Blossoming Path-Chapter 229: Threaded Chains

Wang Jun pulled the cloth free with a grin. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

But I knew better now.

That wasn’t cloth.

Even before the folds settled in his hands, I could see it; woven with impossibly fine precision, glinting subtly under the forge light. Links. Individual chain links, smaller than anything I’d seen before. Smaller even than the prototype he showed me weeks ago, when we first tried combining his new blacksmithing skill with my extracted metal essences. Back then, it had felt impressive. Now, this made it look like a practice sketch.

I crouched slightly, letting the morning light hit the surface better. The armor rippled with movement as Wang Jun adjusted it between his hands.

Even the finest robes I’d seen in Crescent Bay couldn’t compare. And those were made from silks, dyed with alchemical pigments and crafted by tailors who crafted the uniform for sect disciples.

Wang Jun raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for my reaction. Then he smirked.

“That’s not even the best part.”

I tilted my head. “You used the essences I extracted.”

He grinned wider. “You remember.”

“How could I forget?” I muttered, stepping closer. “Do you know how hard it is to pull essence from raw metal without causing a splitting headache? You made me do it again and again.”

“Exactly,” he said, folding the armor over his arm like a towel. “You extracted it. You helped build this.”

He ran a finger along the inner lining. “I started with the pseudo–black iron we made last time. Regular iron, reinforced with its own essence. Gave it backbone. Then I folded in copper essence for conductivity, silver for thermal regulation to keep you warm in cold, cool in heat—and finally, gold for channeling your qi. Put it on.”

I hesitated. Then shrugged off my outer robe and slipped the armor over my inner clothes. It settled onto my shoulders like a weighted breeze; cool, pliant, whisper-smooth. Like wearing a slightly heavier silk, except I could feel it humming with latent strength.

I flexed my shoulders. The weave adjusted. Fluid.

“I think I’m in love,” I said, half-joking.

Wang Jun raised his hammer. He had a dangerous gleam in his eye.

I immediately dove to the side. My enhanced senses feeling the wind as his swing missed me by a hairsbreadth.

“Hey! Has the fumes gotten to your head?! Why'd you do that?”

He barked out a laugh. “Don’t dodge, idiot. Trust me.”

I stared at him. Then at the hammer. Then back at him.

He wasn’t joking.

I exhaled, planted my feet, and dropped into a shallow stance. I didn’t activate the Rooted Banyan Stance, but bracing made me feel a little less like prey.

The hammer came down.

A hard crack.

No. The point of contact on the armor hardened; just for a breath, just long enough. I barely felt the blow. The sensation was there, but muted just like whenever I used the Rooted Banyan Stance.

Wang Jun lowered the hammer, eyes gleaming.

“It’s reactive,” he said. “The links stiffen under sudden force. Good against slashes. Blunt strikes. Even heavy swings like that.”

I looked down. The weave was already softening, relaxing back to its fluid state.

“There’s a drawback,” he added. “It doesn’t stiffen fast enough to stop a piercing thrust. A stab or spear will punch right through unless you move.”

“Still,” I said, rolling my shoulders again, letting the weight settle in. “It’s perfect. This changes everything.”

Most demonic cultists used slashing techniques. Wild, brutal. Uncontrolled. The kind of moves this armor would eat for breakfast. Although I wasn't keen on testing it, just having that reassurance would give me more confidence in battle.

Wang Jun wasn’t done.

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He turned, reached into the crate beside the forge, and lifted something wrapped in a deep red cloth. This time, when he unraveled it, I didn’t mistake it for fabric.

Two bracers; black as storm-forged iron, lined with intricate, rippling grooves.

Where the chainmail had been fluid and reactive, these were the opposite. Solid. Anchored. Forged from interlocking plates that curved perfectly around the shape of a forearm. My forearm. With a slot to brace the knuckles and thumb. The folds in the metal created subtle wave patterns, as though the bracers had been carved from flowing stone.

He held one out to me.

“They're built for rigidity,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You won’t feel much in the way of flexibility with these. They’re meant to shield your arms, not move with them. Lan-Yin helped me with the padded leather on the inside. She's better with the delicate work.”

He showed me how to slide them on—start at the wrist, tighten the fold-over clasps toward the elbow, then brace the knuckle guard into place with a twist. It took me a try or two, but once they were on, I understood.

They didn’t feel like armor.

They felt like part of me.

"This is... this is worth more than anything I’ve given you. I can’t just accept this. I need to repay you somehow.”

He rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might stay that way. “When was the last time I asked for anything in return for those pills you keep feeding me? For the medicine that lets me work longer, or sleep without pain?”

I opened my mouth.

He cut me off. “Exactly. Never.”

“That’s different,” I muttered. “We had an even trade. I gave you those, you fixed my tools whenever I needed."

“Think of these as just more tools then,” he said dryly. “Ones I wanted to make. Remember, we're in this together.”

He stepped closer and tapped the armor over my chest.

“But I do want you to learn something. This,” he said, gesturing to the armor, “is called Sevenfold Essence Chains. It's not just some fancy name. It’s a type of living chainmail. Under duress, the essence structure condenses. But...”

He grabbed the bottom hem of the armor with both hands, planted his feet, and pulled—hard. His arms bulged, visibly straining as he tried to damage the equipment he'd toiled to amke for me.

When he released it, I saw it: a slight warp. A small dent where the links had resisted, then relented.

He led me over to the workbench, where the extracted metal essences were still sealed in their vials. Copper. Silver. Gold. Iron; each one glowing faintly with its aligned property.

“You ever need to repair it and I'm not there,” he said, “you’ll have to infuse it with these. Let me show you...”

I found Xu Ziqing exactly where I always did: seated by the grassy bench at the village’s outskirts, Tianqi Duel board already unfurled on the stone slab beside him.

He tilted his head slightly as I approached, brows lifting just enough to show he’d noticed my new look.

“You’re late.”

I exhaled, adjusting the satchel on my shoulder. “Wang Jun’s instructions were a handful. But,” I added, raising one arm to flex the new bracer, “I’ve got armor now.”

Xu Ziqing gave a small hum of acknowledgment. His eyes flicked across the chainmail, down to the wave-pattern bracers, then back to my face.

“He’s skilled,” he said. “He sharpened my blade as well.”

We began the match without another word.

Xu Ziqing set his pieces with quiet precision. I mirrored his pace, settling into the familiar rhythm of Tianqi Duel. But this time, I held back. No diving into the Manifold. No split-threaded thought. Just me, my instincts, and the lessons I’d been stitching together over the last few weeks.

The pace was blistering. Xu Ziqing didn't ease up; if anything, he pushed harder than usual. Every sequence layered on the last, traps disguised as patterns, patterns disguised as bluffs. A month ago, I wouldn’t have lasted more than fifty turns before he cracked me open like an overripe walnut.

Today?

I was still breathing at move one-ninety. Sweating, yes. Stumbling, often. But I wasn’t lost.

My decisions weren’t perfect. Not like the last time, when I’d let the Manifold Memory Palace run wild, mapping a dozen routes ahead in real-time. This time, I only used it in short bursts; enough to double-check a threat, weigh a path, catch a trap just before it closed. Never long enough to lose myself in the depth of it.

Xu Ziqing finally leaned back, fingers hovering over his next piece.

“You’re restraining yourself.”

I nodded. “Intentionally. The Manifold’s powerful, but if I keep leaning on it... It'll become a crutch.”

He gave a faint nod of approval. “Smart.”

We played in silence for another twenty moves.

Then I asked it.

“Ziqing.”

He didn’t look up.

I pressed on. “Have you noticed anything… off when you circulate your qi lately?”

That made him pause. His hand froze mid-air, eyes flicking once toward mine.

“Does this have to do with the violet rain?” he asked.

I nodded. “I think it’s the Amethyst Plague. This morning, while refining, I felt something wrong. The moment I started cycling my qi, it reacted.”

He didn’t speak for a beat. Then he set his piece down quietly and folded his arms.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve noticed.”

I sat straighter. “What did you feel?”

“The circulation was clean,” he said. “At first. But the more I moved it, the more friction I felt. Not blockage—just… resistance.”

I nodded grimly. “Exactly what I felt. Not immediate damage. But the moment I pushed qi too hard, the plague seemed to wake up inside me.”

He closed his eyes for a breath. “Then? What does this mean?”

I exhaled. “It confirms my hypothesis. Cultivators are more at risk. The more you train, the more you exert, the faster it spreads. The others probably haven’t noticed yet.”

I looked at him.

“Don’t use your qi unless you have to. Not for now. Not until I know more.”

Xu Ziqing didn’t argue. But his fingers tapped slowly against the stone slab.

“I’ll need to tell Xin Du,” he said. “The boy won’t like it.”

I smiled, despite everything. “You’ve taken on a protégé?”

“... I’m just killing time.”

But the faint crease of concern around his eyes said otherwise.

We sat there a moment longer, neither of us reaching for the board.

The wind rustled through the tall grass behind us, brushing the field in soft waves. But my thoughts were far from calm.

If my theory held true, if this plague didn’t just infect, but reacted to qi like a signal flare; then Verdant Lotus was next. Then...

Windy slithered across the ground, trekking along the village paths, slipping through puddles, curling through damp undergrowth. Even if the rain had stopped, its stain lingered. The soil remembered. The moss remembered. Windy was strong, but his scales weren’t impervious to taint. And Tianyi? Her Qi Haven ability pulled in spiritual energy from the surrounding environment like a whirlpool. That had always been her greatest gift. But if the surrounding qi was poisoned... would she pull the plague into herself faster than anyone?

My chest tightened at the thought.

Then there was Ren Zhi.

Old, blind, and dangerous in ways I couldn’t fully understand. I didn’t know how much qi he used, or how often, but I knew he carried a well of power deeper than most sect elders. If anyone was at risk of catalyzing the infection just by existing, it was him.

My reserves already rivaled first-class disciples. Some elders. I refined, fought, and trained to get where I am now. Now it would end up tightening like a noose around my neck.

I stared at the board.

I made a mistake.

Xu Ziqing didn’t comment, just raised an eyebrow as I advanced my piece directly into a deadlock trap. I saw it a breath too late.

“Damn it,” I muttered under my breath, dragging a hand through my hair.

The game ended twenty moves sooner than expected. Sloppy. Not even worth reviewing. I could’ve recovered. I should’ve. But my thoughts had drifted, and Ziqing punished that drift like clockwork.

The next match followed. And the one after that.

I played on, but with every move, the pounding behind my eyes worsened. I was thinking in circles. What kind of plague turned a cultivator’s greatest strength into their doom? What kind of mind designed that?

A cruel one. Without regard for human life.

I lost the last game in under three hundred moves. Respectable by my old standards. Weak by today’s.

Ziqing said nothing of it. Just offered a few quiet notes on strategy; my too-predictable use of mirrored formations, a missed countergambit on the river flank. He spoke with calm indifference, but his eyes held a trace of tension.

When we finally packed the board, I rose slowly, muscles sore, temples throbbing.

'What were the cultists after?'

Destabilizing the region was obvious. But why this method? Why something so slow?

Unless…

They didn’t care who died. Or worse—they weren’t planning on surviving this either. Just completing something. Setting the stage. Whether it be for the revival of the Heavenly Demon or some twisted agenda.

I exhaled sharply and turned away from the square. No answers yet. No time to chase phantoms.

I had a shop. A garden. A village.

And a deadline.

I walked back in silence, the sound of boots against damp soil almost drowned by the storm of thoughts in my head.