The dining table in Mo Long's pavilion glowed under the soft light of an oil lantern. The fragrance of soup rose from a large clay bowl, filling the room with comforting warmth.
Min Mao, the young woman with shoulder-length hair, a clean face, and sincere eyes, ladled out a bowl of Phoenix Dragon Soup. The steam curled upward, carrying a rich, savory aroma that made the air feel alive.
"Please enjoy your meal, Young Master," Min Mao said, smiling brightly as she placed the bowl in front of him.
Mo Long's eyes sparkled at the sight. 'Whoa… that looks delicious!' A small drop of drool nearly escaped the corner of his mouth before he caught himself.
He picked up his spoon and took a sip. The first taste made him close his eyes and exhale in satisfaction. The flavor was deep and layered—rich yet gentle—and the energy within the broth spread through his body, warming every muscle.
"This is good!" Mo Long said between bites, unable to hide his delight. 'To think… my first meal in this new body is something this luxurious!'
"If you'd like more, there's still plenty in the kitchen," Min Mao said, her smile widening as she watched him eat heartily.
"Thank you… really, Min Mao. You cook amazingly."
She looked pleased. "How was your day, Young Master?" she asked softly, though there was a subtle note of curiosity in her tone. "What really happened?"
Mo Long glanced into his bowl, then lifted his gaze, offering her a faint but reassuring smile. "Everything's fine. It's exhausting dealing with those people, but don't worry. I can handle it."
"I heard you met with the Patriarch?" Min Mao leaned forward slightly, her voice curious but cautious.
Mo Long nodded once.
"So… how did it go?" she asked again, her tone careful, almost hesitant.
Mo Long chewed slowly before setting down his chopsticks. "It went well. I wasn't at fault, so he didn't punish me—or anything like that."
"Ah… thank goodness." Min Mao let out a long sigh of relief. "Then… what did you two talk about?" Her eyes sharpened slightly, glimmering with restrained curiosity, as though she wanted to read past the mask on his face.
Mo Long's movements froze. For a few seconds, he looked straight at her without a word. His gaze was calm but piercing, like he was weighing her intentions.
Finally, he spoke quietly, "Not much. Nothing important."
Min Mao's composure faltered. Her hands instinctively went to fix her short hair—though it wasn't messy at all. A faint blush spread across her cheeks. "I-I'm sorry, Young Master! I shouldn't pry. I was just… worried."
Min Mao quickly shifted the topic. "I once met the Patriarch myself. He's… impressive—his presence alone commands respect from everyone. But honestly, he's terrifying. Just standing before him made my whole body stiff."
Mo Long said nothing. He simply listened while staring into his bowl. His expression was calm, unreadable. 'She's asking too much. Is it just worry… or something else?'
Min Mao spoke again, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. "You seem different now, Young Master. More mature. You're no longer the boy everyone used to corner." She hesitated, lowering her gaze before continuing, "Your life has been so hard… even Zhi Xin—the only guard who volunteered to serve here, your teacher and friend—he left so soon."
Mo Long took a slow breath. "Master Zhi Xin's passing was painful," he said quietly. His eyes met Min Mao's, calm but piercing. "But everything will be fine. From now on, things will change. I'm grateful… that you and Master were part of my life."
A faint warmth colored Min Mao's cheeks. She bit her lip before speaking again, this time her tone was laced with worry. "But… Young Master, I heard that Young Master Mo Feng will be returning soon. Please be careful. Don't confront him—avoid him if you can, like before. Young Master Mo Feng isn't like Mo Fei or Mo Shou. He's… far more dangerous."
Mo Long looked at her and gave a faint smile—too calm, too certain. The kind of smile that made her skin prickle. "There's nothing to worry about. I can handle him."
Min Mao fell silent. She knew he wasn't boasting—and that was exactly what frightened her. 'There's something different about him… something colder.'
After finishing his meal, Mo Long stood up. "Thank you for the food, Min Mao. My body feels lighter already." He chuckled lightly as he stretched. "I'm tired. I'll rest upstairs."
"Ah—Young Master, your Hei Long tonic." Min Mao quickly handed him a cup filled with thick, black liquid.
Mo Long took it, his brows furrowing at the sight. He brought it close and immediately recoiled at the sharp, metallic stench. "What is this?"
"Your Hei Long tonic, Young Master. It's your final dose for your seventeenth year. You always insisted on drinking it, even though you have no Shadow Qi."
'Ah… so this is the clan's traditional brew, Mo Long thought. I forgot—the Shadow Dragon Clan's arts combine poison and illusion.'
"Oh, right. I'll finish it," he said lightly.
He exhaled once, then downed the thick black liquid in a single gulp without pausing for breath. "Haaah. Truly bizarre."
Min Mao chuckled softly and handed him a cup of clear water.
Mo Long drank it quickly, coughing a few times before waving his hand. "Alright, I'm heading up. Don't wake me tomorrow—I might sleep in."
Min Mao nodded quietly, though her eyes lingered on him with unease. Something's coming, she thought, her hands unconsciously tightening around the empty cup.
Mo Long climbed to the second floor of his pavilion. From the simple window of his room he watched Min Mao hurry away. Only after he was sure she had vanished from sight did he prepare to slip out the window.
The night air hit him. He dropped down with a quiet, practiced ease and ran into the forest. Bamboo leaves whispered as he cut through shadowed paths. His breath was steady; his steps were light as a shadow.
At last he reached the hilltop. The full moon hung high; its silver light washed over the dense trunks. Silence reigned—only the chirr of insects broke the stillness. Mo Long stood beneath a great tree and checked carefully that no one followed. His eyes glittered.
'No watchers here. It would be dangerous if someone disturbed me. Especially — this is my first cultivation'.
Moonlight fell on Mo Long as he sat cross-legged beneath the old tree. The night breeze smelled of damp earth and leaf mold.
From his sleeve he produced a jade bottle, dark green as ink. The liquid inside was thick, dimly gleaming—like preserved dragon's blood. A thin smile touched his lips. 'The Hei Long Elixir. A Heavenly Elixir—so rare even Elder-level cultivators would fight over it. And I… have been given one precious vial.'
He set it beside his knee and fixed his gaze, recalling Mo Han's warning about a dantian exploding. 'Why can't I remember that? The memories of the body's original owner feel empty there—like something was deliberately erased.'
Mo Long drew a long breath. "More important: I must restore this body's qi. A second life without power is meaningless. Better to die again," he murmured coldly.
He closed his eyes and sank his awareness inward. For a long time he sat with his eyes sealed, seeing only darkness as he searched his internal landscape.
Gradually he sensed his meridians—one by one he examined each channel. The conduits that should have been bright and humming lay dark and dead. Then he reached the dantian.
Faint—like scattered shards of glass. One, two… nine fragments. Empty of qi.
Mo Long froze. 'Shards… and this…' He narrowed his inner sight. Between the fractures lay a lump of black, viscous matter—thick as mud, pulsing slowly. He knew it well. Poison.
His eyes snapped open. Breath coming hard. "This is different from that black tonic." His voice was a low rasp. "This is a qi-breaking toxin." He exhaled slowly. Years… this body had been fed poison, drop by drop—until the dantian ruptured. Cold light flickered in his gaze. 'Who did this?'
He weighed his options. Only one way remained—the plan he'd considered since learning this body had no qi. 'The Silk-Weaving Technique.' The only method to stitch a broken dantian back together. But first… the poison must be cleansed.
The Thousand Lotus Purification Technique surfaced in his mind—a secret art of the Shaolin Temple, as rare and forbidden as the Silk-Weaving Technique itself.
Its condition was simple… yet nearly impossible: it required an immense amount of qi—far more than any ordinary cultivator could gather.
Mo Long stared at the jade bottle in his hand.
'With this elixir… maybe it's possible. The Hei Long Elixir could flood my body with qi for a short time. It's risky—but without it, it would take at least a year and hundreds of spiritual elixirs. That's impossible. So… this is my only choice.'
He gripped the bottle tightly, brought it close to his lips.
'Half first. I'll use it to cleanse the poison. The rest—to reweave my dantian.'
He inhaled deeply—then drank half the bottle in one gulp.
BRAK!
His body convulsed violently. A surge of Shadow Qi exploded inside him, racing uncontrollably through every meridian. The pain stabbed like thousands of needles piercing all at once. Veins bulged along his neck and forehead; his face flushed crimson.
'Thousand Lotus Purification Technique!'
He placed both hands on his knees. His fingers formed the Apana Mudra—the tips of his thumb, middle, and ring fingers joined, while his index and little fingers extended straight.
Closing his eyes, he channeled the roaring qi toward the dark lump of poison—driving it out with every ounce of will.
'Out… all of you, OUT!'
Sret… sret…
The black toxin began to stir. From his pores, thick dark liquid oozed. From his nose, his ears—even his eyes—seeped foul, oily sludge that reeked of decay. His mouth spewed clots of black blood mixed with poison.
"Urghhh—!" His throat constricted, his voice breaking between gasps. His body convulsed uncontrollably, but he refused to collapse. 'Just a little more!'
The poison writhed, resisting, coiling back like a living creature clinging to his flesh. The qi within him faltered, waning fast. Mo Long panted heavily, cold sweat dripping down his temple.
"Not enough…" he hissed.
With trembling hands, he lifted the jade bottle once more—and downed the rest.
BOOM!
A thunderous shock burst from his body, hurling him backward into the ground. His scream tore through the night.
Pitch-black qi erupted from every pore, spinning wildly, driving the last of the poison outward. The expelled sludge splattered across the soil, sizzling as if burning the earth itself.
Veins bulged beneath his skin, black and pulsing before bursting open—bleeding dark crimson mixed with toxins.
His eyes reddened; his teeth clenched so hard they cracked. His body shook violently, every muscle strained to the brink of tearing apart. The jade bottle rolled across the ground, empty, its last drop spent.
Mo Long's voice was hoarse as he growled between ragged breaths,
"This Qi Explosion technique… I must see it through—!"
And then the world went white. The air around him quaked as a surge of qi burst outward, consuming the hilltop in a blinding storm of darkness and silver moonlight.
***
On the upper floor of the main pavilion that same night, a dark room glowed faintly with moonlight spilling through a large window. Mo Han stood facing outward, hands clasped behind his back.
Behind him, a figure in a black robe knelt—face hidden in shadow.
"Why did the Patriarch give the Hei Long Elixir to him?" the figure asked, voice flat and edged with doubt.
Mo Han did not answer at once. He watched the moon hanging in the sky, then spoke quietly, as if stating a verdict.
"It was a reward for his effort and unyielding resolve. Besides… it is only the elixir's blood portion."
The kneeling figure lifted his head a fraction. "But… administering a Heavenly-grade elixir to someone who has no qi will most likely only result in death."
Mo Han's lips curved in a thin smile; his eyes flashed cold and unblinking. "If that is so… then at least he will die with dignity. No longer a stain on the clan." He turned slightly, his voice growing heavier. "I'd rather see him die trying than live on and suffer in this cruel Jianghu."
Silence settled over the room. Only the night wind sighed through the open window—cold and impartial—carrying with it the unspoken fact that this night, Mo Long's fate had been wagered.