Zian's private courtyard was a monument to arrogance. It wasn't a place of rest, but a stage—a declaration of power carved from black sandalwood and river jade. The air didn't smell of damp earth or bamboo, like in his sister's pavilion; it reeked of Frozen Mountain incense, an aroma so expensive a single stick could buy the loyalty of a lesser man. The gentle murmur of an artificial waterfall and the occasional tinkle of a wind chime were the only permitted sounds, a symphony of luxury designed to drown out the noise of the real world.
Zian was reclined on a crimson silk divan, a cup of plum wine in his hand. His usual expression of indolent boredom was a thin mask that barely contained the fury boiling beneath his skin. The humiliation of his brother Jin at Xiao Yue's hands was a stain. However, Hong's cold, logical dissection of the situation was a poison that had been injected into his mind. A new variable. Something we don't control. His brother's words were an irritating echo.
It couldn't be. The natural order of things was clear: he was at the top and she was at the bottom, a footnote in the history of his lineage. Any disruption to that order wasn't a development; it was an insurgency. And insurgencies were to be crushed with brutal efficiency.
His spies had already informed him. Xiao Yue's rise coincided perfectly with the strange promotion of a scrawny servant to an absurd position: "Operational Efficiency Analyst." And that servant, that insect, answered directly to the only person in the clan with the cunning and audacity to orchestrate such a thing.
"Have Matriarch Feng come," Zian ordered a servant girl, his voice soft but with an edge that made the girl flinch before scurrying away.
Zian waited. He did not sit up. He did not prepare himself. He remained reclined, projecting the image of a lion summoning an administrator of his jungle. This would be a lesson in hierarchy.
Matriarch Feng did not take long, but she did not arrive with the haste of a summoned subordinate. She walked through the moon gate that led to the courtyard with a measured, unperturbed stride. Her dark gray silk robe, functional and unadorned, was a silent affront to the opulence of the place. Her back, straight as a steel rod, and her face, a mask of ice carved by decades of silent power, showed not a hint of submission. Her mere presence changed the atmosphere; the luxurious air seemed to turn colder, more austere.
She stopped at a respectful distance: not too close to seem servile, nor too far to seem defiant. It was a distance calculated with the precision of a Go master placing a stone. She gave a nod so minimal, so economical in its movement, it was almost a masterpiece of respectful insolence.
"Young Master Zian," her voice was as flat and devoid of inflection as the surface of a frozen lake. "You requested my presence?"
Zian took a sip of his wine, a studied gesture to demonstrate his control. He would try to be subtle, as Hong would have advised. Not a frontal assault, but a web of questions.
"Matriarch Feng. Come in, come in," he said, making a vague gesture with his hand toward the empty space of the courtyard. "I've been receiving… interesting reports since my return. About my sister. It seems the withered flower of our clan has suddenly decided to bloom. An… unexpected development."
Matriarch Feng remained standing, her hands hidden in the wide sleeves of her robe.
"Talent, when given the proper attention, tends to grow, Young Master. I would not consider it unexpected, but rather a logical and welcome consequence for the strength of the clan."
Her response was flawless. Disarming. She had framed Xiao Yue's success not as an anomaly, but as a positive and predictable outcome.
Zian smiled, a cruel curve of his lips. "Attention, you say. Certainly. I wonder what kind of 'attention' she has been receiving. Some say her progress isn't… natural. That perhaps she has a secret benefactor. Someone providing her with 'resources' and 'methods' that are not common knowledge within the clan."
His eyes locked onto her, a direct accusation veiled by a question. He expected to see a twitch, a hesitation, a sign that he had hit his mark.
Matriarch Feng, however, arched an eyebrow. The movement, almost imperceptible, was the equivalent of a burst of laughter in anyone else.
"A benefactor?" she repeated, and her tone was that of a scholar hearing a childish, absurd theory. "That sounds like a theory from the lower-market teahouses, not from the main heir of the Silver Cloud Clan."
The slap was so subtle that it took Zian a second to feel the sting. Feng hadn't denied the premise; she had ridiculed the source of his information, implying that he, the great Zian, relied on servants' gossip.
"Servants do talk, certainly," she continued, her logic as cold and crushing as a slow avalanche. "They talk of how the Young Lady Xiao Yue, after years of being ignored, has finally found her own path. Her own will. Her own Dao. Is it so surprising, Young Master, that the daughter of the Sect Master, bearer of her mother's blood, possesses a latent talent that has finally awakened? Perhaps the real question is not why it has awakened now, but why it was allowed to slumber for so long."
The tables had turned completely. She was no longer the one being interrogated. The "anomaly" of Xiao Yue's awakening had become a veiled criticism of the clan's management, of the blindness of its leaders—including him—for having neglected such obvious talent.
Rage finally shattered the thin veneer of his self-control. Zian leaped to his feet, plum wine spilling onto the silk of the divan.
"Enough games, old woman!" his voice was a low, furious hiss. "That servant of yours, that 'analyst'! He went from cleaning latrines to being your personal assistant in a matter of weeks! His rise coincides perfectly with Xiao Yue's! Do you think I'm an idiot? I know you're behind this!"
The direct accusation, raw and full of fury, hung in the air. Matriarch Feng looked at him, and for the first time, a clear emotion crossed her face: it was not fear, but a deep, cold disappointment, like that which a master artisan would feel upon seeing their finest work used to break stones.
"You think I am behind this, Young Master?" she repeated, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, more intimidating than any shout. The temperature in the courtyard seemed to drop several degrees. "You are absolutely right. Of course I am behind this."
Zian was struck dumb, completely baffled by the admission. He had expected denials, excuses, lies. Not this.
"It is my duty," Feng continued, her voice now the purest steel, every word a precise thrust. "My duty, as the overseer of every grain of rice and every thread of silk in this house, is to ensure that the clan's assets are not wasted. And your sister, Young Master, was an asset of incalculable potential that was rotting from neglect. From being forgotten. While you and the Elders concern yourselves with 'grand politics' and external alliances, someone has to ensure the foundations of this house do not crumble from incompetence and waste."
She took a step forward, a slow, deliberate movement that made Zian instinctively feel the urge to step back.
"I found a servant with an anomalous talent for optimization. A mind that sees systems where others only see tasks. I put him to work. And it worked. The laundry is 31% more efficient. The kitchens produce 18% less waste. And the Young Lady Xiao Yue… has begun to flourish. Each of these are positive, quantifiable results for the Silver Cloud Clan," she paused, her gaze becoming as sharp as a diamond. "Or would you perhaps prefer, as the future leader of this clan, that our resources be squandered and your own blood's talent be left to wither in the dark?"
The logic was a steel cage from which Zian could not escape. To deny it would be to admit he preferred inefficiency, that he preferred his sister's weakness. It would be a declaration of incompetence.
"Do not be confused, Young Master," the Matriarch concluded, her final blow a masterpiece of psychological warfare, invoking the one power that not even Zian's pride dared to openly challenge. "My loyalty is not to factions, nor to the politics of the moment. My loyalty is to the legacy of your mother. The woman who built much of what you expect to inherit. I assure you, without the slightest doubt, that she would have moved heaven and earth to ensure her daughter's talent was not extinguished. I am simply… carrying out my late lady's will. Do you, Young Master Zian, have a problem with that?"
The thrust was perfect. Mortal. She had invoked a sacred ghost. Any attack on Feng was now an attack on the legacy of his own mother, a sign of disrespect that not even the blindest of Elders could overlook. She had disarmed him, not with Qi, but with history, loyalty, and brutally flawless logic.
Zian stood speechless, trembling with impotent rage. He had entered the confrontation a lion and now felt like a trapped mouse. He had been utterly outplayed on his own ground, in his own sanctuary of power.
Matriarch Feng watched him for a final moment, her hawk-like eyes showing no triumph, only the cold satisfaction of a task successfully completed. She gave another nod, this time with a finality that was a dismissal.
"If that is all, Young Master, I have a laundry to oversee. Efficiency, as you well know, does not maintain itself."
And with that, she turned and departed with the same imperturbable calm with which she had arrived, leaving Zian alone in his opulent courtyard.
CRACK!
Zian's rage, with no target to turn to, finally erupted. His Qi, dense and violent, lashed out without control. The exquisite jade table next to his divan, a piece worth a small fortune, did not break—it disintegrated into a cloud of white dust that settled slowly over the crimson silks. The servant girls, terrified, screamed and backed away.
Zian panted, not from exertion, but from the fury of his humiliation. He couldn't touch Feng. The old witch had wrapped herself in his mother's untouchable mantle. Attacking her directly would be political suicide.
But anger needed a target. If he could not attack the puppeteer, he would destroy the puppet.
His face, once red with fury, turned pale with a murderous determination. His previous plans for an "accident" at the tournament now seemed like a childish joke. That was no longer enough.
"Gather my trusted men," he hissed to his second-in-command, who appeared from the shadows. "And send a message to Xue Li of the Alchemist's Guild. Tell him our little 'competition problem' requires a more… permanent solution."
His voice was a deadly whisper, more terrifying than any scream.
"At the annual tournament, I'm not going to defeat her. I'm going to destroy her. I'm going to maim her in front of the entire clan, in front of the Elders, in front of our father if he decides to climb out of his tomb. I will make such a brutal example of her that no one, ever again, will dare to forget her place."