Masonry Practices for Novices,” and hurried towards the south gate. His path led directly past the three magistrates, who stood at the sect’s gate radiating sour disdain.
The lead magistrate, an austere man with eyes like chips of flint, watched the youth approach laden with two bulging sacks of brilliant white chalk. Jiao Wei had expected cowering, perhaps even a futile attempt at escape. Instead, he saw a youth, hands white with chalk, puffing in a strange cadence while his steps held steady. The sheer audacity of it! To walk past agents of the high court without so much as a bow, carrying… whatever this was.
“Boy! Halt!” the elder's voice boomed, packed with the force of his cultivated core. The command was calibrated to drop a seasoned Core Formation master to the flagstones. His two accompanying aides, a woman with a severe topknot and a broad-shouldered enforcer, reinforced the assault with their raw cultivation. The air warped, rippling like heat over summer stone, and grit swirled in a small vortex around Shen Yimo's cloth shoes.
Shen Yimo, however, merely blinked. He felt a prickling along his neck, no different from the draft in the valley when he practiced his ‘Ergonomic Shovel Stance’. His lung exercises were designed solely to balance the body against heavy loads and settle grit in the throat. The heavy air felt like a vigorous back rub, warming his 'Stone-Lead Meridians' with a strange, pleasant heat.
He continued walking, albeit a fraction slower, his steps solid and unyielding. The sacks of crushed rock, each weighing more than an ox, rested solidly on his shoulders. He even managed a polite, if slightly strained, smile. “Excuse me, elders, I must ensure the mold does not spread. Master Gong requires this urgently.” His voice, slightly strained from the heavy cargo, remained polite.
Elder Jiao Wei stiffened, his mouth parting in disbelief. The boy had not only withstood their joint onslaught, he had *smiled* through it. And the white powder on his hands… Jiao Wei’s mind raced, recalling Gao Rufeng’s frantic, spit-flecked report. “Unregistered heretical arts,” Gao had shrieked. “Demonic! Corrupting the very Qi! He touched my supreme ultimate sword with a *plank*! And then he swept me away with a *broom*!”
The powder. It wasn’t limestone. It couldn’t be. What kind of laborer hauled such weight past high adjudicators without dropping flat? And his hands, those hands, were caked in a fine, ghostly white residue. Jiao Wei’s gaze narrowed to pinpricks, the air locking in his chest. He had seen such a sight before, in the forbidden scrolls of ancient rituals, in the terrifying reports from the Border Wastes. This wasn’t masonry lime. This was… pulverized essence. Ground marrow. Bone-ash. A high-level demonic anomaly, indeed! This boy was an abomination, coated head to foot in the remains of slaughtered martyrs.
“Bone-ash!” Elder Jiao Wei gasped, his voice thin with horror, echoing across the quiet courtyard. “He is covered in bone-ash! A practitioner of the forbidden arts of Soul Grinding! An unspeakable abomination!” He pointed a trembling finger at Shen Yimo, who merely looked confused, wondering if a corner of the sack had torn. The other two adjudicators staggered backward, blood draining from their cheeks as they readied their talismans against the monster.