The skies over the Crimson Cloud Sect were tinged with the color of old wounds.
Shen Liuyin stood at the foot of the vermilion staircase, her robes dusted with dried earth from the long road. The air here was sweet with perfume, laced with something sharper beneath — incense and poison coiled like lovers, inseparable.
Above her, the sect unfolded like a red lotus in bloom.
Slender bridges arched between scarlet pavilions, suspended in the sky like silk threads caught on thorns. Spirit cranes glided lazily across the horizon, their feathers trailing ribbons of light. Red maple trees swayed even though there was no wind — each leaf glowing faintly, nourished by ambient immortal energy. The place was breathtaking.
But it was not welcoming.
"Move," one of the outer disciples snapped, nudging her forward with a silver-threaded broom.
Liuyin did not flinch. She bowed slightly, acknowledging the gesture without complaint, and climbed the steps with even strides. Her body ached from travel, but she held herself with poise, like a dancer who knew all eyes were waiting for her to trip.
Two other new servants walked behind her, whispering nervously. They had arrived together from scattered vassal clans, their fates sealed in crimson ink the moment Ji Yuanheng signed their names. Shen Liuyin had been gifted — or discarded — into this sect as punishment. Her status was lower than low.
But her pride had not died.
At the top of the stairs, a senior disciple waited beneath a blooming blood-peach tree. Her face was flawless, smile sweet and dangerous as honey stirred into wine.
"You must be the one from the Ji Clan estate," she said lightly. "You're prettier than I expected. That won't help you here."
The other two servants shrank behind Liuyin.
Liuyin bowed low. "This one greets Senior Sister."
"Oh, how proper," the woman drawled, then snapped her fingers. "Follow."
They were led past meditation pools lined with crimson lotus, past sparring platforms where white-robed disciples traded moves like strokes of calligraphy. They passed by a shrine to the sect's founder — a woman carved in jade, seated upon a throne of blades, her smile soft and monstrous.
At last, they stopped before a narrow hallway built from red lacquered wood, peeling at the corners.
"Your quarters," the senior disciple said, motioning toward the farthest door. "You'll share with the birds. They're quiet unless you bleed."
The other servants looked horrified.
Shen Liuyin said nothing. She stepped inside.
It was smaller than a monk's cell — a straw mat, one chipped basin, and a cracked window that looked out into a walled garden choked with thorn-vines. A sparrow, eyes black as onyx, blinked at her from the corner beam.
The door shut with a soft click. Lockless. But not safe.
Liuyin took in her surroundings with a calm gaze. She set her satchel down, unwrapped her blanket, and folded it with care. Then she opened the window and let the garden's sickly scent wash over her — a heady mix of roses, metal, and rot.
It was nothing like the Ji estate.
There, cold had ruled. Precision, distance, restraint. Here, beauty disguised a thousand weapons. In the Ji Clan, you were ignored unless useful. Here, you were prey unless you proved poisonous.
She could feel it — this sect didn't raise women. It forged them into weapons dressed in silk and powdered smiles.
And it would try to devour her.
A bell rang in the distance. Not the bell for meals or prayer, but one Liuyin hadn't heard before — low, humming, drawn-out like a thread pulled from a spider's web.
A knock came at her door. She turned.
It wasn't a servant. It was another disciple. Her robes were faded crimson, her expression unreadable.
"You're summoned," the girl said, then added with a whisper, "Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't smile. Don't cry. Just breathe."
Liuyin met her gaze. "Thank you."
They walked together through a different wing of the sect, one shrouded in mist and overgrown ivy. It smelled of crushed petals and something burnt. Servants avoided looking her in the eye. One girl scrubbed a bloodstain off a marble pillar without emotion.
Eventually, they reached the outer gates of the inner chamber.
Here, women in elegant robes lounged on steps, painting their nails with silver powder, combing each other's hair with bone combs. One looked up and smirked at Liuyin.
"So the Ji dog sends his trash here now," she said aloud.
Laughter like chiming bells followed.
Liuyin bowed again. Her eyes were steady.
Inside, incense smoke curled like dragons on leashes. The chamber was ringed in red drapery. And at its center, seated on a throne carved from petrified wood and bone, was the woman no one dared name.
The sect elder.
She reclined with one leg folded over the other, her robes trailing like flames. Her fingers drummed the armrest. Her expression — one of mild boredom, until her gaze landed on Shen Liuyin.
Then she smiled.
And Liuyin felt the air shift — as if the room had blinked and decided she was worth noticing.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. No one moved.
Then the elder tilted her head and said softly, "Bring her tea."
The test had begun.
____
The tea was steaming, fragrant, and served in a porcelain cup painted with blooming camellias. Shen Liuyin held it with both hands, knelt properly, and bowed her head just enough to seem respectful—but not so much to appear weak.
The sect elder lounged above her on her throne, all wine-red robes and narrowed eyes. The sleeves of her dress shimmered with fine spiritual silk, weaving in and out of visibility like a spider's web.
Around the throne stood several crimson-robed disciples, all women, beautiful and deathly calm. Their smiles were soft curves carved by blades.
No one in the room truly drank tea here.
The elder raised her hand.
"Drink it," she said.
Liuyin looked up once, just once—to confirm the command had been directed at her. She nodded gently and raised the porcelain to her lips.
The tea was not poisoned. At least not in the mortal sense.
It burned down her throat like melted gold, rich and bitter. A spiritual brew infused with low-grade soul-paralysis herbs—meant not to kill, but to test the strength of a servant's will. She felt her vision blur, her ears ring, her spirit reel ever so slightly out of alignment.
Liuyin placed the cup down with perfect grace.
The sect elder's smile widened faintly.
"She doesn't faint," one of the disciples said. "The last girl screamed."
"She's from the Ji Clan," another murmured. "They train their dogs with cold."
Liuyin did not speak. Her breathing calmed, controlled. She could still feel the sting in her veins—but she mastered it, as she had mastered the stares, the whispers, the humiliation.
The elder tapped the arm of her chair again.
"Your name," she said lazily.
"Shen Liuyin."
A flicker of something in the woman's gaze.
Not recognition—curiosity.
"Pretty name. Almost wasted," she said. "Why are you here?"
Liuyin hesitated.
Not because she didn't know the answer, but because there were too many ways to say it. Punishment. Disgrace. Abandonment.
But she chose the truth—stripped of shame.
"I was sent here to learn obedience," she said.
Laughter broke out like silver bells again. The elder didn't laugh, but her smile deepened.
"Well," she purred, "then let's begin your education."
She waved a hand, and the nearest disciple stepped forward. A girl with long black hair tied in elaborate loops, her sleeves embroidered with golden thread. Her face was a masterpiece—delicate and cold, like moonlight on fresh snow.
"This is Zhou Mian," the elder said. "Your senior. She will oversee your training."
Zhou Mian inclined her head. "Elder."
Then she turned to Liuyin with an expression that was not quite disdain—but far from welcome.
"Follow."
They left the chamber, the heavy scent of incense still clinging to Liuyin's lungs like a film. Outside, the sun was sinking, staining the red wood corridors with long shadows.
Zhou Mian did not speak as she walked, but her steps were graceful, precise. Not a strand of hair moved out of place. They passed several courtyards, each lovelier than the last—gardens blooming in unnatural patterns, sword dummies dressed in embroidered robes, servants on their knees scrubbing jade tiles with brushes made of their own hair.
Finally, Zhou Mian stopped at a secluded terrace that overlooked the mountain cliff.
"This will be your testing ground," she said, gesturing to a small stage bordered by white pebbles and blood-hued banners. "Every servant must pass the first trial within seven days."
"What trial?" Liuyin asked quietly.
Zhou Mian's smile was like snow beginning to melt—beautiful, brief, and followed by flood.
"You will learn how to walk."
Liuyin blinked. "…Walk?"
"You must walk from this side," Zhou Mian pointed, "to the other. Without falling. Without flinching. While being watched by us."
It sounded simple. It looked simple.
Until Zhou Mian tapped her jade ring. The air around the path shimmered—and from the white pebbles, a low moaning sound rose. Ghost qi. A heavy wave of soul remnants, enough to drag a weak spirit into hallucinations.
Liuyin's stomach twisted.
"These are the souls of those who failed to impress," Zhou Mian said casually. "They won't harm you. But they remember. And they whisper."
"I see."
Zhou Mian leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "They remember what you fear, Shen Liuyin. Be careful what you step over."
She turned and walked away without waiting.
Liuyin stood there alone.
The wind picked up. The whispering grew louder.
She could already hear them—soft voices, warping around her ears.
"…Yueyin… save me…"
Her sister's voice.
No. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. Not her sister. Not real.
Liuyin stepped onto the path.
The ghosts wailed.
The banners fluttered violently, although there was no wind on the terrace now. The world began to tilt. Her knees threatened to buckle.
But she walked.
One step. Two.
The whispers turned to screams. A shadow formed at the edge of her vision—a figure with silver robes and eyes like glaciers.
"You are not important enough to be remembered."
She flinched—but didn't stop.
Tears burned at her eyes, not from fear—but fury. Her hands clenched until her nails cut into her palms.
Step. Step.
Every echo whispered of her weakness, her helplessness.
Every step said: You are worthless.
But she reached the end.
Liuyin stepped off the final stone, breath heaving, sweat cold on her brow. Her back was straight.
Zhou Mian appeared again, her expression unreadable.
"You didn't fall," she said. "Good."
Liuyin didn't answer. Her voice might betray her shaking soul.
Zhou Mian stared at her for a long moment, then murmured, "You'll survive here. Maybe even thrive."
She turned.
Liuyin looked out at the blood-sky horizon, the path of white stones behind her like the vertebrae of a slain beast.
Survive?
No.
She would endure.
And one day, she would return to the Ji Clan.
And make the one who sent her here kneel.