Blood leaves a trail — even when washed away.
The jackal's corpse had long since been dragged off for study, its black fluids wiped from the stone path. Chen Zhi's shoulder had been bandaged, salved, and wrapped in spiritual gauze. The other disciples returned to their duties, speaking in whispers now when they passed Fang Xi's hut.
But Fang Xi remembered every step.
Every glance.
Every drop of silence that followed the screams.
"It only takes one death to shift the wind."
"Now they wonder."
"Now they watch."
He liked being watched.
It meant people were beginning to suspect he was more than he claimed.
And suspicion… led to caution. Caution bought time.
The morning after their return, a summons arrived.
A red-sealed slip slipped under his door.
"Outer Disciple Fang Xi is to report to the Merit Pavilion by mid-morning. Attendant: Elder Shen."
Fang Xi read it once. Then again.
He smiled faintly.
The Merit Pavilion stood alone on the eastern side of the sect — a tall wooden structure built into the side of the cliff, overlooking the frozen lake below. Carved beasts lined its eaves. Runes flickered softly along the doorposts. A place of power, albeit decaying.
Inside, incense burned with a sharp medicinal bite. Shelves lined the walls — scrolls, talismans, spirit herbs, and a few low-grade artifacts sealed in glass. The air smelled of age, dust, and faint ambition.
At the far end stood Elder Shen, a thin man with silver-threaded hair and pale eyes. He didn't look up as Fang Xi approached.
"You've earned twenty-seven merit points," Shen said. "For beast slaying, survival, and verified testimony by Elder Gan."
He opened a thick ledger, marked Fang Xi's name with a brushstroke, then gestured to a smaller shelf.
"You may select one item from the yellow tier. Or wait and accumulate for better."
Fang Xi stepped forward slowly.
The shelf was humble. A few weak healing pills. A brittle sword charm. A spirit-thread needle. But what caught his eye was a small black pill, sealed in thick glass.
"Name?" he asked.
"Marrow Scorch Pellet," Elder Shen said, glancing up for the first time. "A body-tempering aid. Painful. Crude. Banned by some sects for… side effects."
"Side effects?"
"Uncontrolled Qi circulation. Bone sensitivity. Occasionally, madness."
Fang Xi didn't hesitate.
"I'll take it."
Back in his hut, he locked the door, sealed the gaps with borrowed paper charms, and lit a single wax candle.
He sat, the pellet cradled in his palm.
Dark. Smooth. Still warm.
"Burn the impurities. Crack the meridians. Let the pain sharpen me."
He swallowed it.
And screamed.
It was like drinking molten metal.
The heat spread from his stomach to his spine, his ribs, his skull — boiling his marrow, igniting nerves that hadn't twitched in years. He clawed at the floor, back arching, teeth biting down until blood filled his mouth.
For ten minutes, he knew only pain.
For twenty more, he felt nothing at all.
And then — something snapped.
Like silk tearing in his chest.
A fourth thread of Qi unfurled in his dantian.
Stronger. Cleaner.
"Now I can run."
"Now I can fight."
"Now… I can kill."
By dusk, he emerged into the cold.
His robe clung to his sweat-drenched skin, steam rising from his shoulders. Disciples paused as he passed. Some nodded. Some looked away.
Zhou Yiren waited near the well, arms folded.
"You took the marrow pill," she said.
Fang Xi nodded.
"Brave. Or stupid. Maybe both."
"Maybe," he said, "but now I'm stronger."
She studied him. Eyes unreadable.
"I heard Elder Gan wants to send you on a solo patrol next."
"Did you?"
"He's testing you. Or feeding you to the wolves. Maybe both."
A pause.
"Are you ready for that?"
Fang Xi turned to her, gaze steady.
"I've always been ready."
That night, a shadow passed near his hut.
Someone knocked — then fled.
On the ground, he found a note written in rough ink:
"Be careful. You're rising too fast. They're noticing."
— A friend
Fang Xi stared at the words.
He didn't smile this time.
He burned the paper and whispered into the smoke:
"Good."
"Let them notice."
"Let them try."