Chapter 36: Even a Withered Plum Can Bloom

As dusk gave way to full dark, the man's eyes — unusually bright even against his pale face — caught the last of the light and held it. When he smiled, a warmth came into them that hadn't been there before.

Zhou Man smiled back.

Then the distant sounds of combat reached her from the direction of the city gate, and the warmth in her expression dimmed. She turned her gaze east along Mud Plate Street toward the mortuary.

Golden Lamp Pavilion cultivators stood at ten-pace intervals along the far end of the street. The mortuary was sealed and guarded; no one was getting in without permission.

Song Lanzhen had been examining the area for some time.

Wang Shu followed at her side, available to answer questions. But Song Lanzhen mostly observed in silence, rarely asking anything.

As the darkness deepened, she withdrew her gaze from the half-destroyed Buddha statue nearby. After a moment's thought, she returned to the blood-stained reeds outside the mortuary entrance.

The snow-white reeds bore obvious burn marks.

Beyond the dark red stains soaked into the ground, there was a scattering of pale green fragments — crushed and pressed into the mud by many feet. Song Lanzhen crouched, gathered a small handful, and sifted them slowly between her fingers.

She had noticed them the moment she arrived.

Even destroyed and ground into the earth, a superior medicinal pill retained its faint fragrance. There was no question: this was the Return to One Pill that Elder Chen had brought from the capital, the one she had been asked to pass to Chen Si.

It couldn't compare to Master Yi Ming's Heavenly Origin Pill, but it was rare nonetheless — capable of healing severe injury and sustaining life when nothing else could.

She found herself turning the question over: after being wounded, had Chen Si intended to use this pill to save himself? And who had stood over him, and with what feeling in their heart, pressing this precious thing bit by bit into the mud?

The pill bore no markings. Anyone who could crush it could also have taken it away.

But there was none. It had simply been destroyed and left.

A shadow settled in her chest. Song Lanzhen lowered her gaze and asked: "Young Master Jin — when you arrived here, you said you only saw the one female cultivator?"

He had been watching her as she examined each thing. At the question he replied: "Yes. She was standing on the roof of the mortuary, bow in hand. I recognized her from Jiajin Valley, so I went up to engage her. But I wouldn't claim that at that moment, in that place, she was the only one present. Only that she was the only one I saw."

Song Lanzhen's brow slowly tightened.

She was about to press further when her expression went still. She looked sharply west—

the unmistakable ring of clashing swords.

Most of the buildings on Mud Plate Street were low, and when cultivators fought and threw their weapons, the light filled the sky. Even from the far side of the mortuary the flashes were visible.

A Golden Lamp Pavilion cultivator ran in: "Miss! The young master at the city gate — he's fighting Wang Clan's Ruoyu Hall!"

Song Lanzhen's expression shifted. "The Wang Clan? How did he end up in a fight with the Wang Clan?"

The cultivator had no idea. Song Lanzhen didn't waste time asking Wang Shu. With a flick of her jade finger, several budding magnolia flowers appeared beneath her feet, bloomed in an instant, and carried her toward the city gate.

Only Golden Core cultivators could wield magical artifacts. Song Lanzhen had cultivated the Twelve Flower Goddesses Manual to the Golden Core realm and had refined the eighth-ranked magnolia flower into her artifact. Her talent was genuinely frightening.

Wang Shu's brow drew slightly inward before he followed with the others.

---

The city gate was chaos.

Cultivators from both sides moved between the wounded, blood dark across the stones of Vermilion Bird Avenue.

Kong Wulu, as steward of Ruoyu Hall, had not intended to involve himself directly. Let subordinates fight — if he stepped in personally, the nature of the conflict changed entirely.

But then he saw the young master of the Song family across the fighting produce a purple lightning whip and bring it down on one of his Ruoyu Hall cultivators.

The purple lightning whip was no ordinary weapon. A direct hit would severely injure, if not kill.

Kong Wulu's restraint ended. He drove his sword at Song Yuanye.

He was a late-stage Golden Core cultivator — far beyond Song Yuanye's level. The attack came with no warning.

Song Yuanye had no time to react.

A pale pink light struck from the side, catching Kong Wulu's blade and blooming into a lotus flower where it landed. Then a white, a green, a deep red — a white camellia, a green chrysanthemum, a red begonia — three blossoms appeared as afterimages along the flat of Kong Wulu's sword in rapid succession.

The lotus had barely registered. When the camellia and chrysanthemum landed, his expression had already changed. When the small red begonia came last — light, almost gentle in its landing — it carried a weight that drove him back three steps and nearly took the sword from his hand.

Kong Wulu stared.

The flower-shadows dispersed. Song Lanzhen stood in a light green robe, a scroll painted with blossoms held in her slender fingers, her posture unhurried. Her face was ice.

Song Yuanye startled at the sight of her.

She didn't look at him. Her eyes stayed on Kong Wulu. "The Song and Wang families have never been on good terms, but we've never offended each other either. Why has Steward Kong suddenly raised a hand against the Song family?"

Kong Wulu's smile was cold. "Perhaps you should ask what good deeds your Song family has been doing."

The fighting raged around them.

Song Lanzhen took in the scene at a glance: the Song family was badly outnumbered, being pushed back on every side. Her expression hardened.

She was drawing herself up to act when, from somewhere above the old city of Xiaojian, a long and mournful cry rang out.

The clouds that had filled the night sky broke apart in an instant, revealing a pale frost-cold moon on the horizon.

Song Lanzhen and Kong Wulu both went white.

They looked up. A cuckoo approached from the distance — barely palm-sized, its wings faintly gold, like two fine brushstrokes drawn in gilt across the dark sky.

Someone recognized it and cried out: "Golden-winged Cuckoo!"

Every cultivator in the street stopped. Weapons lowered. Some retreated to the walls. Some who knew what this meant bowed immediately, heads down.

A short, stout figure came from the far end of Yunlai Street. The small golden-winged bird descended to his shoulder. Its reddish eyes moved slowly across the crowd, carrying in them something that was not quite animal.

It was the plump, pale-skinned manager of Baibaolou.

Song Lanzhen did not look at the man. She looked at the bird. And she bowed.

"A retainer of the Song family was killed in this city. We sought only to find the one responsible. We had no intention of giving offense to Shu, and did not anticipate drawing the Emperor's attention. Please forgive us, Messenger."

Kong Wulu understood the gravity quickly. "Ruoyu Hall has resided in this city without incident. We sought only to address a wrong done to us today. We would not have moved first. We ask the Messenger to understand."

The golden-winged bird paid neither of them any attention. It dipped its small head and began to preen.

The shopkeeper smiled pleasantly. "His Majesty has long kept to the Western Mountains and does not, as a rule, concern himself with the disputes of others. Logically, this matter would not draw him. However, Little Sword City is small and perhaps not well-known, but it sits very close to Sword Pavilion — a place His Majesty once frequented—"

Song Lanzhen and Kong Wulu felt the chill reach them simultaneously.

The shopkeeper stopped speaking. He raised both arms and formed a wide circle with them.

Stone and sand flew. Half the people in the street lost their footing. Then every weapon lifted in the air — swords, spears, and even Song Yuanye's purple lightning whip — was swept from its owner's grip and drawn toward the shopkeeper in a single movement.

He pressed his five stubby fingers inward.

The sound was sickening. Metal shrieked and buckled — every weapon crushed and twisted as though made of cloth — compressing until they fused into a single mass that resolved into a sword ten feet tall, which struck the center of Vermilion Bird Avenue and stood there.

Killing intent. An authority that filled the entire street.

It had happened in the span of a breath. No one had moved fast enough to stop it. Every cultivator on the street stared at the giant forged sword, every one of them pale, cold running from their feet upward.

Even the Song siblings and Kong Wulu were motionless.

The shopkeeper smoothed his sleeve with the air of someone who has just done something very minor. He smiled gently. "His Majesty has decreed — any who continue fighting will be executed."

---

The cold moonlight fell evenly across the steps of the Sick Plum Pavilion.

Zhou Man's brow pulled together. She looked toward the city gate.

The swords and spears had gone entirely silent in the same instant — as though something of tremendous force had detonated on Vermilion Bird Avenue and then vanished without a trace, taking all the noise with it. Every cultivator in Shu knew the golden-winged cuckoo. It was the Emperor's messenger.

"The old man moved quickly."

She was genuinely surprised. Then the thought of no more excitement in the city arrived, and a small hollow feeling followed it. She exhaled. "Boring."

Wang Shu had heard the fighting stop as well, but lacked her perception and didn't know what had caused it. "What happened?"

"Nothing of particular consequence. Nothing to do with you." She smiled and went up the steps.

---

They had returned to the Sick Plum Pavilion. The consultation table outside had acquired company while they were gone: eggs, flatbread, seasonal fruit arranged in no particular order across the surface.

A young man arrived carrying a small jar of wine. He looked at Wang Shu with initial awkwardness that gave way to a somewhat sheepish grin. "Dr. Wang — we were idiots earlier today, nearly smashing up your clinic. Take this wine as an apology. Doesn't matter if you can't drink it — give it to someone else later!"

He didn't wait to see if Wang Shu would accept, simply pressed the jar into his arms as if afraid of refusal, and left quickly.

Wang Shu stood holding the jar.

He looked at it, then at the other gifts on the table — he didn't know who had left most of them. He was quiet for a long moment. Then he smiled, slowly, and with something in it that hadn't been there before.

Zhou Man said, without particular ceremony: "It seems that even with your impaired senses, you can go on practicing medicine on this street without difficulty."

She went inside.

---

Something was wrong.

No lights. The two young apprentices, Kong Zui and Chi Ze, were nowhere.

Zhou Man noticed the moment her foot touched the threshold. She felt it in the air before she identified it — a chilling wrongness, immediate and specific.

She reacted without thinking, twisting her body sharply away from the long blade that came for her neck. In the same motion she caught the wrist behind it and threw the figure hard into the medicine cabinet on the east wall.

Wang Shu was behind the cabinet before he had processed what had happened.

Five figures emerged from the west side of the hall.

They were roughly matched in build, all in black, their faces covered by soft white masks — smooth, expressionless, and deeply wrong in a way that settled in the chest rather than the eyes.

Zhou Man drove the knife-wielder back with a palm strike, assessing the others quickly. All five were late-stage Innate Realm. Approximately her level.

Five to one.

"Who are you?"

They didn't answer. With practiced coordination, they split: three toward Zhou Man, two heading directly for Wang Shu behind the cabinet.

Her brows came down.

She couldn't tell if they had come for her or for him. But Wang Shu was a sick man who couldn't stop a single sword strike. If she let those two through, he would be dead before she could turn around.

She cursed under her breath.

She didn't know their origins and dared not use the Yi Shen Jue technique carelessly. She drew the iron sword she'd obtained from Qing Shuang Hall for the Sword Trial — an ordinary blade — and moved: first sweeping it across to intercept the two going for Wang Shu, then spinning to drive back the three coming at her directly.

Five opponents. Alone.

The two who had gone for Wang Shu were caught off-guard, nearly caught before they'd found their footing. One of them said, cold and low: "How do we handle this?"

The other: "Kill the woman first."

Without hesitation, without any wasteful movement, the five reorganized into a battle formation and pressed toward her.

The iron sword was not equal to their weapons. It showed quickly — after only a few exchanges, the blade was already nicked. Zhou Man was holding them, barely, but she was fighting at her limit and she was outnumbered.

Behind the cabinet, Wang Shu watched. His eyes tracked the formation, the techniques, every exchange. His heart pounded with each second. He scanned the clinic, looking for something — anything he could put in her hand.

His gaze stopped on the plum vase near the wall.

It was small — barely a foot tall, glazed sky-blue, holding a single branch of withered plum that had been in it for a long time.

He remembered one particular morning. It had snowed the night before. He woke to a faint fragrance he didn't recognize at first, and opened the window to find the branch had bloomed — white flowers against the dark wood, snow still on the sill around them.

His master had been delighted. Who says a withered plum can't bloom? These flowers — they must have been moved by your sincere care year after year. Even before a withered tree, spring will still come.

He had been very ill that winter. Delirious for several days. The blooming of that branch had given him something to hold onto — a thread of comfort, a small insistence that things might still continue. He had endured.

And the branch had never withered since.

Moved by sincerity.

He murmured it to himself, something complicated moving through his eyes. He thought of Master Yi Ming's expression that day, the thing in it that hadn't quite been concealed, and laughed at himself quietly.

An ordinary withered plum. Not a spirit plant. Not moved by anything — just a tree that kept living because trees sometimes do.

But there was no time.

He gritted his teeth, ran for the vase in the gap while all five were occupied with Zhou Man, pulled out the branch, and called: "Zhou Man — catch!"

She heard him and turned.

No sword. No weapon. A plum branch arcing toward her.

She caught it by instinct, already frowning — and then stopped frowning.

A powerful surge of life force moved out of the branch the instant her fingers closed around it. It traveled up through her palm and she felt it in her chest: something vast and stubborn and real. Even in frost. Even in winter.

What a sword.

The five saw her moment of distraction and drove in.

She let the iron sword go. She held the plum branch like a blade and swung back—

A garden fell.

The withered branch moved with a resilience she hadn't expected, generating a burst of sword-force so powerful it threw all five of them back at once, and the branch itself was unmarked.

Behind her, Wang Shu's voice came quickly: "Five Ghosts Moving Technique. Two-step retreat, three-step advance footwork — that breaks their formation."

Zhou Man felt something move through her that might have been laughter. "Good."

Weapon in hand. Let them come.

They pressed forward again. She moved exactly as he'd said — two back, three forward — the plum branch in her wrist spinning through its arc. At moments it fell like continuous rain, cold with killing intent. At others it drifted like snow finding a jade surface, deep and unhurried.

"That's the Spirit Serpent Sect Seven-Inch Fist. The weakness is in the face."

She drove the branch straight at the nearest man's face. He collapsed, bleeding from every opening.

"Hidden weapon in his left hand."

She tilted her head. The poisoned nail passed her eye. She flicked it back. It buried itself in the chest of the man beside him and he went down.

The tide had turned so fast the remaining three barely registered how it had happened.

The one giving orders ground his teeth. "Forget her — get the one behind her!"

But reaching Wang Shu now was impossible.

Zhou Man stood between them and him, immovable.

The three, having lost two of five, stopped calculating. They attacked with the specific recklessness of people who have decided their lives are a worthwhile trade. Their strikes were vicious — no longer trying to win, only to force an opening.

Zhou Man was containing them completely, but she was being pushed in the process.

Wang Shu tracked every exchange, calling out what he could — but the situation was shifting faster than words could follow it. He was entirely focused on the fight.

He didn't see the dark blue light creeping along the base of the wall behind him.

Zhou Man snapped her branch and sent several petals flying into her opponent's eyes.

In the opening it created, she drove through — a slash through a gap she'd have called too narrow two minutes ago.

The man's figure dissolved like smoke.

Puppet Technique.

Her expression went to ice. She spun.

The dark blue light had resolved into one of the black-clad figures, pressing forward with a thin peach wood awl aimed directly at Wang Shu.

"Mud Buddha—"

Too far. Two opponents still between her and him. She couldn't reach him in time.

Wang Shu registered the danger a half-second too late. Something in his sleeve went scalding hot — but the awl carried some kind of locking array on it, and the energy bound him, froze his fingers completely.

Darkness pressed in.

The peach wood awl — nine inches long — drove into his abdomen.

Zhou Man recognized the awl and felt her blood go cold. She circulated everything she had, forced the two in front of her aside, and turned.

Someone was faster.

The air in front of the cabinet rippled and tore. An old man in grey was already there, already bringing his palm down on the assassin, killing him in a single strike. He caught Wang Shu before he fell and called out: "Disciple!"

The two remaining assassins saw the new figure and abandoned their engagement with Zhou Man entirely, surging forward with everything left in them to finish Wang Shu before this changed any further.

The old man's fury was absolute.

He flicked his sleeve.

A thread of purple smoke drifted out.

The two assassins barely touched it. There was no time to scream. They came apart — dissolved into two spreading pools on the clinic floor, gone down to the bone.

Zhou Man stood very still for a moment.

Then she moved, crossing to the cabinet fast. "Mud Buddha—"

The old man's strike had been quick. But the peach wood awl was already nearly half-embedded in Wang Shu's abdomen, and a black energy was crawling outward from it along the wound, spreading up across his pale face.

He curled forward around the pain. A mouthful of blood came up. He couldn't hold himself upright. His vision broke apart.

He fell.