Lạc Trần lowered his head, saying nothing.
Madame Mute didn't write another word.
The green-skinned man ground his teeth. Being ignored made him feel insulted. But the two words formed from chi lingering behind them – Selling Clothes - made him hesitate.
Finally, after kicking a few slaves behind him to vent his anger, he stormed off, cursing the two of them under his breath.
A few glowing characters formed from chi drifted in front of Lạc Trần:
"You're not going to do anything?"
He shook his head.
He knew that if he asked, Madame Mute would act.
And when she did, even a hundred lives wouldn't be enough to save that green-skinned bastard. The Penitents behind him would have been freed on the spot.
If Lạc Trần had begged, perhaps the village chief would've relented and found them a new home - maybe in Phù Trúc, or elsewhere around Star Fell Lake, like how he'd arranged for those kidnapped by the mad doctor.
But in the end, Lạc Trần said nothing.
These past few days of talking with the mad physician had taught him something: if you don't cure the root of an illness, it'll always come back.
His heart of Saint had been carved out, but the reasoning that heart once granted him still remained - just a flicker, but enough.
So he understood.
Madame Mute, the village of Sickos - they could shield these people once.
But not forever.
As long as they didn't dare to rise and fight for themselves, they would remain Penitents. Someone else would come to collar and chain them again. If not the green-skinned man, then another.
Madame Mute, the chief - maybe they could break the chains on their bodies.
But the shackles on their souls would remain.
And those, only the Penitents themselves could break.
So Lạc Trần kept silent.
He owed the village of Sickos too much already. Even if they asked for no gratitude, and didn't care for his humility or thanks.
Madame Mute let out a sigh, patting his shoulder as if to comfort him.
And then, from within the crowd.
A sword tore through the air, aiming straight for him. At its tip, chi was compressed into a single silver point, sharp and deathly cold.
Lạc Trần recognized the technique.
A spray of Plum Blossom from Yesterday. A signature move from the Cloudspike Sect.
But the attack came too fast. His mind knew what it was, but his body couldn't react in time.
Just as he realized he couldn't dodge, a sharp clang rang out.
A sewing needle had intercepted the sword mid-flight, striking the very tip with pinpoint precision.
"Honored Madame," a voice called out. "That man is a traitor to the Cloudspike Sect. I have come to purge our ranks, uphold the Dao, and expel evil. I beg you to honor our sect, a sacred land of Aparagodānī, and stand aside. Once we bring the traitor Lạc Trần back, our Cloudspike Sect will surely repay this kindness."
The speaker emerged from the crowd—a plump middle-aged man in a Daoist robe, silver crown on his head, a large fleshy mole on his forehead, and four thin catfish whiskers drooping from his mouth. His fingers were still forming a control seal, keeping his flying sword in check. His face was soaked in sweat, each drop as large as a bean.
Clearly, clashing with Madame Mute, even just once, had strained him heavily.
Madame Mute drew out another needle and wrote a single word:
"Name?"
The Daoist's eyes lit up. "I am Trình Viễn Chí, elder of the Cloudspike Sect. I pay my respects, Madame."
"Leave."
That was her second word.
Trình Viễn Chí's face darkened.
His tone shifted, now thick with menace.
"Madame, you've secluded yourself in the Dry Sea for so long, perhaps you're unaware of the current state of Aparagodānī. I advise you - don't make an enemy of the Cloudspike Sect over someone you've only known for a month."
"And if I don't?"
"Then even if you hide in the Dry Sea, you'll face certain death. Your soul will be perished, and your cultivation path will be crushed under our fury."
Trình Viễn Chí's words were grim.
Truth be told, when he received the sect master's sound transmission last month, he was just as shocked.
Someone had their heart of Saint gouged out and celestial meridians stripped - yet lived.
Not only survived, but walked three days and nights from the Walled Mountain into the Dry Sea, resisting the creeping darkness, until reaching a village, where he was saved.
It was absurd.
Terrifying.
The sect believed Lạc Trần's body held some secret.
If they could retrieve him and uncover how he resisted the darkness, the Cloudspike Sect could march across Walled Mountain and invade the Dry Sea.
Without the threat of darkness, the Dry Sea would be a goldmine.
Countless two-legged cattles to experiment on, to send to mines, to trade to other sects.
Relics and ruins from forgotten eras, like The Market at the cross of every paths, or the temple at Star Fell Lake.
With no darkness to protect them, the Penitents of the Dry Sea - practicing their crude arts - were no match for the Cloudspike Sect.
And so Trình Viễn Chí had been tasked with capturing Lạc Trần alive. If successful, he'd lead the charge when the invasion began. Others would face the danger - he'd claim the spoils.
He chose to strike during the bimonthly market.
Sooner or later, Lạc Trần would come to this crossroads of all paths.
All Trình Viễn Chí had to do was lie in wait.
With a wave of his hand, ten young men stepped forward from behind him.
Each bore a gleaming longsword and wore the sect's robes.
Once, they'd been fellow disciples of Lạc Trần.
Now, they were ghouls come to claim a debt.
These disciples were brimming with arrogance.
Kicking. Slashing. Forcing the crowd to flee, barking:
"Cloudspike Sect hunting a traitor! All unrelated parties, clear out!"
If you lived in the Dry Sea and were weaker than them, you weren't spared, even if you ran. Some were cut and bled profusely. Others were kicked down and trampled. Beautiful women - maidens and mothers alike - were chained at the neck.
Each of the disciples grinned with crude, hungry lust.
They were hunting.
Lạc Trần was the main quarry. His secrets would go to the elders. The rest - the smaller prey - were the Penitents of this market.
"Enough!"
Lạc Trần roared, fists clenched.
But he was powerless.
The "fellow disciples" clearly knew it too. They glanced at one another and burst into mocking laughter.
"Still think you're one of us, huh? Think you're still the prodigy with the heart of Saint?"
"Oh no! S-senior brother's mad now!"
"Please forgive us, mighty senior brother! Ha ha ha!"
"Lạc Trần. All bark, no bite? C'mon, give us a nibble." - Their leader sneered, tapping his forehead as if just remembering something - "Oh wait, my bad. Forgot. Didn't your teeth get pulled and gifted to junior sister already?"
Lạc Trần's fists clenched tighter, his cold iron heart seeming to bleed.
At that moment, Madame Mute stepped forward.
Her lips parted slightly. And sound spilled forth:
"Bear witness, and tremble. Bloom! Peach Blossoms from Three Lives."
Her voice was uncanny - three tones layered as one: a child's innocent babble, a young woman's crystalline lilt, and an old crone's hoarse rasp.
Her form shimmered.
A little girl in yellow, twin buns on her head like garlic bulbs, face round and eyes sparkling - adorable as a porcelain doll.
A breath-taking maiden - almond face, peach-blossom eyes, rosy lips, hair cascading down her back. Her beauty was stunning, world-shaking, making even the air forget to move.
And finally, the old woman herself - wrinkled, toothless, smiling.
Three forms. One soul. Shifting, overlapping, transcending time and space.
Together, they raised a hand.
Middle finger bent to meet the thumb. A sewing needle pinched between.
Three fingers plucked.
No sound.
No chi tearing the air. No storm of needles.
Only bodies collapsing one by one, blood trickling from their brows. Life departing in silence.
Trình Viễn Chí was in worse shape.
Both arms hung limp. He collapsed to his knees. Blood streamed from his eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth. His robes, soaked from within, now bled outward.
The three forms merged once more. The eight-year-old girl lifted a tiny fist, and wrote glowing words into the air:
"Then let Cloudspike Sect come seek justice."
Trình Viễn Chí wasn't dead.
Not yet.
His cultivation was stronger than the rest. He still clung to one final breath.
A crooked smile crept across his lips.
His limp hand clenched. Two fingers extended - the index and middle - pressed together in a final mudra.
And from the air - where his sword had been halted by the needle - a flame suddenly flared…
…and shot straight for Lạc Trần's iron heart.