Provocation

The outer storehouse was in the northeast corner of the Zhao Mansion, a courtyard of blue bricks with thick moss growing along the top of the walls.

Li Tui followed Zhao Yuanchong inside. Just as they crossed the threshold, they saw several wooden crates piled in the yard. The lids were open, revealing neatly stacked blue stone bricks inside. These were Qingling Stones, used exclusively for meditation chambers, with a single piece worth a regular disciple's monthly allowance.

Two handymen were carefully loading the crates onto a wheelbarrow.

Old Chen, the storehouse keeper, was hunched over, recording something in a ledger. Seeing Zhao Yuanchong enter, he hurriedly set down his brush and went to greet him: "Third Young Master."

"Where is the tea my second brother brought back?" Zhao Yuanchong sat in a chair and crossed his legs.

"It's inside." Old Chen turned and headed toward the inner room.

Zhao Yuanchong's gaze, however, fell upon the crates. "Where are these Qingling Stones being sent?"

Old Chen's footsteps faltered, and his Adam's apple bobbed: "It is... the family head's order, to replenish that courtyard in the southwest corner."

The words were vague; he didn't mention Zhao Wen's name, using only the phrase "that courtyard."

Zhao Yuanchong understood. He curled his lip and let out a scoff: "For that jinx?"

Old Chen bent his back even lower, not daring to respond.

Li Tui stood to the side with his hands hanging down, his gaze sweeping over the crates. Qingling Stones were not light; each crate held at least twenty or thirty pieces. This quantity was enough to renovate two high-grade meditation chambers.

"He is a jinx," Zhao Yuanchong stood up and paced over to the crates, "and he deserves to use Qingling Stones?"

Sweat appeared on Old Chen's forehead: "The family head ordered it... this old servant is merely following instructions."

Zhao Yuanchong didn't reply; he reached out and grabbed a Qingling Stone from the crate. The stone glowed with a warm blue light in his palm, with spiritual energy faintly circulating within.

"The meditation chamber in my room," he said slowly, "is still using old materials replaced three years ago."

He weighed the stone in his hand, then suddenly slammed it back into the crate with force!

The Qingling Stone hit the wooden board with a dull, heavy thud. Fragments flew everywhere.

Old Chen shuddered in fear, his back bending until it was almost touching the ground.

Zhao Yuanchong stared at the crate for a long time, then suddenly laughed. The laughter was cold and short, like shards of ice hitting a stone slab.

"Fine," he said, "the family is really going to coddle that jinx now."

He turned around, no longer looking at the crates. "Where is the tea?"

Old Chen hurriedly brought out a black lacquered wooden box and placed it carefully on the table. Inside the box were several packets of tea leaves wrapped in oil paper.

Zhao Yuanchong didn't even look at them, instead tilting his chin toward Li Tui.

Li Tui stepped forward and took the wooden box; it was heavy in his hands.

The two left the outer storehouse one after the other. When they reached a corner, Zhao Yuanchong suddenly stopped and looked back toward the storehouse.

"Qingling Stones..." he whispered, his voice sounding as if it were squeezed through his teeth, "the family is truly determined to feed that jinx."

Li Tui didn't respond, standing there holding the wooden box.

Zhao Yuanchong didn't expect an answer either; he turned and continued walking. His steps were faster than when they arrived, the hem of his brocade robe catching the wind.

Returning to the main courtyard, Zhao Yuanchong didn't go back to his room, heading straight for the training hall in the back.

Li Tui stood outside the door and heard the dull thuds of fists hitting wood coming from inside.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

One sound after another, steady and rhythmic, yet each one heavier than the last. It wasn't training; it was venting.

After twenty or thirty strikes, the sound stopped. A moment later, Zhao Yuanchong's voice drifted out from the darkness: "Wang Yuan."

"I am here."

"Go tell Instructor Zhao that starting tomorrow, I will add an hour of training every day."

Li Tui replied that he would, then turned to leave.

"Wait." Zhao Yuanchong called him back, his voice lower: "Go to the study... tell Uncle Sheng that I read the Annotations on the Treatise of Nourishing Qi today and have a few points I don't understand, and I would like to ask for his guidance."

The words sounded stiff, as if they had been memorized.

Li Tui paused, then agreed: "Yes."

He carried the wooden box toward the courtyard exit, the tumor on his chest pulsing slightly with his steps. The scene in the outer storehouse played over and over in his mind. The Qingling Stones, Old Chen's vague words, the ferocity in Zhao Yuanchong's eyes when he slammed the stone.

Something was wrong.

Zhao Wen was an orphan from a collateral branch, and with the "jinx" label hanging over him, even if the clan wanted to support him, it should have been done in secret. Transporting Qingling Stones with such fanfare was like... like it was done deliberately for someone to see.

For whom?

Li Tui slowed his pace.

Zhao Yuanchong's reaction today was too obvious—the anger, the resentment, and that desperate, cornered ferocity.

Was the Zhao Family... provoking him?

Using Zhao Wen as a thorn to prick the soft cotton of Zhao Yuanchong, forcing him to harden?

Li Tui stood under the veranda, the night wind blowing coldly into his collar. He looked toward the main courtyard study, where a silhouette was cast on the window paper, sitting motionless at the desk like a clay statue.

A thought suddenly struck him, clear and blinding.

The Zhao Family had no intention of raising Zhao Wen.

They wanted to turn Zhao Wen into a vicious dog that could not be leashed, specifically released to nip at the heels of Zhao Yuanchong. Only when the pain stung would this young master of the direct line be willing to move, be willing to run forward with all his might.

As for Zhao Hao... he was likely just another dog in this play, brought in to make up the numbers and serve as a convenient target for a beating.

A low wheeze rolled out of Li Tui's throat, sounding like a sigh, yet also like a laugh.

So, after such a long detour, this was where the chessboard had been set.

He lowered his head, his blurred face reflected on the smooth surface of the black lacquered wooden box, his eyes calm and devoid of ripples. Only the thing beneath his chest pulsed heavily with each heartbeat, one beat after another, reminding him that he was still alive.

To be alive meant having to endure the roasting in this furnace.

It mattered not whose firewood was burning or whose fan was stoking the flames. Whether it was ash or sparks, he had to endure until the day he could see who was holding the fire.

The muffled sound of the watchman's clapper drifted from the distance. Li Tui withdrew his gaze, clutched the wooden box tightly, and turned to walk toward the dim, yellowish light of the study.

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