Dirt rained down around them as the crater settled. Where the Bloodbloom had stood, only a gaping pit remained, its edges slick with blackened roots.
Ling Tian spat out a mouthful of soil, his arms trembling from the qi expenditure. Qing'er knelt nearby, her sword embedded in the cracked earth.
"That," she panted, "was a soul-nourishing array."
Ling Tian stared at the pit. Now that the flower was gone, he could see them—faint silver lines etched into the stone beneath the soil. A formation circle.
"Whose souls?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.
Qing'er yanked her sword free. "Disciples who 'disappear' during night training. Servants no one misses." Her blindfold turned toward the sect's highest peak. "And now we know why."
A dry chuckle echoed through the ruined garden.
"You've made quite a mess, children."
Elder Mo emerged from the shadows, his tattered robes fluttering in the wind. He nudged a smoldering vine with his staff.
Ling Tian tensed. The old man had been watching them.
To his surprise, Elder Mo smiled. "Took you long enough to find it."
Qing'er's grip tightened on her sword. "You knew?"
"Of course." The elder knelt, tracing the formation lines. "But some games require proof before the pieces move." His milky eyes locked onto Ling Tian. "Your father would've burned the whole garden first. Asked questions never."
"Elder Mo traced the scar on Ling Tian's wrist—the one his father had given him during Drunken Dragon sparring."
Ling Tian's breath caught in his chest.
Elder Mo's staff struck the ground. A pulse of qi erased the formation lines. "Come. Dawn approaches, and you've much to learn—heir of the Ling Clan."
The title hung in the air like a challenge.
Somewhere above them, a crow took flight—its wings beating toward the sect leader's tower.