The next morning, the four-man delegation from the Shen Clan arrived at the Gong Clan compound. They were welcomed politely and escorted to an ornate reception hall, then promptly left alone to wait for Old Mo Yao.
An hour passed.
Then two.
Still, there was no sign of the Gong Clan matriarch.
The three younger Shen Clan attendants began to shift in their seats, glancing around the room with increasing irritation. Their brows furrowed, their patience worn thin. For them, this delay was nothing short of an insult.
But Elder Hong Ting remained composed.
He sat upright, his face unreadable, sipping slowly from a cup of cold tea. He knew Mo Yao well—too well. This wasn't forgetfulness or fatigue. No, this was her signature move. Delay. Let the opponent stew in silence. Let them crack first. It was a test of mental endurance as much as diplomacy.
Exactly three hours after they had arrived, the heavy wooden doors finally creaked open.
Mo Yao appeared at the threshold, flanked by a procession of Gong Clan elders. She moved slowly, her body almost carried more by ritual than strength. A wide, wheeled seat supported her grotesque frame—an ancient throne of polished bone and crimson silk. Her eyes, milky and sunken, swept the hall with unsettling awareness.
"Forgive the delay," she croaked, voice rasping like parchment, "but you know how difficult it is for someone my age to get around these days."
A smile curled on her red-stained lips, revealing those infamous, tobacco-dyed teeth
"No problem, my lady," Hong Ting replied smoothly, bowing his head with practiced diplomacy. "We all understand the burden of health at your age. We're grateful you've granted us your time."
Mo Yao gave a wheezing chuckle, her eyes narrowing with amusement.
"Enough with the pleasantries," she said, waving a plump hand dismissively. "We didn't gather here to trade compliments like flower maidens, did we? Let's speak plainly."
"Very well," Hong Ting said, his voice growing more formal. "The war draws closer with every passing day, and yet... we remain uncertain of your clan's position. I was hoping, this time, you would give us a frank answer."
Mo Yao's grin widened, revealing a full set of glistening, blood-red teeth.
"I believe I made myself perfectly clear during our last negotiations," she said, tone sharp with mock surprise. "If you want our help, you must make it worth our while."
She leaned forward in her seat, her weight shifting with a creak of bone and wood.
"We'll require three million primeval stones. And," she paused for effect, "we want a revision of the trade agreement. All Gong Clan goods will now be sold to your Shen Clan at a fifty percent increase."
The words hung in the air like poison.
Hong Ting's smile froze. His golden eyes narrowed, and for a moment, silence reigned. He clenched his jaw and drew in a slow breath through his nose, forcing down the boiling frustration inside.
He met her gaze with quiet fury.
Mo Yao, unbothered, simply chewed slowly on her crimson-soaked tobacco, as if daring him to protest.
Since the devastating war fifty-eight years ago, the Gong Clan had remained one of the Shen Clan's most steadfast allies. When word spread that Liu Bai Zu of the Liu Clan was attempting to ascend to the fifth rank, the Gong Clan had initially expressed complete willingness to support the Shen Clan in the inevitable conflict.
But that was a month ago.
Since then, hesitation had crept into their messages. Promises once clear became vague. Answers were delayed. And now, with war looming on the horizon, their stance had turned opaque.
"Aid is a big word," Mo Yao said with a smirk, reclining into her carved wooden seat. "You speak as though the Liu Clan poses no threat to us—as if their rise is a foregone danger to all."
Hong Ting narrowed his eyes, his voice calm but heavy with warning. "If Liu Bai Zu ascends to the fifth rank, no one will be spared—not even the Gong Clan. Don't forget, we're all in the same boat now."
Mo Yao clicked her tongue and shook her head slowly, her voice dripping with condescension. "No, Elder Hong Ting, we are not in the same boat. The Liu Clan poses no direct threat to us—or to you, for that matter. It's only fear and hot-blooded youth that make men see war where there is none."
She leaned forward, eyes gleaming through the haze of incense. "Or is it that the Shen Clan cannot bear to see another clan grow stronger than them? Is that it? Must we resort to paranoia and sabers just because one branch flourishes more than the others?"
Her tone turned sharp, laced with disdain. "Have you forgotten the teachings of the righteous path? The foundation of order? Look at your own clan, Elder Hong Ting. When your Fifth Clan Leader reached the fifth rank, did he raise arms against his neighbors? No. He chose peace, unity, prosperity. That is the difference between the righteous and the devilish."
Hong Ting's expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened slightly.
Her words were eloquent—but they were also a smokescreen.
He knew it.
And so did she.
Hong Ting leaned forward, his voice laced with disbelief and rising frustration.
"Lady Mo Yao… of all people, how can you say such things? Have you forgotten the fate of the Bai Clan? The Xiong Clan? Or have your memories faded with time?"
He jabbed a finger toward the floor, as if the ghosts of those fallen clans still lingered beneath their feet.
"Weren't you the one who led the Gong Clan into that war? Wasn't it your son, your husband, your brother—all of them—who fell at the hands of the Liu Clan? Or have their sacrifices lost meaning now that the danger no longer knocks at your own gate?"
For a moment, Mo Yao's expression darkened. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her wrinkled face—grief, perhaps, or bitterness—but it vanished as quickly as it came. Her tone turned icy.
"They died, yes. But they died in a war they chose to enter. The Bai and Xiong clans brought ruin upon themselves by provoking the Liu. That's not a matter of memory—it's a matter of consequence."
She waved a dismissive hand, her voice sharp like broken glass.
"And as for the Gong Clan's intervention back then, yes, we came to your aid. But do not twist history, Elder Hong Ting. You Shen interfered in a war that had nothing to do with you. You made enemies where none existed."
Hong Ting clenched his fists, but said nothing.
Mo Yao leaned back again, letting out a long, tired breath, as though the past no longer mattered.
"We're not here to reopen old wounds," she said coldly. "We're here to speak of the present. And the reality is this: The Gong Clan will not lift a finger unless our conditions are met."
She paused, then smiled that crimson smile.
"Three million primeval stones. A revised trade agreement. These are the terms. Accept them… or fight alone."
Hong Ting's voice dropped in pitch, heavy with restrained anger.
"And by what right," he asked slowly, "do you demand three million primeval stones and a 50% increase in trade prices? Do you expect us to bleed ourselves dry just for a vague promise of help?"
Mo Yao chuckled, the sound dry and grating like twigs snapping underfoot.
"You misunderstood me, Brother Hong Ting. The three million primeval stones aren't a gift to us. In exchange, we'll provide you with a full week's harvest of Golden Blood."
Her eyes gleamed with false innocence as she added,
"And the price increase? A simple matter of compensation. Once the war begins, we'll lose access to the Liu Clan—our most profitable partner. Surely you wouldn't have us suffer such a loss without recompense?"
Hong Ting's expression turned dark. His golden eyes narrowed into slits.
A week's harvest? He scoffed inwardly. That's worth, at most, half a million primeval stones. Does she take me for a fool? This isn't negotiation. This is robbery in broad daylight.
He bit down his response. Arguing would be useless.
She's stalling, he thought grimly. This entire meeting is a game. Just like the Clan Elder suspected… The Gong Clan is hiding something.
The memory of the recent council meeting surfaced in Hong Ting's mind like a wave crashing against cold stone.
It had taken place just a few days prior, in the Great Hall of the Shen Clan. The air was heavy with incense and tension as the clan's most powerful elders sat in a circle, listening intently to the man at the center.
Elder Shen Wu—gray-haired, sharp-eyed, and exuding quiet authority—rested both hands on his cane as he spoke with slow precision.
"The Gong Clan has been acting oddly," he said, his voice calm but piercing. "They behave as if this war won't affect them in the slightest. To me, that implies one of two possibilities."
He raised two fingers.
"First, they're pretending indifference to extract more concessions from us. Or second… they have something hidden—some trump card powerful enough to make them believe they can stop the Liu Clan on their own… or worse—defeat them."
A stir rippled through the chamber.
Whispers ignited among the seated elders like fire catching dry straw.
One elder—a sharp-tongued man named Yao Chun—leaned forward, scoffing.
"Elder Shen Wu, with all due respect, aren't you being overly suspicious?" he asked, folding his arms. "Let's be honest. What miracle could the Gong Clan possibly possess that would stop Liu Bai Zu if he ascends to the fifth rank? They don't have a champion, and they certainly don't have the numbers."
He smirked, clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice.
"If they truly think the Liu Clan will spare them, they're either foolish or insane. I say we ignore their blatant blackmail and let them stew in their arrogance. When the flames of war reach their door, they'll come crawling back to us like beggars."
Laughter echoed through the hall, a few elders nodding in amusement.
But the mirth was short-lived.
A single voice cut through the noise like a blade through silk.
"Enough."
All eyes turned to the Clan Leader—Wen Wu.
Seated on the high platform beneath the Shen Clan's ancestral banner, Wen Wu's face was carved in stone. His presence alone silenced the entire room.
"This is no time for arrogance." His tone was cold. "We've lived through one war with the Liu Clan. We know how far they're willing to go."
He stood slowly, his long robes trailing behind him like the shadows of history.
"Only fools believe others are as foolish as themselves," Clan Leader Wen Wu said coldly, his gaze sweeping over the council.
"The chance that the Gong Clan truly has the means to defeat a fifth-rank Gu Master is slim… but—are any of you willing to stake the future of our clan on that assumption?"
Silence fell.
Some elders shifted uncomfortably. Others lowered their eyes, unwilling to meet his gaze.
"But how can we be certain either way?" one elder finally asked, his voice low and uncertain.
Wen Wu gave a small, calculating smile.
"That's where this comes in."
From within his robe, the clan leader withdrew a tightly sealed scroll. Its surface was marked with a crimson wax seal bearing the Shen Clan's crest. He held it aloft for all to see, then handed it to Elder Hong Ting.
"This manuscript contains something Mo Yao desperately wants… something she can't obtain through force or coin alone."
The scroll felt unusually heavy in Hong Ting's hands—not from weight, but from implication.
Wen Wu continued, his tone calm, deliberate.
"During the upcoming negotiations, if Mo Yao tries to blackmail us again, don't confront her. Don't argue. Let her believe we're desperate, scrambling for help. Let both the Gong and Liu Clans think we're weak. That illusion is our greatest shield."
He began pacing slowly across the stone floor, his boots echoing like a heartbeat.
"Then, offer her the scroll—not as a bribe, but as a substitute for her outrageous demands. Make it seem like we're offering something valuable because we have no other choice."
He turned back to Hong Ting.
"If the Gong Clan truly possesses a power great enough to defeat both us and the Liu Clan, they'll think: 'Why accept a trade when we can take this manuscript by force later?' Mo Yao will reject the offer and push for more."
A faint smirk touched his lips.
"But if they don't have that power—if all their bravado is a bluff—then she'll accept it. She'll see it as her only chance."
"And if she sees through it?" another elder asked quietly.
Wen Wu nodded, unbothered.
"Then we'll have achieved our other goal: getting rid of their demands. Either way… we win."
A tense silence followed, filled only by the quiet rustling of robes.
Hong Ting looked down at the scroll in his hands. Its surface was warm, as if the contents were alive. He didn't know what was inside—but he understood its purpose.
Later that day, standing once more before Mo Yao and her retinue, Hong Ting slowly reached into his robe—and took out the scroll.