Chapter 1: Petals Upon Jade
"A smile on jade is not always peace; sometimes, it's a mirror for war."
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As they ascended the mountain, a group of teenagers clad in deep crimson martial robes, adorned with intricate golden embroidery at the hems and cuffs, made their way up the winding path. Their waists were cinched with dark grey belts, each featuring twin embroidered dragon heads.
Their long hair, tied into neat knots with dark grey silk ribbons, cascaded down their straight, slender backs, flowing in the wind like dark waves lapping against the shore.
Each teenager wore a long sword at their side, silent companion of a martial artist.
Yes—
They were martial artists. Junior disciples of the Longling Pavilion, climbing Lianquan Mountain to attend the Spirit Assessment Ceremony hosted by the prestigious Lianfeng Sect.
Lianquan Mountain was famous throughout the cultivation world for its Lotus Springs—clear pools fed by underground veins of spiritual water, where lotuses bloomed year-round, even in the dead of winter. The blossoms were said to be nourished by the mountain's rare healing qi, and cultivators who meditated beside them would suffer less backlash and could increase their cultivation speed by double folds. A few forbidden lotus springs were even more remarkable, rumoured to channel the springs spiritual energy into the cultivator's inner qi and even help them unlock deeper realms of understanding.
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After the heavy downpour the night before, the air was crisp, filled with the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil and a faint sweetness drifting from the unseen lotus groves deep within the mountain.
But the path itself had turned muddy and treacherous, making their ascent slow and difficult.
Every step demanded caution; one careless move could send them slipping back down the mountainside. If not for their mastery of qigong and their use of inner energy to steady themselves, half of them would have "descended" the mountain without any effort of descending.
The road ahead lay wrapped in serene stillness. Only the sweet chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, the quiet flow of hidden streams, and the rhythmic footfalls of the disciples broke the silence.
Suddenly, the peace was shattered by a loud complaint.
"Why did they have to build their sect so high up the mountain?" a teenager around sixteen or seventeen years old wailed. "Couldn't they have picked a nice place at the foot instead? Ugh! This mud is impossible! My robe is dirty. Even using my inner energy doesn't help much."
He pouted miserably, lifting his robe's mud-streaked hem for all to see.
In response to his dramatic complain, another disciple a few steps ahead turned back, his voice laced with mockery.
"Hey, Wei-xiong, do you even have inner energy?"
The rest of the group, who had been marching in near silence, stifled their laughter. A few bold ones snorted outright.
Everyone in the martial world knew: the illegitimate son of Longling Pavilion's sect master, Ling Zhiyuan— Wei Yehan—was widely considered a hopeless case.
But, oblivious to the scorn in their voices, Wei Yehan nodded earnestly. "Before we set out, eldest brother gave me some rare elixirs and a few high-grade spirit stones to help strengthen my inner energy," he said, beaming. He shot a proud glance toward the man walking at the front of the group.
Others followed his gaze. As soon as they laid eyes on the elegant figure, their laughter died down, replaced by stiff silence.
The man wore the same crimson martial robe, but a white jade pendant tied to his belt in contrast stood out. Other than the white jade pendant, there was another golden pendant dangling beside it which told the status of the dignified person.
This was Ling Zheming, the legitimate young master of Longling Pavilion.
Though he and Wei Yehan were both sons of Sect Master Ling Zhiyuan, their fates could not have been more different. Born to the sect master's noble wife, Ling Zheming enjoyed respect, honor, and unrivaled talent. In contrast, Wei Yehan's mother was a woman of unknown origin—an accident, a shadow in the past no one dared speak of.
Everyone knew who to flatter, and who to scorn.
To make matters worse, Wei Yehan's spiritual aptitude was dismal. He possessed no spiritual core, no affinity with elemental energy—nothing but a mediocre wisp of inner strength enough to light a candle or manipulate wind to swipe the yard. In comparison, Ling Zheming wielded the mighty five-clawed Golden Dragon spirit, a once-in-a-generation talent. His brilliance only deepened his father's contempt for his illegitimate son.
Ling Zhiyuan's disdain was so deep, he refused to acknowledge Wei Yehan as his own flesh and blood. The boy had been given a false surname—a name bestowed not by his father, but by the very brother who had raised him more as a son than a sibling.
Sixteen years ago, on a stormy night, a newborn was found at the gates of Longling Pavilion. Swaddled in a worn black blanket, the infant bore two objects: a jade ring, and a note.
The ring had once belonged to the sect master, thought lost during a hunting mission the year before. Its reappearance—and the note that accompanied it—revealed a truth that could not be ignored.
But Ling Zhiyuan, out of fear of his wife Su Qianci's powerful family—or perhaps driven by pride—ordered the infant to be cast away. If the child died in the wild, so be it. If he survived, it would be fate.
But fate had other plans.
Twelve-year-old Ling Zheming, upon learning the truth from a servant, gathered trusted followers and intercepted his father's men. He brought the infant back.
He confronted his father and demanded the child be allowed to stay.
Ling Zhiyuan refused.
Knowing how fragile his mother's health already was, Ling Zheming refrained from pushing further. He struck a compromise: the child could remain at Longling Pavilion, but would never bear the Ling name.
Thus, he gave the boy a new name: Wei Yehan.
"Magnificent free spirit."
"Lofty and unrestrained."
A name that carried the hope of freedom, and perhaps, redemption.
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The moment their eyes landed on Ling Zheming's back, the group's laughter faltered into awkward coughs and stiff silence. The crisp mountain air suddenly felt thick with tension.
Ling Zheming hadn't looked back once, yet his presence alone was enough to suppress the unruliness behind him. His calm and dignified aura held a quiet authority that neither needed acknowledgment nor words.
The teenagers, now acutely aware of how loudly they'd just mocked his younger brother, dared not speak another word. Their gazes flicked guiltily to Wei Yehan, who stood there still grinning, completely unaware of the shift in atmosphere.
To break the suffocating silence, one quick-thinking disciple forced a smile and stepped closer to Wei Yehan. "Ah, Wei-shidi, you're really fortunate," he said in an overly cheerful tone. "To have a big brother like Young Master Ling watching over you… It must be such a blessing."
Wei Yehan blinked, surprised but pleased. "Isn't it?" he replied, puffing out his chest a little. "Eldest brother always looks after me. He even told me to walk closer to the inner side of the path so I wouldn't slip!"
As if that were the grandest act of care in the world, he beamed with such honest pride that the boy's forced smile twitched at the corners.
Sensing the change in tone, the others scrambled to follow suit.
"Not just that," another disciple chimed in. "He even gave you spirit stones? I've never even seen a high-grade one before!"
"He must think really highly of you, Wei-shidi," a third said, voice smooth with flattery. "I've heard that Young Master Ling is cold to almost everyone. But to you, he's just…"
"…like a mother hen," someone muttered under their breath, barely audible. A few shoulders twitched in barely stifled laughter, but no one dared speak up again.
Wei Yehan didn't catch the comment. He stood there glowing, his grin stretching from ear to ear as he basked in what he believed were genuine compliments.
"Yes, yes," he nodded eagerly. "Eldest brother said I have to work extra hard to catch up with everyone, but he believes I'll become stronger one day."
Walking in front, Ling Zheming's steps never faltered, but a subtle flicker crossed his gaze, too quick to read. Whether it was fondness or something else—none could tell.
As the group continued their slow ascent, the awkwardness faded, replaced by a kind of uneasy camaraderie built entirely on the fear of offending the wrong person. And at the center of it all, Wei Yehan continued to smile, blissfully unaware that the warmth he received was borrowed from another's flame.
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The entire Lianquan Mountain was bathed in an ethereal aura, its slopes and valleys home to over a thousand lotus springs bursting with vibrant, rainbow-hued blooms. The air was sweet and intoxicating, thick with the lingering fragrance of these celestial flowers—so alluring it seemed to tug at the very soul.
Wei Yehan and his group were no exception.
As they ventured deeper into the mist-veiled valley, the enchanting scenery captivated them completely. The earlier complaints about the treacherous road faded into silence, swallowed by the tranquil beauty around them.
The gentle rustling of leaves, the melodic chirping of birds, and the sweet scent of lotus blossoms blended into a seamless harmony. It was as though nature itself was whispering lullabies to soothe wandering hearts.
As they neared the heart of the mountain, the silvery mist began to lift, unveiling a breathtaking panorama—lotus springs scattered like jewels across the emerald landscape, their blossoms shimmering in the morning light.
Soft chanting drifted on the breeze, ancient and melodious, weaving itself into the serene atmosphere.
Suddenly, their escort, Liang Qi, stopped and turned to face them. "We are approaching the heart of Lianquan Mountain," he said in a low, reverent voice. "The Lianfeng Sect is just ahead. Please, follow me."
They walked in silence, the long path unfurling before them like a ribbon of stone, flanked by blooming lotuses and dancing motes of light. After nearly fifteen minutes, the path curved gently—and as they rounded the bend, the majestic architecture of the Lianfeng Sect came into view.
The disciples of Longling Pavilion gasped in unison, their eyes wide with wonder.
The sect's buildings stood gracefully atop terraced ledges, merging seamlessly with the mountain's natural contours. Emerald roofs curved like phoenix wings, and white stone pillars gleamed softly in the light. The entire structure seemed to hum with ancient energy, as if grown rather than built—part of the mountain itself.
At the heart of the entrance stood the main gate, a grand arch of dark wood, weathered by time yet exuding a solemn grace. At its center was the Lianfeng Sect's emblem: an exquisite carving of a lotus in full bloom.
It was a masterpiece.
Each delicate petal curled and twisted in a mesmerizing spiral, so finely rendered that it seemed ready to flutter in the wind. The gentle folds and subtle creases in the lotus leaves gave them the illusion of silk-soft texture, inviting touch, yet emanating a sacred aura that warned against it.
The carving radiated a serene elegance, as if the essence of the lotus flower—purity, enlightenment, rebirth—had been distilled into this single image. It exuded peace and majesty, gently humbling all who beheld it.
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As the gates of Lianfeng Sect groaned open, the disciples of Longling Pavilion straightened instinctively, eyes narrowing at the sight of the man who stepped forward.
Dressed in elegant robes of pale jade silk embroidered with silver lotuses, Feng Tingshen carried himself with effortless grace. A faint smile played on his lips, refined yet razor-sharp. His long hair was bound with a lotus-shaped silver clasp, and his eyes—cold, bright, calculating—immediately found Ling Zheming in the crowd. Then his gaze drifted to the twin pendants cinched to his waist for a heartbeat before moving up and meeting his equally indifferent eyes.
"Well, well," he drawled, voice smooth as warm wine but laced with venom. "The famed young master of Longling Pavilion graces our humble abode. I almost mistook your presence for thunder rolling through the lotus mist."
He swept an exaggerated bow, his smile widening just a little too much. "Welcome to Lianfeng Sect, Young master Ling. Try not to step on our flowers."
The Longling disciples froze, tension thick in the air. Wei Yehan blinked in confusion, then slowly leaned toward the disciple beside him. "...Is this part of the greeting?"
The other boy hissed, "That's Feng Tingshen—the eldest disciple of Lianfeng Sect. And… Ling-gongzi's mortal enemy."
Feng Tingshen turned toward Wei Yehan, eyes narrowing briefly before flicking away like he couldn't be bothered to register him. His attention snapped back to Ling Zheming with theatrical flourish.
"Of course, I shouldn't expect the esteemed young master of Longling Pavilion to be rattled by a few pleasantries. I imagine you're quite used to having people bow before you."
Ling Zheming remained utterly calm, his eyes cool and unreadable. With measured steps, he walked forward until he stood face to face with Feng Tingshen.
He offered a polite, shallow nod—not a bow. "Tingshen."
No honorific. Just his name. Flat as a blade's edge.
Feng Tingshen's smile twitched.
"I see Lianfeng Sect still takes great pride in its flowers," Ling Zheming added mildly, gaze sweeping across the decorative lotus carvings. "Though I do wonder if the roots are as strong as the blooms."
The surrounding disciples winced quietly. The insult was subtle, but there.
Still smiling, Feng Tingshen waved a hand. "Please, allow me to show you to your lodgings. Our Lotus Fragrance Courtyard is humble, but I'm sure it will suit even your... elevated tastes."
Ling Zheming gave him nothing—no irritation, no anger. He simply turned to gesture for his disciples to follow, as if Feng Tingshen were no more consequential than a breeze in passing.
And worse—he didn't even look at him again.
Wei Yehan, trailing behind, tugged on the sleeve of the disciple next to him. "Wait… did eldest brother just ignore him to death?"
"That is how he wins," the boy whispered with awe, eyes still locked on Ling Zheming's retreating figure. "Feng Tingshen's like a poisoned needle dipped in honey. But Young Master Ling? He doesn't even need a blade—his silence slices deeper than steel."
Wei Yehan blinked, then looked between the two elder youths. One smirking, the other serene. "Wah," he murmured, utterly serious, "is this... courtship?"
The disciple choked.
But before anyone could correct Wei Yehan's hopeless understanding of political tension, Feng Tingshen stepped forward again with a flourish, falling into pace beside Ling Zheming as they entered the sect grounds. His voice floated lazily behind him like drifting mist.
"Don't worry," he said to the group, though his eyes remained locked on Ling Zheming. "We've arranged for the best accommodations. The mountain views are quite divine—just like home. Though I suppose, for some, only dragon palaces will suffice."
The jab earned a few strained coughs disguised as laughter.
Ling Zheming didn't break stride. "Mm," he said. "Then I hope your courtyard doesn't crumble under celestial weight."
Feng Tingshen laughed softly, hand lifting to cover his mouth in a practiced, pretty gesture. "Heavens. Still sharp as ever, young master Ling. One wonders how your sect manages under such a heavy sword."
"They manage," Ling Zheming replied coolly, "because they don't waste their breath on decorative blooms."
Silence fell like a blade. A few disciples twitched, stunned by the veiled exchange, their faces pale.
Wei Yehan, trailing near the back, whispered again, "...Okay but it still sounds like courtship."
No one dared respond this time.
Feng Tingshen's smile remained perfectly intact as he led them down the stone path—but beneath it, something burned.
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Feng Tingshen turned with a graceful flourish, leading the group down a winding stone path bordered with pale jade railings. Below the path, dozens of lotus swayed gently in the lotus pond, their vibrant blooms swaying atop the water's surface. The sweet scent of lotuses lingered in the air, carried by the wind, as dragonflies skimmed the ponds like flitting jewels.
"I trust your journey up Lianquan Mountain wasn't too arduous?" he asked over his shoulder, tone perfectly pleasant. "Of course, I imagine it must've been taxing for those less… accustomed to steep climbs."
Several Longling disciples stiffened, uncertain whether to take the words as offense. But Ling Zheming walked with unshakable poise, his left hand tucked behind his back while the other held Yanxiao, his sword. His expression remained unreadable.
Wei Yehan, on the other hand, whispered loudly, "I told you we should've flown on swords, but everyone said walking was more respectful—"
"Silence," muttered the disciple beside him, elbowing him hard.
"Ow." Wei Yehan winced loudly as he shot a glare towards the disciple.
Feng Tingshen continued as if he hadn't heard, though a smirk tugged at his lips. "Ah, but I do recall you being rather graceful, Ling-gongzi. Much like that last hunting expedition… in the Demonwind Ravine, was it?"
He slowed slightly, just enough to glance at Ling Zheming from the corner of his eye. "You remember, don't you? When you… almost subdued that red-furred Yaoguai, but I arrived just in time. And captured it."
His smile was modest. His voice was not.
"Of course, you did land a fine blow. Took out one of its ears, I believe. Very impressive."
Ling Zheming didn't even blink. "A child poking at scraps I left behind. How bold."
That earned a barely concealed snort from one of his disciples.
Feng Tingshen's steps faltered, but only slightly. "Well, scraps or not, that 'child' was praised by three sect elders that day."
Ling Zheming's gaze remained forward. "Elders do often enjoy a good performance."
The tension between them rippled like a drawn bowstring. The disciples trailing behind exchanged nervous glances, careful to breathe too loudly.
Feng Tingshen huffed a quiet laugh. "And here I thought our reunion would be dull. I've missed your... lack of spirit, Ling Zheming."
"I don't spar with jesters," Ling Zheming said calmly, "especially not when they mistake the stage for a battlefield."
They arrived at the edge of a serene courtyard nestled between flowering trees and trickling springs. The scent of lotus and pine lingered in the air. Feng Tingshen gestured grandly.
"The Lotus Fragrance Courtyard," he announced. "You'll be staying here during your time at Lianfeng Sect. Do let me know if your quarters are too modest. I'll be sure to fetch a spare broom closet."
"Thank you," Ling Zheming said simply, gliding past him like water flowing around a stone. "I'll be sure to recommend the view next time a traveling merchant needs a spot to pitch their tent."
Wei Yehan blinked. "Wait… was that an insult? It sounded polite."
"It was," someone whispered.
Feng Tingshen's smile remained as radiant as ever—but his fingers curled slightly behind his back.
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