Chapter 9
Fewer still had reached ten.
Fifteen was almost a myth.
He turned another page.
Knowledge is power.
But only when digested.
He did not read to memorize.
He read to dissect.
He compared the sword principles with what he knew from his previous life. The structure was refined — but limited by the worldview of its author. Xuan Ye Xiao had been brilliant, yes, but still bound by his era's understanding of qi circulation.
There were inefficiencies.
Minor.
But present.
He marked them mentally.
The fifth volume focused on foundational resonance between sword intent and ocular domain. Most disciples would need years just to stabilize the first layer.
He understood the framework within hours.
Not because he was talented.
Because he had already lived a thousand years refining similar concepts under harsher systems.
Still, this body was young.
Meridians narrow.
Qi capacity limited.
Theory without vessel strength meant nothing.
He leaned back slightly.
Knowledge is power.
But power without restraint becomes noise.
He closed the book carefully.
Outside, the sun dipped lower.
He wanted to understand the Eye Domain before meeting someone who could already perceive more than others.
He stood, fingers brushing lightly against the hilt of the small knife resting beside the texts.
Slow progress was still progress.
And in cultivation—
The one who understands structure wins.
Not the one who moves first.
He shifted to the window alcove where the late light gathered.
One leg bent on the sill. The other rested loose against the wooden frame. The courtyard below had quieted; servants moved like distant shadows.
In his right hand, a small kunai turned between his fingers.
Not as a weapon.
As a metronome.
It rolled across his knuckles. Dropped to his palm. Spun along the curve of his thumb. Flipped once, twice—caught without looking.
The motion never interrupted his reading.
The blade's cold weight kept his senses grounded while his mind wandered through abstractions.
On the open page before him, the fifth volume described the transition between external sword movement and internal domain resonance. Most cultivators tried to force the connection—channeling qi violently into their ocular meridians.
Amateurs.
Force creates cracks.
Structure creates permanence.
The kunai spun again.
He mapped the text mentally.
Sword intent begins in cognition.
Cognition alters breath.
Breath alters circulation.
Circulation alters perception.
Perception, if stabilized long enough, expands.
That was the logic behind the Eye Domain.
Not mysticism.
Pattern recognition sharpened to its extreme.
He let the blade roll across his fingers faster now—testing hand sensitivity. Precision. Control. The body must obey without conscious command.
A weapon is an extension of the nervous system.
If the hand hesitates, the mind hesitates.
If the mind hesitates, the domain fractures.
The wind lifted his silver hair slightly. Under the descending sun, the strands reflected faint gold at the edges. For a moment, the boy on the window looked almost ordinary.
Almost.
He did not glance at the blade even once as it flipped in a tight arc and returned perfectly to his grip.
He thought:
Discipline is not dramatic.
It is repetition without boredom.
He turned another page.
Eight hundred pages in a volume. Twelve volumes in total. Fifty thousand lines of text. One thousand mantras to memorize for sealed resonance.
Most would feel overwhelmed.
He felt… interested.
The kunai slowed.
He balanced it upright against his index finger for a second before letting it fall flat into his palm.
Knowledge is power.
But control is supremacy.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the outer corridor.
Evening was approaching.
He closed the book halfway—but did not fully shut it.
He never stopped learning.
Even when someone else believed they were about to test him.
Evening arrived without announcement.
The sky outside had already dimmed into amber when Lan'er knocked softly and entered.
"Master, Wei Zhi is here."
He did not look up immediately. The fifth volume still lay open in his lap, the kunai resting between his fingers.
"Let her in."
Wei Zhi stepped inside.
Pale skin. Faint red veins near the corners of her green eyes, as if she had not slept well. She was seven—yet there was no softness in her gaze.
She looked at him once and said calmly,
"I was heartbroken when I was replaced. Then I saw my replacement… and my heart healed very quickly."
Sarcasm.
Wuming's lips curved faintly.
Lan'er snapped, "Bow to the young master. Have you forgotten ethics?"
Wei Zhi did not move.
"I have no ethics," she replied evenly. "Only morality. And my morality bows to my master, not to a familiar face."
The room quieted.
Wuming closed the book gently.
"Lan'er. Tea."
Lan'er hesitated, then bowed and left, pride stiff in her posture.
The door shut.
Silence returned.
Wei Zhi waited until the corridor's footsteps faded.
Then—
"Who are you?"
Wuming leaned back slightly against the window frame.
"I am Wuming."
"No," she said. "You are not."
He studied her properly now.
No trembling. No childish uncertainty.
"I can see your soul," she continued. "It's older. Heavier. It doesn't shine the same way. And I cannot see your path at all."
He paused at that.
"You can see paths?"
"You still haven't answered me."
A faint exhale left him.
"Do you think you are in a position to question me?"
She stepped closer instead.
"Wuming was my friend. You are not him. You refine qi differently. You touch demonic and righteous methods both. Your aura carries the intent no child should have."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"A Soul Reaper?"
She didn't deny it.
Rare existence.
Those who see direction, qi structure, soul age… even fractures in destiny.
Interesting.
"So," she said calmly, "who are you? Before I inform Madam that the young master has been replaced."
"You have three seconds."
He looked at her.
"Go."
She blinked.
"You—"
"Do you believe she will believe you?"
Silence.
He stood slowly, stretching his arms overhead as if bored.
"You don't have the emotional or intellectual depth to understand me," he said flatly. "So I'd rather save my peace."
Her eyes sharpened.
"If you tell me who you are, I won't say anything."
He looked at her again.
"Who taught you to speak like that?"
"My mother."
"Smart woman. Where is she now?"
"Dead." Wei Zhi, replied calmly.
"What killed her?" Xuan Wuming inquired further.
Wei Zhi held his gaze.
"Loyalty."
That answer lingered.
He set the book aside. Her eyes followed the movement.
"You can read?" he asked.
"I am a royal servant. Lady Yin Fu bought me personally."
"You still haven't answered properly. Your mother?"
"She's dead, her loyalty killed her." she repeated, looking away this time.
Her answer didn't change.
He watched her carefully.
She was similar.
Cold. Observant. Guarded.
"I am Xuan Wuming," he said evenly. "Second young master of the Xuan clan."
"Wrong. Your soul is over a thousand years old. Or even maybe more."
"Your vision may be distorted. Not fully developed."
Anger flickered in her eyes.
"Stop pretending. You are not him."
He stepped closer.
"Do you know how valuable your green eyes are?"
She stiffened. Her eyes widened a bit.
"They would fetch a high price. In certain markets."
Her steps faltered. She stepped back, sensing a dangerous aura and a murderous killing intent from him.
"You wouldn't." Her voice came out weak and low.
"Of course I wouldn't," he said calmly. "If you stop insisting I am not Wuming."
His gaze didn't soften.
She looked down first.
After a pause—
"Are you a demon?"
He almost laughed.
Instead, he lifted his hand and murmured a few controlled syllables. A small pressure descended—not violent, just precise. Her knees buckled and she knelt without meaning to.
"What are you doing?"
He knelt as well.
Took her hand.
With the kunai, he cut lightly across his own wrist.
Dark blood surfaced—nearly black.
But not black; the Demons blood.
"Do you see the blood?" he asked quietly. "You see souls. What more proof do you require?"
She swallowed.
"You should travel alone, it's easier than you think."She listened carefully, absorbing his words.
He released her hand. The wound began sealing slowly, skin knitting back together.
Her eyes widened.
"That's a Xuan bloodline technique… you mastered it already?"
"It's written clearly," he replied. "If you read carefully."
She stared at him.
"If you can do that, you must have touched the first level of the Eye Domain."
He didn't respond immediately.
"All three Xuan paths connect," she continued. "Sword. Sealing. Domain. If someone reaches higher domain levels, it means they mastered the others too. Only two people ever advanced deeply. Xuan Ye Xiao… and Lady Xuan Zhenzhen."
Fifteen levels in total.
He listened without interruption.
"How do you know so much about the books?"
"I read them in the library when Lady Yin Fu spoke with the Master. No one stopped me."
It seems she is really close to my mother, he thought.
"And the thousand mantras?"
She shook her head.
"Only Xuan blood can read those pages. The text hides itself."
Footsteps approached.
Lan'er entered with tea and small plates of snacks.
"I didn't ask for snacks," Wuming said.
Before Lan'er could answer, another voice followed—
"I did."
Lady Yin Fu stepped inside.
Her golden eyes matched his.
She smiled softly.
"I came to see you."
The room shifted.
Wei Zhi lowered her gaze.
Wuming picked up his cup calmly.
The game had just expanded.
Lady Yin Fu crossed the room without hurry.
She wore a white hanfu, simple but precise, jade ornaments resting lightly against the fabric. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless.
She stopped in front of him.
And then—without warning—she lifted him.
Wuming did not anticipate it.
His body rose abruptly, and a short, involuntary sound escaped him before he could stop it. Instinctively, his fingers caught the fabric at her shoulder. His face pressed briefly against her collarbone.
She smelled faintly of jasmine.
Her long silver hair fell forward with the motion, mixing with his own. For a moment the two shades of silver tangled together in the air, stirred by the evening breeze from the open window. From a distance, it might have looked almost poetic.
Up close, it was disorienting.
She adjusted him easily in her arms, as if he weighed nothing.
"My son has grown thinner," she said softly.
He thought, of course why wouldn't I when I have been spending day and night cultivating this poor body's soul and qi.
Her golden eyes were warm.
That warmth unsettled him.
He was not used to being held. Not like this.
Not without calculation.
Not without expectation.
He slowly lifted his head. Their eyes were the same color, but hers carried something unfamiliar. There was no suspicion in them. No fear. No strategic caution.
Just quiet affection.
Once, long ago, someone had looked at him like that.
Before betrayal.
Before blood.
Before titles and enemies and empires.
That memory flickered and vanished.
He pulled his expression back into neutrality.
She brushed a strand of silver hair from his forehead.
"You were reading again," she said. "Even at your age."
He did not answer.
Her fingers were gentle against his temple.
"You don't have to grow so quickly."
And that made him look at her, he tried finding an answer but could not.
That sentence lingered.
Wei Zhi watched silently from the side. Lan'er lowered her head further.
Wuming felt something unfamiliar under his ribs—tight, restrained.
He was not comfortable with softness.
Softness created attachment.
Attachment created weakness.
And weakness created leverage.
Still, his small hands did not immediately let go of her sleeve.
He became aware of it a second later and loosened his grip.
"I am fine," he said evenly.
She smiled.
"You always say that."
She set him down carefully.
For a brief moment, her hand remained on his shoulder before withdrawing.
The room felt colder after she stepped back.
End of 9