Blossoming Path

The quieter the village became, the louder the sickness grew.

It clung to the walls, filled the spaces between footsteps. Laughter had long faded. Even conversation was thin, broken up by fits of coughing or the soft clatter of bowls being returned empty. When people walked, they did so slowly, like their bodies were remembering how.

Even the air felt weighed down. As though the Amethyst Plague had soaked into the very breath of Gentle Wind.

I had already spoken to Xu Ziqing and Ren Zhi, days ago.

"I can’t train anymore,” I’d told them. “Not until this is done.”

Ziqing hadn’t argued. He’d simply looked at me, nodded once, and returned to the board, but I saw the strain behind his composure. His hands, always steady when placing a piece, now hesitated. Only slightly. But enough.

Ren Zhi didn’t even nod. Just turned his head away and muttered, “Took you long enough.”

But I’d noticed it too; the slight bend in his spine when he thought no one was looking. His trick to slow the plague’s spread, to moderate his qi circulation, was working… but it wasn’t stopping the decay. Even with his terrifying control, he wasn’t immune.

None of us were.

So I did what I had to do.

I distributed the first round of the Calming Lotus concoction to all the cultivators in the village. Every one of them. First, the Verdant Lotus disciples. Then to the others. Even Lan-Yin and Wang Jun.

Some of them resisted at first; Lan-Yin most of all. She argued she could handle herself. That she was still strong. Still needed. But I reminded her that strength wasn’t immunity, and being needed wasn’t the same as being invincible.

And Wang Jun... he didn’t protest. Not really. Just looked at me for a long time and said, “You’ll be giving this to the others too, right? Master Qiang isn't feeling very well, either.”

“I already have,” I said.

He nodded. That was all. Then he took the vial and drank it without another word.

I couldn’t afford to play favorites.

Not with something like this.

Even if I wanted to spare the people I cared about most, if I gave preferential treatment—even by a margin—I’d be compromising everything. No one life was more valuable than another, not here, not now. Not when I didn’t know who might still survive.

Yu Long had stabilized. Still in a comatose state, but based on what Han Chen was saying, he'd likely awaken tomorrow.

The villagers who hadn’t cultivated, who hadn’t drawn qi or taken pills or tempered their bones through spiritual means, they were the ones who suffered slower. But they suffered all the same.

So I prepared the Spirit Moss concoction next.

Simple. Soothing. Fever-dulling. Breath-easing. Not enough to cure, but enough to help. I brewed it in bulk, large vats constantly simmering with faint steam, and each day I filled wooden ladles and gourd flasks and handed them off to the runners who passed them to every household, one by one. I even distributed the moss itself for those who had a background in medicine; to create their own personal salves, to delegate.

It wasn’t perfect.

Some complained of the bitterness. Others said it left them lightheaded. But they drank it. Because even now, even in fear, they trusted me.

That trust was heavier than armor.

Heavier than iron.

Because I couldn’t fail them. Not now. Not when everyone was beginning to slow.

I walked through the square that evening, empty flasks rattling on my waistband, and I saw the way the village moved. Like a body on its last legs; every limb dragging, every motion measured. I passed people I used to speak with daily, now too tired to wave.

Even the children weren’t laughing anymore. Xiao Bao and the other children were confined to their beds, moving as little as possible to avoid aggravating their conditions.

But even as the cyclical nature of the days blurred together; bitter brews, sleepless nights, and the slow death of sound—I began to feel it.

Progress.

The Bloodsoul Bloom was changing.

It had grown larger. Noticeably so. No longer the fist-sized aberration like the one we extracted from the forest. A new shoot had sprouted from its base, curling like a coiled limb toward the light. Its petals, once leathery and sharp like razors disguised in velvet, were now… plump. Not inviting, exactly, but not monstrous either. Less flesh, more bloom. Like it had remembered what it once was, or what it could have been.

I focused on one thing; its desire.

Hunger.

That was the key. Always had been. It wasn’t malevolence. It wasn’t cruelty. It was appetite, unshaped.

So I fed it. Twice a day now. Drops of essence alongside a pest. Each dose changed it slightly. Smoothed its thorns. Softened the hue of its inner vein-work. Not dormant. Never docile. But no longer rabid either.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

And somewhere in those sessions, while watching the Bloom flex and stir with sluggish, satisfied pulses after feeding, I realized something.

Why the Bloodsoul Bloom and the Amethyst Plague could never coexist.

The answer had been right in front of me all along: Xin Du. Fang Du. Ying Xie.

The converts.

They’d been force-fed the Bloom’s essence. Reshaped. Empowered. Loyal. Altered at a level that went beyond the visible.

The violet rain, though; it was different. It weakened. Crippled. Slowed.

Two paths meant for two kinds of people.

The Bloom was for vassals. The Plague was for victims.

It was a binary meant to split the world. Us or them. Those who submitted, and those who would wither.

The cult had made a cure, just not one they could ever distribute. They didn’t want the world healed. They wanted it filtered.

And yet… here I was, with something else entirely.

I approached for one final test.

No pest. No bloodied tray. Just a single drop of Golden Bamboo essence, carefully extracted and suspended in a shallow vial.

I held it over the Bloom.

The shoot turned slowly, tracking the motion. The petals shifted, tilting upward.

I released the drop.

It hung for a moment—perfect, trembling—and then fell, striking the center of the bloom with a soft splash.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then the entire flower shivered.

The drop didn't dissolve instantly. It sat there, absorbed in slow pulses, as if the Bloom was tasting it. Deciding.

I held my breath.

Then, with eerie grace, the veins of the bloom brightened, glowing with a faint golden hue that pulsed outward like ripples in a pond.

It had accepted it.

No blood. No death. Just essence.

It didn’t need sacrifices anymore.

My chest tightened; not with fear. With awe.

I could’ve screamed. Could’ve leapt into the air, shouted to the sky, woken Tianyi and Windy just to tell them—

But I didn’t.

The Calming Lotus concoction was still in my system. And it smoothed everything out like rain over cracked stone.

I stood slowly, letting my heartbeat settle.

This changed everything.

Not today. Not yet. But if I could harvest this Bloom at its peak, fully infused, I could create a stabilized base for a universal cure. Not just personalized antidotes for people like Yu Long. But something bigger.

The blueprint was almost complete.

All these long nights, every failed batch, every theory, every tweak, it was starting to come together. A magnum opus.

The kind of creation that only someone like me—someone not bound by sect techniques or tradition—could make.

With the Bloom left to continue its silent feast, I turned toward the remaining beds.

The Golden Millet was first. Unassuming compared to the more exotic hybrids. When I touched the stalk, I felt the vitality thrumming beneath the husk. Strong. Steady.

I clipped the stalks carefully, placing them into a padded basket.

Next, the kudzu; still thick, still ugly. But reliable. The vines were matted and coarse, curling like lazy serpents, and the roots pulled greedily at the Spirit Soil. I cut away a few portions, leaving the rest to continue growing. Its presence kept the other plants fed and shaded, especially the moss beds near the corners. All the domesticated animals ate the kudzu gratefully.

And then, finally, the Golden Bamboo hybrid.

It stood proud and solid near the back, infused with metal essence. Its segments shimmered like brushed bronze, the joints between them hard as iron. I couldn’t harvest it with bare hands or shears. Without Tianyi, I needed something else to cut them down.

So I visited Wang Jun.

He didn't ask questions when I knocked. Just handed over one of his refined blades; short, curved, with a razor-thin edge and a channel for qi to flow. I took it and let my qi infuse the sword.

Back in the greenhouse, I stood before the bamboo and lowered into a stance. Left foot forward. Right shoulder drawn back. Breath measured.

I let my eyes close and let my body guide the strike.

The blade moved.

One clean, fluid arc.

The bamboo severed at the joint with a crisp snap. No splintering. No resistance.

I exhaled and caught the stalk before it could hit the ground. Despite only reaching up to my hip, it was dense; dense enough that, with some reinforcement, it could be used as a staff. Or a weapon.

I gently laid it into a second basket and turned toward the final stretch.

The jadeleaf lily hybrid was next. It shimmered faintly, its petals translucent like jade under water, catching light in soft ripples. Memory-enhancing. A plant to restore clarity to muddled minds, something even the elders could benefit from. It responded to my touch with a faint warmth, and I harvested it quickly, careful not to bruise the stem.

Then came the ginseng.

I knelt beside it, brushing aside the mulch and moss that had grown over the bed. The moment my fingers touched the root, I knew.

It was ready.

The qi coiled inside it like a tightly wound spring, dense and rich, the kind of energy only found in ginseng grown for months. And yet it had been only a week and a half.

My fingers curled around the base and I pulled gently.

The root came free with a soft pop.

Knotted. Gold-veined. Plump with stamina-rich essence.

The moment it cleared the soil, the Interface pulsed.