The smell inside the Internal Affairs Office of the Qīng Yì faction was always the same at dawn: cold tea, burnt wax, and abaca paper dust.
Lín Jié moved the brush with surgical precision across the scroll, perfectly imitating the signature of the clan's chief treasurer. She blew on the ink and set the wooden handle down on the mahogany table. Her right wrist throbbed. She leaned back in the chair and massaged the aching joint. The tips of her fingers were stained black — the ink seemed to have seeped into her skin over the years.
In front of her, the disaster had been resolved.
The Qīng Yì faction had committed a critical error on the eastern border routes. If the original report reached the Council of Elders by morning, the clan would lose the monopoly over three jade mines and his head would be demanded as payment. Lín Jié had spent four consecutive dawns cross-referencing data, altering dates, and inventing mercenary routes that existed only on paper. Now the shortfall had become an impeccable accounting maneuver.
She had been stuck at the Ninth Mortal Stage for exactly ten years. While other cultivators swallowed elixirs and cultivated in caves of pure Qi, she spent her days and nights drowning in ink, ensuring that the Qīng Yì faction continued to rise in the clan's shadows.
Lín Jié adjusted the collar of her dark-green tunic and lightly touched the simple wooden hairpin holding her hair. Her hero needed to be polished for the council meeting.
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The Council Hall smelled of pure lotus incense. Morning light bathed the white marble as the elders occupied their elevated jade seats.
In the center of the hall stood Qīng Yì.
At thirty-nine years old, the Young Master exuded the vibrant aura of the Weaving of the Tides. His white and silver silk tunic had not a single crease. Two steps behind him, Lín Jié remained silent, holding the official bamboo tube against her body, hiding her ink-stained hands. The contrast was cruel: divine light bathing the leader, and an exhausted shadow covering the servant.
"The maneuver on the eastern border mines was impeccable, Qīng Yì," said the Second Elder. "A brilliant strategy."
Qīng Yì bowed his head in measured reverence.
"I merely did my duty, honored Elder. The merit belongs to the Qīngluán lineage."
The elders nodded. He had just taken full credit for four nights of criminal forgeries he did not even understand how had been done.
Qīng Yì straightened his posture and turned his face slightly over his shoulder. His clear eyes met Lín Jié's green ones. The political smile disappeared for an instant, replaced by a warm and grateful smile directed only at her.
We did it.
Lín Jié's chest warmed. The weight of sleepless dawns and the pain in her wrist evaporated. She felt no anger at the stolen credit. Being the invisible gear that kept that man shining was, for her, the greatest glory.
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Back in the office, Lín Jié began filing the bamboo scrolls. The bronze doorknob turned.
Qīng Yì entered and closed the door. The scent of lotus incense emanating from his clothes cut through the smell of old paper. He walked to her desk, shoulders relaxing.
"You saved my skin today, Jié'er," he said. The old nickname made her heart beat faster. "The council would have devoured me without you."
He raised his hand and lightly touched the wooden hairpin in her hair.
The object was a piece of chipped walnut wood, without varnish or stones. He had carved it for her with a hunting knife fifteen years ago.
Back then, Lín Jié was merely the daughter of a poor widow, a servant from the outer courtyard who had been cornered against a wall by a prominent disciple. Qīng Yì appeared. He broke the aggressor's jaw, gave her a roof, and paid for her first cultivation manuals with his own allowance. The rustic hairpin had been nothing more than a casual gesture to hold her dirt-stained hair.
To him, it had been a passing act of nobility. To Lín Jié, that sliver of wood was a lifetime debt.
"You still wear it," he murmured, his voice lowering.
Lín Jié held her breath. The silence grew thick. She looked at him, heart pounding, waiting. Waiting for him to finally acknowledge the ten years she had given him. To say that she was no longer just the servant he had once saved from the mud.
Qīng Yì withdrew his hand.
"The Holy Healer's birthday banquet is in three days," he said, his tone returning to professional. "Qīng Yǔ has the ears of the main lineage. We need her to look in our direction."
The warmth in Lín Jié's chest evaporated.
"A gift worthy of her would cost almost the entire quarter's profit," she replied, voice controlled.
"Exactly. The official budget is tied up. I need you to release the faction's expansion fund. I'm going to bid on a Pure Jade Dew Flask at today's auction."
Lín Jié's fingertips went numb.
That fund consisted of the Spiritual Stones she had spent two years secretly diverting and gathering. Money meant to hire free mercenaries and build an independent force — guards and spies loyal only to the faction, without depending on the reluctant men sent by the secondary branch.
"The fund is reserved for the free mercenary contracts and breakthrough pills," she warned. "It's our foundation. My chance to reach Transcendence."
"We'll deal with that later," Qīng Yì waved his hand, discarding two years of planning as if it were irrelevant. "The Holy Healer's smile is worth more than a hundred border guards, Jié'er. This is the moment."
He paused. The smile that appeared on his face was gentle and completely blind.
"As for your advancement… why didn't you ask me before? I can arrange the common pills you need. I know you ended up stagnating because you don't like cultivating, but you don't need to worry about that now."
You don't like cultivating.
The words hit her like a hollow blow to the chest.
She looked at her own hands. At the deformed callus on her index finger. At the dark ink ingrained under her nails. Ten years. Ten years wasting the prime of her youth, destroying her own ascension to build his empire. And he… the man who once paid for her first cultivation manuals… had rewritten the story in his own head. In his vision, she simply preferred to sit at a desk.
Lín Jié swallowed hard. Anger rose, hot and acidic, but the servant's discipline was faster. Without trembling, without crying, and without saying a word, she pulled out a blank requisition scroll. The sound of the brush scratching against the abaca paper echoed loudly in the silent office.
With mechanical coldness, she signed the transfer of funds that represented the last two years of her life.
"Just finalize it with your signature," she said, extending the scroll.
Qīng Yì took the document. The noble and charismatic smile spread wide.
"Thank you, Jié'er. I always depend on you."
The door clicked shut.
Lín Jié was alone. Silence engulfed the office. She did not cry. She simply pushed the chair back and pulled the next stack of reports. The late afternoon light entered through the amethyst windows, painting everything in a melancholic violet.
She picked up the bamboo dropper to dilute the ink. She positioned the tip over the inkstone and squeezed.
A drop of water fell.
But it did not touch the stone.
The sphere of water stopped in mid-air, suspended two fingers above the table.
Lín Jié blinked.
In the next second, the air inside the room turned to lead.
The pressure dropped so violently that her lungs collapsed instantly. Oxygen disappeared. Her chest was crushed as if a mountain had been placed on her back. The ceramic inkstone cracked. Lín Jié brought her ink-stained hands to her throat, eyes wide as she suffocated dry. The wooden chair creaked loudly under the invisible weight.
A full second passed.
Then the weight vanished.
The drop of water fell, striking the stone with a solitary ploc.
Lín Jié threw herself forward, bracing her hands on the table and sucking in air with a hoarse gasp. She coughed violently, chest heaving while cold sweat ran down her face. The inkstone stopped trembling. The office returned to silence.
Gasping, she raised her face and looked toward the crystal window. The sky outside was calm. The wind blew normally.
The secretary had no way of knowing, but hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, something had just torn through the heavens.