The journey back to the Tang Estate was a blur of silver moonlight and silent, high-speed movement. Shen Yu moved with the effortless grace, but his mind was a whirlwind of cold calculations.

Beside him, Meng Yan and Xu Yi sensed the shift in his aura; the playful, dominant lover had retreated, replaced by a focused strategist whose gaze remained fixed on the city walls like a hawk’s.

As they slipped through the outer gates, the city was still humming with the chaotic energy of the night’s violence. The acrid stench of smoke from the ruins of the Peng Estate hung heavy in the air, but around the Tang residence, the atmosphere was one of solemn, reverent protection. A massive crowd of citizens had gathered, holding flickering vigils and speaking in hushed, fearful tones about their "Golden Paragon’s" safety.

When the trio finally appeared, a collective gasp rippled through the mob. The sight was harrowing: Shen Yu’s upper robes were shredded, leaving his muscular torso exposed and crisscrossed with jagged, bleeding gashes. Meng Yan and Xu Yi were in no better state, their fine silks torn and their skin marred by dark, bruising wounds that radiated an unsettling, sickly energy.

The crowd stared in a mixture of horror and instinctive revulsion. "Demonic Qi..." someone whispered, the words spreading like a contagion. The wounds didn’t look like honorable battle scars; they looked like the work of a monster.

The narrative Shen Yu had meticulously prepared took root instantly in their minds. Before leaving the ravine, he had used his own demonic Qi to lash his women, ensuring their injuries bore the telltale "stain" of the dark paths. To the public, the story was now clear: Peng Kai hadn’t just fled; he had sold his soul to the abyss and escaped with the help of a demonic horror.

Shen Yu didn’t stop to address the mourners. He kept his head low, the image of a wounded hero too burdened by grief to speak, and bypassed the main entrance. He moved through a side courtyard, heading straight for the inner sanctum where the sharp, cooling scent of medicinal herbs signaled his final objective for the night.

He burst into the chamber, his robes fluttering behind him. The room was bathed in the soft glow of spirit-stone lamps. Several Tang physicians were huddled near a bed, their faces etched with exhaustion and worry. On the bed lay Mei Yilan, her usually vibrant complexion now as pale as winter frost. Beside her stood Lixue, her eyes swollen because of tears.

"Out. All of you," Shen Yu commanded, his voice a low, vibrating chord of authority.

The physicians didn’t dare hesitate; they bowed deeply and scrambled from the room. Lixue stood beside Mei Yilan, and Meng Yan and Xu Yi remained at the door, acting as silent sentinels.

Shen Yu approached the bedside, his eyes softening as he looked at the woman who had stood as his shield. Yilan’s breathing was shallow, and her Qi was a fractured mess, leaking from her dantian like water from a shattered vase. The technique she had used hadn’t just burned her energy, it had begun to singe the very roots of her soul.

He sat on the edge of the bed and took her cold, limp hand in his. A flash of genuine possessiveness flared in his eyes.

’You are mine to break, Yilan,’ he thought, his thumb grazing her knuckles. ’I will not allow the heavens or a few Peng dogs to take you from me.’ 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

He closed his eyes, activating his inner vision. He could see her internal landscape: the meridians were unaffected, but her golden core was dimming, pulsing with a faint, sickly light. Most healers would call this a terminal decline, a slow descent into becoming a mortal, or worse, death.

But Shen Yu was no ordinary healer.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice a low, possessive vibration. "You did well, Aunt Yilan. But your work is far from finished. You still have to see me reach the peak... and you still have to pay the price for being so reckless with your life."

He pulled back, his face instantly smoothing into the mask of the concerned Golden Paragon. Straightening his robes, he turned to Lixue and the gathered disciples, his eyes reflecting a feigned but heavy weariness. "Aunt Yilan’s life is no longer in immediate danger," he announced, causing a collective sigh of relief to ripple through the room.

"However, the strain on her spirit has forced her into a deep coma. I must go to the alchemical chambers immediately to concoct a restorative pill. No one is to disturb her."

What he left unsaid, what no physician in this city could have even diagnosed, was that her Golden Core had suffered hairline fractures. To the rest of the world, she was a fading master; to him, she was a masterpiece in need of a delicate, dark restoration.

He stormed out, his pace brisk and commanding. Upon reaching the Tang Clan’s alchemical wing, he summoned the head herbalist and rattled off a list of rare, high-grade ingredients with such precision that the old man didn’t even dare to ask about the price.

Half an hour later, Shen Yu sat cross-legged before a heavy, bronze cauldron. The air in the chamber hummed with the scent of bitter stalks and sweet resins. The recipe he was attempting was the Soul-Binding Verdant Pill, a secret formula he had plundered from a forgotten inheritance realm in his previous life.

Because his current cultivation was only at the Qi Condensation stage, he knew he couldn’t refine the high-tier ingredients in a single burst without the cauldron exploding. With cold, surgical focus, he split the process into three distinct phases.

First, he used his Qi to strip the impurities from the herbs one by one, creating a floating cluster of glowing liquid essences. Second, he began the "Cold-Fusion" phase, slowly merging the incompatible elements in small, controlled batches to prevent a backlash of spiritual energy. Finally, he channeled his Yang energy into the cauldron, acting as a hammer to forge the liquid into a solid form.

The hours bled away. The deep blue of the night turned into the pale, bruised purple of dawn, and finally, the golden heat of evening. Sweat poured down Shen Yu’s face, his skin flushed from the constant heat of the alchemical fire.

"Now!" he hissed.

With a final, violent burst of Yang energy, the cauldron shuddered. He tapped the side of the bronze vessel, and a streak of light shot upward. He caught it mid-air. Resting in his palm was a pill the color of a deep summer sky, pulsing with a faint, golden inner glow. He quickly sealed it inside a jade bottle to preserve its potency.

As he stood up, the world tilted dangerously. The combination of his own unhealed wounds, the massive expenditure of Qi, and the grueling focus of the refining session hit him all at once. He swayed, a sharp wave of dizziness clouding his vision.

He bit his tongue, the copper taste of blood snapping him back to reality. He didn’t have time for weakness. Shaking his head to clear the fog, he gripped the jade bottle tight and began the walk back to Yilan’s chambers.

The nephew’s work was only half-done.