Dawn broke over Floating Cloud City, but the light did little to dispel the shroud of fear that had settled over it. The news of the Luo Clan's brutal retaking of the western vein and the utter annihilation of "One-Eyed" Hong's band had spread like a plague. The message was clear: the Luo were not just defending; they were expanding, and their methods were merciless.
In the City Lord's mansion, Feng Jun paced his opulent study, his usual gluttonous complacency replaced by a cold, sweating anxiety. The reports from Magistrate Hong and Envoy Zhao lay on his desk like indictments. The Starlight Pavilion envoy had returned silent and grim, offering no further advice, only a terse, "The situation is... volatile. The Pavilion will continue to observe." It was not the reassurance Feng Jun craved.
"This cannot stand!" Feng Jun muttered to himself, wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. "A demonic cultivator, right under my nose! He humiliates the Liu, enslaves the Su, and now acts as judge, jury, and executioner in my territory! He is a tumor, and if I do not cut him out, the great sects will hold me responsible!"
But how does one cut out a tumor that can drain a man's cultivation with a touch? Direct force was suicide. He had seen the results.
An idea, desperate and cunning, began to form in his mind. He could not fight Luo Zhen himself. But he could make someone else do it. He needed to elevate the conflict, to draw the attention of a power that could not ignore such a blatant demonic threat.
He summoned his most trusted aide. "Prepare a convoy," he commanded, his voice low and urgent. "The finest spirit stones from my personal vault, the three Heavenly Jade Pearls, and the manual for the Thundering Roc movement technique. And prepare my daughter, Feng Lian, for travel."
The aide's eyes widened. The gifts were astronomical, and Feng Lian was the City Lord's most prized possession, a beauty known throughout the region. "My Lord? For whom?"
"For the Iron Sword Sect," Feng Jun said, a scheming light in his eyes. "Specifically, for Elder He of the Outer Sect. Deliver the gifts and my daughter to him as a... token of my esteem and a plea for assistance. Tell him a vicious demonic cultivator has emerged in Floating Cloud City, one who devours the cultivation of others. Tell him this fiend has already slaughtered hundreds and threatens the stability of the entire region. Imply that the demon may possess... unique techniques that would be of great interest to a discerning Elder."
It was a masterstroke. He was not asking for help; he was offering a prize. He was baiting the hook with riches, a beautiful woman, and the lure of a powerful, forbidden cultivation method. The greedy and ambitious Elder He would not be able to resist.
As the convoy secretly departed the city, Feng Jun allowed himself a sliver of hope. Let the Iron Sword Sect deal with the monster. He would remain safely in his mansion, the dutiful City Lord begging for aid.
---
Back in the Luo compound, the morning brought a new kind of tension. Su Mei'er awoke on the cold floor of Luo Zhen's chamber, her body stiff and her dantian aching from complete depletion. The memory of the previous night's humiliation washed over her, but it was dulled by a strange, hollow feeling. She had, for a moment, achieved the impossible focus he demanded. The memory of that perfect, unwavering flame was a tiny, confusing point of light in her darkness.
She was summoned not by Luo Zhen, but by Luo Bo. The old steward's manner towards her was still respectful, but firmer. "The Young Master has left orders. You are to assist in the infirmary. Several clansmen were wounded at the mine."
It was another test, another degradation—forcing the proud young mistress to tend to the wounds of common clansmen. She nodded mutely and was led to a makeshift infirmary set up in a side hall. The air smelled of blood and herbal poultices.
She was put to work cleaning wounds, changing bandages, and feeding potions to the injured men. The clansmen, initially wary of her, soon saw the genuine effort she put into the menial tasks. She was not gentle—her hands were unaccustomed to such work—but she was thorough and surprisingly resilient, hiding her own exhaustion.
One of the wounded was a young clansman, little more than a boy, with a deep gash on his leg. He flinched as she approached with a damp cloth.
"Be still," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. She began to clean the wound, her movements efficient. The boy watched her, his face pale with pain.
"You're... you're her, aren't you?" he whispered. "The Su young mistress."
Su Mei'er's jaw tightened. "Not anymore."
"Why are you here?" he asked, genuine curiosity overcoming his fear. "Why would he make you do this?"
She didn't have an answer. Why? To break her? To amuse himself? She focused on applying the poultice. As she did, a faint, almost instinctual impulse made her channel the tiniest wisp of her recovering spiritual energy through her fingers, using the principles of the Violet Mist Art to subtly soothe the inflamed tissue around the wound.
The boy gasped. "That... that feels better. Thank you."
Su Mei'er froze, looking at her own hands. She had done it without thinking. A simple act of healing, something she had never bothered to learn before. A flicker of something—not pride, but purpose—warmed the cold emptiness inside her. It was a feeling entirely at odds with the humiliation Luo Zhen intended.
Later that day, Luo Zhen returned from a solitary patrol of the newly acquired Liu territories. His demonic senses swept over the compound, taking in every detail. He felt the lingering pain in the infirmary, the simmering fear of the new Liu retainers, the focused drilling of his core disciples.
And he felt Su Mei'er. Her energy signature was different. Still weak, still laced with fear and resentment, but there was a new thread there. A thread of... acceptance? Resilience? It intrigued him.
He found her in the courtyard, fetching water from the well for the infirmary. Her servant's dress was stained, and a strand of hair had escaped its tie, sticking to her damp forehead. She looked nothing like the pristine, proud beauty who had arrived yesterday.
She saw him and immediately stiffened, her eyes dropping to the ground, a fresh wave of fear emanating from her.
"Look at me," he commanded.
She forced her head up, meeting his gaze. The terror was still there, but he also saw defiance. And that new, frustrating resilience.
"You learned something last night," he stated.
She said nothing.
"Your Violet Mist Art is trash," he continued, walking a circle around her as if inspecting livestock. "It is designed for parlor tricks and delicate energy work, not for true power. But even trash can be repurposed."
He stopped in front of her. "From now on, your duties are twofold. You will continue your menial tasks. And you will cultivate. Not your family's technique. You will cultivate the energy of your own emotions."
Su Mei'er frowned, confused. "I... don't understand."
"Your fear," he said, his voice dropping to a hypnotic whisper. "Your hatred. Your humiliation. These are not weaknesses to be suppressed. They are fuels. I can feel them burning within you. They are a power source far more potent than the weak spiritual energy of this world. Harness them. Feed on them. Let them strengthen you."
He was offering her a perverted path to power, a dark mirror of his own demonic art. He wanted to see if she had the will to twist her own suffering into strength. It was a cruel experiment.
"To what end?" she whispered, horrified by the concept.
"To the end that I decide," he replied. "You are my attendant. Your strength is my strength. Your growth amuses me. Now, go. The wounded are waiting."
As she hurried away, carrying her heavy bucket of water, Luo Zhen's smile returned. The forging continued. He was shaping her, warping her into something useful, something beautiful in its own broken way.
His musings were interrupted by Luo Cheng, who approached with a hurried bow. "My Lord! We've intercepted a messenger from the City Lord's mansion. He was trying to slip out of the city quietly." He handed Luo Zhen a sealed scroll.
Luo Zhen broke the seal and read the message. It was from Feng Jun to Elder He of the Iron Sword Sect. The contents—the offered riches, the daughter, the description of Luo Zhen as a "demonic fiend" with valuable techniques—made his smile turn truly vicious.
"So," he murmured, the scroll crumbling to dust in his hand. "The fat rat thinks to call in a bigger cat to do his hunting for him."
He looked towards the direction the messenger had been heading. The Iron Sword Sect. A den of so-called righteous cultivators. A pond full of plump, arrogant fish.
"Luo Cheng," he said, his voice filled with dark anticipation. "It seems we will have more... nutritious... guests soon. Double the training. We must be ready to welcome them properly."
The City Lord's gambit had failed before it even began. He hadn't sent for an executioner. He had sent an invitation for a feast. And the Heavenly Demon was ready to dine.