For five days, Lin Feng fell into a rhythm. Dawn, Scriptorium dust. Evening, stolen Silverstream essence. The subtle coolness of the herb worked its slow, gentle magic. The metal contamination in his meridians didn't vanish, but it receded, its jagged edges smoothed like a rusted nail slowly sanded down. The pain became a background hum, no longer the screaming chorus that colored every movement.
His Conscious Focus practice advanced, not in leaps, but in increments of stability. The point of light in his mental void was now less a distant star and more a pilot flame steady, unwavering, a source of calm from which he could observe. His thoughts, once a panicked cacophony, began to move with a quiet, efficient purpose.
He spent his final Karma point carefully, analyzing a basic Herbal Primer he found in the Scriptorium annex. The Ledger confirmed common knowledge but offered subtle insights optimal times for harvesting certain leaves, minor interactions between low-grade herbs he'd never considered. Knowledge he could potentially use.
The day after his last self-administered flush, he awoke to find his spiritual energy circulation, while still pitiful, had become marginally smoother. He could draw in wisps of spiritual energy without the sharp, arresting pain. It was a minuscule improvement, but in a world where his starting point was near zero, it felt monumental.
This fragile equilibrium was shattered by a summons.
An inner disciple in crisp white robes, his aura a restrained, humming pressure, stood at the entrance to the outer dormitory courtyard. His gaze swept over the milling grey-robed disciples with detached indifference.
"Disciple Lin Feng. By order of Palace Master Su. You are to attend her in the Frozen Jade Pavilion. Immediately."
A ripple of shock, then whispered gossip, spread through the yard. Zhang Hai, who had been giving Lin Feng a wide berth since the Duties Hall incident, stared with a mix of confusion and dawning malice. To be summoned by an inner sect Palace Master, a Golden Core powerhouse, was unheard of for an outer disciple. It could mean a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. More likely, given Lin Feng's reputation as trash, it meant he had unknowingly committed some grave offense against an elder's sensitivities.
Lin Feng's heart, a traitor to his cultivated calm, hammered against his ribs. Su Lingxi. He had seen her from a distance once, a flash of white and pale blue drifting across a high bridge between peaks, surrounded by an aura of cold that made the air shimmer. Untouchable. A figure from a legend.
Why him?
He followed the inner disciple, his mind racing through possibilities, discarding each as too dramatic or too naïve. The walk was long, ascending through winding mountain paths that grew colder and quieter. The common areas of the sect fell away, replaced by serene, frost-touched gardens and elegant pavilions that seemed carved from ice and moonlight. The spiritual energy here was denser, sharper, tinged with a permanent winter chill that seeped into his thin robes.
The Frozen Jade Pavilion stood at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a sea of clouds. It was beautiful and austere, all pale jade and polished white wood. The air bit at his lungs. The inner disciple stopped at the intricately carved gate.
"Enter. Wait in the antechamber. Do not touch anything. Do not speak unless spoken to."
The gate swung open silently. Lin Feng stepped inside.
The antechamber was sparse. A single, backless meditation bench of white stone. A low table holding an unadorned jade vase with a single, frost-preserved plum blossom. The cold was profound, not just a temperature, but a presence a stillness that felt alive. He could sense the energy here was not for cultivation like his, it was a manifestation of a will, a domain.
He stood, not daring to sit, his hands clasped respectfully before him. Minutes stretched. He used his Conscious Focus, holding that point of light, using it to keep the creeping anxiety at bay, to observe. The cold wasn't uniform. It pulsed, faintly, like a slow, frozen heartbeat. And there were imperfections. Not in the room, but in the cold itself. A patch near the far wall where the chill felt brittle, fragile. A slight irregularity in the flow of energy from the inner chambers, like a breath hitched.
His Ledger flickered, a cautious prompt.
Ambient Analysis Available: Specialized Cold-Aspected Domain. High-Grade. Karma Cost: 5+ Points. Insufficient Funds.
Of course. He pushed the impulse away.
A door of frosted crystal slid open without a sound. She entered.
Su Lingxi was more than beautiful. Beauty was a mortal concept. She was a principle given form. Her robes were layers of white and the palest blue, her hair like a waterfall of ink swept up in an icy clasp. Her skin was translucent, flawless, and her eyes they were the color of a deep glacier, holding a light that was intelligent, ancient, and utterly, devastatingly empty. She looked at him, and he felt not disdain, not interest, but a pure, analytical assessment, as one might study a peculiar insect that had wandered into a sterile lab.
Her aura pressed down on him, a physical weight of cold that made his bones ache and his breath plume visibly in the air. He bowed deeply, the motion stiff.
"This lowly disciple greets the Palace Master."
"You are Lin Feng. The one with Miscellaneous Spiritual Roots assigned to the Scriptorium annex." Her voice was like wind chimes carved from ice, clear, melodic, and devoid of warmth. It wasn't a question.
"Yes, Palace Master."
"Archivist Song reports you are competent. Alchemist Huang reported you are not entirely useless in a crisis." She paused, her glacier eyes sweeping over him. "I have a task. It is beneath my direct disciples. It is simple, but requires a modicum of care and silence."
She gestured with a hand so pale it seemed made of the same jade as the pavilion. On the low table beside the vase, a small, plain wooden case appeared. It was about the length of his forearm.
"Within is a Frostbell Bloom, freshly harvested from the Northern Glacial Vein. Its innate cold is unstable for the first seven days after harvest. It must be stored in a cold, stable environment, but cannot be exposed to active cultivation auras or sharp spiritual fluctuations, as they will cause it to shatter internally, ruining its efficacy."
She looked at him. "The Scriptorium annex where you work. The deep archive vault, level three. It is cold, isolated, and spiritually inert. You will place this case on the central pedestal in vault three. You will check it once daily at the same hour, noting any change in the frost pattern on the case. You will report any change to me, and only to me. You will speak of this to no one. The task will last six more days. Do you understand?"
Lin Feng's mind whirred. This was not a reward. This was convenient disposal of a mundane chore. He was invisible, non-threatening, and had access to a suitable location. He was a living tool.
But it was also access. To her. To a thread of connection.
"This disciple understands," he said, bowing again. "May I ask what constitutes a reportable change in the frost pattern?"
Her eyes flickered, a micro-expression of something. Surprise? Irritation? That he had asked for a specification, not just blind obedience.
"Cracking. Uneven melt. The formation of rime in spirals rather than a uniform layer. These indicate internal instability or external interference."
"Understood, Palace Master."
He approached the table, reached for the case. The moment his fingers brushed the wood, a shock of cold, so intense it was pure pain, shot up his arm. He flinched, his hand jerking back instinctively.
A sliver of something that might have been contempt touched her lips. "The cold is contained, but residual. A cultivator with even a basic water or ice affinity would barely feel it. Your constitution finds even passive energies abrasive."
It was a statement of fact, not an insult. The truth was insult enough.
Gritting his teeth, Lin Feng focused on his mental point of light. He separated the sensation of cold-as-pain from the reality of cold-as-sensation. He reached again, wrapping his hand around the case. The pain was still there, a biting ache, but it was outside the circle of his focus. He lifted it. It was heavier than it looked.
"Go," Su Lingxi said, already turning away, dismissing him from her world. "Begin today. Report tomorrow at this hour."
The walk back down the mountain was agony. The cold from the case seeped through the wood and into his hand, arm, and shoulder. By the time he reached the Scriptorium, his fingers were numb and blue-tinged. He nodded to Archivist Song, who glanced at the case, raised a bushy eyebrow, but said nothing. The old archivist knew the value of not asking questions.
Vault three was in the deepest, oldest part of the Scriptorium annex, down a narrow staircase of worn stone. The air grew colder with each step, a natural, stagnant chill from being buried in the mountain. The vault was a small, circular room lined with empty stone niches. In the center was a plain stone pedestal.
Lin Feng placed the case on it. As he did, he noticed the frost already forming on the polished wood—a thin, perfect layer of white. He observed it with the detached focus he'd honed. It was uniform. For now.
He turned to leave, then paused. The pain in his hand was receding, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache. He looked at the case, then at his own hand.
An idea, reckless and brilliant, sparked.
His own meridians were damaged by metal-attributed energy, a sharp, invasive cold of a different kind. The Frostbell Bloom emitted a pure, profound, but passive cold. What if?
He didn't dare touch it again. Instead, he sat on the cold stone floor a few feet from the pedestal, facing the case. He assumed a meditation posture and began his Conscious Focus. But instead of focusing inward, he gently, carefully, extended his awareness outward not to draw energy in, but simply to sense.
He felt the Bloom's aura. It was a deep, resonant cold, like the heart of a glacier. It was stable, monolithic. And it was, in its own way, pure. Unlike the chaotic, conflicting energy of the world he struggled to absorb, this cold had a singular, refined nature.
He remembered the Ledger's analysis of his spiritual roots: [Concept: Elemental Affinity (Water)] - Purity: 7% (Diffuse).
Water. Ice was water in its solid state. The Frostbell Bloom was the epitome of an ice-attributed treasure.
He wasn't trying to absorb its energy. That would freeze his soul solid. He was doing something more subtle, more perverse. Using the Bloom's powerful, passive presence as a tuning fork.
He let his own pathetic, diffuse water affinity resonate with the Bloom's aura. Not taking, not giving. Just vibrating in sympathy.
At first, nothing. Then, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in his spiritual sense. The chaotic, diffuse "water" concept within his root matrix seemed to shudder. To ripple. For a fleeting second, the chaos stilled, and he felt a ghost of alignment, of purity, reflected from the Bloom.
It lasted only a moment before the interference from his other four weak affinities shattered it. But in that moment, the lingering metal contamination in his meridians, already weakened by the Silverstream essence, seemed to recoil from the echoed, pure cold.
It was not cultivation. It was acupuncture with a cosmic needle.
He opened his eyes, panting slightly, his forehead damp with sweat despite the vault's chill. The throbbing in his hand was gone. In its place was a strange, clean numbness. He flexed his fingers. They moved freely.
He looked at the case with new eyes. It wasn't just a chore. It was an environmental tool. A temporary piece of infrastructure he could exploit.
As he left the vault and climbed the stairs back to the dusty annex light, the Demiurge's Ledger, silent throughout the encounter, finally presented a message.
Karmic Opportunity Detected: Utilization of 'Chore Trope' for Auxiliary Benefit. Passive Sympathetic Resonance Achieved.
Karma Points Gained: +1.
Current Karma Balance: 2.
Lin Feng's lips curved into a thin, cold smile that mirrored the environment he'd just left. He had been given a task by an icy goddess who saw him as less than a servant. He had turned it into a diagnostic session and a physical therapy treatment.
He looked up towards the high peaks where the Frozen Jade Pavilion perched. He had met Su Lingxi. He had felt the immense, frozen desert of her power and the tiny, almost invisible cracks in its perfection the hitch in the domain's breath, the brittle spot in the antechamber cold.
She thought she was using a disposable tool.
Lin Feng tucked the newly earned Karma point away, a seed of potential. He was a tool, alright. But he was a tool with a mind, a ledger, and a growing understanding of how to turn every situation, even sub-zero humiliation, into a grinding stone to sharpen himself.
The game had just introduced a new piece on the board. And Lin Feng was already calculating how to make her power, her very indifference, part of his foundation.