Quinming slams his head against the table, the cool wooden surface offering little comfort. He glances at the untouched meal, eyes narrowing as his stomach growls.

“Three days... no closer than before,” he grumbles. “Do I need to reassess my strategy?” It is not like he has many options. He is currently playing the long game. But hearing about Huashun rattled him. Made him anxious. Made him want to rush.

The dim candlelight casts long shadows on the polished wooden walls. His small table in the servants' break room feels like a prison cell, and the mismatched chairs around it might as well be shackles.

Waking up in this sorry excuse of a body, Quinming’s first thought was to bolt straight for Mount Hua and the Huashun Sect. But reality quickly crushed that ambition.

Did the Quinming get far? Of course not. Prior to waking up in this body the kid had tried playing hero, saving a courtesan from some drunken oaf, and ended up with a broken arm and bruised ribs for his trouble. Both of which still nagged at Quinming from time to time.

“Admirable, but utterly foolish,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Nearly got himself killed trying to play hero with this weak-ass body. ‘Not a fairy tale, kid. More like a cautionary tale for idiots.’

Quinming picks up the half-empty wine cup, staring at the reflection of a stranger with hollow eyes. He lifts it to his lips and drinks deeply, wincing at the stale taste. The wine burns his throat, mirroring the bitterness in his chest. He sets the cup down with a thud, his fingers tightening around it.

“Fairy tales and heroics,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Without power, they’re just empty dreams.” The room feels colder, the shadows longer, as he contemplates the harsh lessons life has taught him.

His muscles ache from tension. He rubs his temples, trying to soothe the relentless headache pounding in his skull.

He jokes, but even now, Quinming is not sure if he is truly Quin-Quin or just an old ghost haunting a young body. At times he gets random flashes of knowledge, like whispers from the kid buried deep within.

Quinming clenches his fists. Memories flash before his eyes—battles fought and won, comrades lost. He looks down at his hands, now small and frail, and shakes his head, the ghostly echo of his former strength taunting him.

"Poor kid," he murmurs. "Never stood a chance against what I’ve become.”

He prefers to believe he and Quin-Quin are the same. The alternative? Too bitter to swallow.

His thoughts drift back to the first time he left that cramped storage room. Servants whispered about his bravery, but all he saw was futility. How many battles had he faced only to meet stronger foes? And now, even his body was a traitor.

The parallels are bitter for Quinming—a warrior brought low by his own heroics. Did that not sound familiar?

Memories of the sect's grand halls and disciplined training sessions fill his mind. He remembers the time he scaled the mountain with ease, his body a well-honed weapon. Now, even a flight of stairs seems insurmountable.

Quinming tightens his grip on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening. “Kid, you’ve got guts,” he murmurs, staring at his reflection in the polished wood. “But guts without brains and luck? Useless.”

He releases the table, flexing his fingers as if trying to grasp something more tangible than his fading hope.

He chuckles darkly, the sound echoing off the walls. “Three days, and I’m talking to myself. Great. Just great.”

The room is silent, save for the faint creaking of floorboards from the hallway and the distant murmur of the brothel’s activities.

He slams his fists on the table, the impact resonating through the wood, a futile attempt to dispel his frustration.

He glares at the binding seal on his wrist, the mark a constant reminder of his captivity. He studies once more the intricate design, analyzing its structure and searching for any potential weaknesses or ways to circumvent its effects.

It proves useless. Just as it did all the times before. ‘Must find alternative methods, but how...’

He scratches at the raised, angry mark on his wrist. ‘Wonderful, a mystical brand and no idea how to ditch it.’

“I should’ve hit the books instead of heads,” he jokes “Karma’s a real piece of work. Shouldn’t have picked on that bookworm Jin back then. Can it get any worse?”

‘I didn't study this shit because I didn't need to. But now without qi...’

As he lets out another sigh, contemplating his current misery, the sound of footsteps draws his attention. He looks up just in time to see three older boys enter with food trays. They spot him and saunter over, nudging each other and snickering as they set their trays on another table, their eyes gleaming with mischief.

Why bother learning their names? They do not deserve that dignity. Their flaws are enough to identify them, and that is all he needs. A grim smile tugs at Quinming’s lips.

Hoof Muzzle, with his elongated snout and comically tragic features. Crooked-teeth, the so-called leader with a chaotic grin that could frighten children. Silk Tongue, annoyingly handsome and always flirting, his charm as superficial as his intentions. They deserve these monikers, not real names.

More than that, he knows what is coming. He really should not have asked if it could get worse. The universe always listens. And delivers.

Quinming groans internally. The Plum Sword Sovereign, reduced to being bullied by qi-less punks who do not know the world beyond this brothel. It is ridiculous.

The boys, eager to assert their dominance, swarm around Quinming like vultures circling prey.

Hoof Muzzle, with his elongated, equine features, plops onto the table and starts poking Quinming’s forehead, each tap a deliberate, mocking blow, his sneer widening with each touch. “Feeling special, kid? Must be nice being the little favorite.”

Crooked-teeth swipes a bite of Quinming’s food, chewing with relish. “Yeah, enjoying your fancy scraps while we’re packed like pigs,” he sneers, crumbs falling from his crooked grin.

Quinming’s eyes narrow as the older boys circle him, their resentment palpable, a dark cloud of envy and spite. He knows why they hate him—his mother, a long-dead courtesan, had earned him scraps of privileges they could only dream of. If you could call a cramped closet and occasional food scraps privileges.

Their envy clouds their judgment. If only they knew how little there is to be jealous of,’ Quinming thinks, bitterness lacing his thoughts.

Usually, he tries to avoid them, well aware of the simmering hostility. But today? Today he has had enough. His patience, like his luck, has run dry, leaving a void filled with simmering rage.

His fists clench at his sides, a storm brewing behind his eyes. Enough. It’s time to turn the tables.’

Hoof Muzzle leans closer, his breath reeking of stale meat and pickled cabbage, making Quinming’s nose wrinkle in disgust. “How does it feel, kid, being the little boy toy for all those pretty ladies?”

Hoof Muzzle’s finger jabs at Quinming’s forehead with each word, leaving a series of red marks. Quinming’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his gaze steady, his eyes hardening with each poke as if daring Hoof Muzzle to continue. He can feel the tension building, his body preparing for what is to come.

Crooked-teeth, still munching, adds his sneer. “Yeah, you must love all that special treatment. Sleeping alone while we’re crammed together like pigs. Pigs, kid.”

Quinming smirks. 'Wow, pigs, huh? Got a real way with words, don’t you? Might wanna try repeating yourself again for dramatic effect.'

Silk Tongue, ever the charmer, winks at Quinming. "Maybe you can put in a good word for us, huh? Get us some of that special treatment too."

Quinming raises an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Jealous much? Maybe if you weren’t useless punks, you’d get decent treatment too.”

Hoof Muzzle’s smile falters, then returns with renewed spite. “Big words from someone who couldn’t fight off a drunk.”

Crooked-teeth’s laugh is a harsh, grating sound. “Yeah, your mom must be so proud, wherever she is,” he sneers, the words cutting like a dull blade.

Quinming’s lips curl into a sardonic grin. “At least my mother didn’t pawn me off like some secondhand trinket,” he retorts, his voice dripping with contempt.

The room falls into an uneasy silence, their faces a mix of shock and rage.

Silk Tongue’s charming facade drops, replaced by a scowl. “Watch your mouth, twig. You don’t want to make us angry,” he warns, his voice low and menacing.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Quinming’s demeanor shifts. His eyes become cold and calculating, a chilling calm settling over him. He leans into the attacking finger. “Oh, I’m quaking in my boots. Show me what you’ve got, punks,” he challenges, his voice steady and unyielding. ‘Time to see what these brats are really made of.’

Their bravado falters, the break room’s taunts fading into silence. The lantern’s flicker casts long shadows, their uncertainty growing as they face the defiant, unyielding figure before them.

Hoof Muzzle snaps, yanking Quinming's hair back. "Listen here, pretty boy-toy, you really don’t know your place, do y-”

Like a viper striking, Quinming jabs the soft spot on the older boy's neck with deadly precision.

Hoof Muzzle collapses, choking violently. Quinming steps back, heart pounding with adrenaline. ‘Hoof Muzzle down. Not even a challenge,’ he thinks, his gaze shifting to the next target.

Crooked-teeth and Silk Tongue freeze, their bravado evaporating in the face of Quinming's cold determination.

“Next?” he taunts, his voice chillingly calm. “Need a moment to gather your courage?”

They curse and lunge. Quinming knows he cannot rely on brute strength in this frail body. He has to be cunning, strategic. He ducks, sweeps Silk Tongue’s legs with a swift kick, and punches him in the crotch. A muffled scream breaks the croaks.

‘Silk Tongue down. Extra points for poetic justice. Bet he didn’t see that coming.’

“You!”

Quinming dodges Crooked-teeth’s wild swings, each miss fueling his frustration. ‘Swing and a miss, buddy. Your form is pathetic. Keep trying.’

Quinming uses Crooked-teeth’s own momentum against him, swiftly sidestepping and tripping him with a calculated move. As Crooked-teeth stumbles, Quinming leaps onto a chair, then the table, using gravity to his advantage. He launches himself, elbow crashing down with brutal force on Crooked-teeth's skull.

Dazed, Crooked-teeth falls. Quinming straddles him, a switch flipping inside him, unleashing a torrent of punches. His fists become a blur, each punch precise and brutal. Blood spatters, painting the floor in a spray of crimson. His knuckles ache, but he does not stop. The room fills with the sickening thud of flesh hitting flesh, a grim symphony of violence.

‘Look at this mess. Seems I’m still a natural, even when it comes to breaking faces.’

Crooked-teeth’s face is a mess. Bloodied and unrecognizable. Quinming’s expression remains eerily calm, almost detached, as he continues to pummel the boy beneath him. Each punch is delivered with horrifying efficiency.

‘Meditation has nothing on this kind of therapy.’

Quinming rises slowly, each breath a labored, ragged gasp. His knuckles, raw and torn, ooze blood that drips steadily to the wooden floor below, each drop falling with a soft, rhythmic patter. Each drop echoes in the silence.

The other boys, faces pale and eyes wide with terror, cannot bring themselves to meet his gaze. They cower, trembling, their bravado shattered.

Quinming’s eyes are cold, devoid of any warmth or pity. He glances down at his bloody knuckles, flexing his fingers as if testing their strength. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the faint dripping of blood, each drop a macabre metronome marking the passage of time.

Quinming remains unsettlingly calm, his face a mask of detached indifference, as if the violence he just committed was nothing more than a routine task. The flickering light plays across his features, casting eerie shadows that highlight the contrast between the violence of his actions and the serenity of his demeanor.

The boys’ breaths are shallow, their bodies frozen in palpable fear. They can almost feel the weight of Quinming’s gaze, a silent testament to the ruthlessness lurking beneath his seemingly frail exterior.

Without a word, he steps over the fallen forms, his footsteps unnervingly measured. The floorboards creak under his weight, a stark contrast to the fluid grace of his movements. He pauses by the trays, the scent of spilled wine and crushed food meshing with the coppery tang of blood.

After taking a gulp, he pours the drinks over his hands, the liquid melding with the blood. The act feels almost sacramental, a ritualistic cleansing of his sins. Each drop purges the violence, turning the scene into a twisted form of purification. The wine and blood flow together, each droplet an offering to the silence that now envelops the room.

He grabs a cloth napkin, wiping his knuckles with methodical precision, each stroke deliberate. Every swipe of the cloth is deliberate, a solemn ceremony erasing the evidence of his actions and restoring a sense of purity to his hands. The blood and wine stain the napkin, transforming it into a grim relic of the brutality that just transpired.

With a final, disdainful glance at the cowering boys, he tosses the bloodstained napkin onto Crooked-teeth’s ruined form. His smirk is a twisted parody of satisfaction, a silent declaration of dominance.

He swipes their three meat buns. Each one stained with blood. He takes a deliberate bite of one. “Go ahead, tattle. I’d love to hear you explain how you got beat by a twig like me.”

He strides out, leaving them in stunned silence. Each step echoes ominously in the stillness. A twisted smirk plays on his lips, his exit marked by casual menace.

‘Refreshing. Almost feels good to breathe again.’

He hums a low tune in the hallway, savoring the small victory of the stolen meat buns, his shoulders light with dark satisfaction. This place, awful as it is, pales in comparison to the true hell he has endured. Those boys? Mere nuisances, even in this qi-less, frail body.

As Quinming strolls through the brothel, battlefield memories flood his mind—the agonized cries of the wounded, the overpowering stench of blood and sweat, and the relentless clash of steel. He recalls his comrades, their shared determination. The brothel, with its sickly sweet perfume and gaudy decorations, is a mockery of true danger.

He shakes his head at the contrast.

The petty malice of Hoof Muzzle, Crooked-teeth, and Silk Tongue? They are insignificant compared to cultists who fought to their last breath. The break room skirmish is a pale shadow of the carnage he unleashed in darker days.

‘Minor irritants, nothing more.’

The scars on his soul run deep, forged in the relentless crucible of war. This place, with all its gaudy pretense, is child’s play compared to the abyss he once stared into.

His humming persists, a dark melody that echoes through the hall. Beneath his fragile facade, the spirit of a warrior endures. He glances at his bloodied knuckles, the sharp pain a reminder of his resilience. Despite the horrors of his past, a flicker of hope warms his chest—an ember of defiance that refuses to die.

All the while, he remains blissfully unaware of the challenge he is unwittingly walking into.

---

“Wha-What did you say?" His voice trembles, a rare crack in his composed facade.

Auntie Mei’s frown deepens, the lines around her mouth tightening. “Tonight you are helping in the sanguine rooms, not the main floor,” she repeats, her voice like iron. Quinming swallows hard, the weight of her words sinking in. “You’ve had long enough to recover. It’s time you returned to your duties.”

Quinming’s face drains of color, his heart pounding in his chest. The Sword Saint, who once stood unfazed before charging armies, now feels a cold sweat trickle down his back, the dread coiling in his stomach like a venomous snake. His fingers twitch at his sides, an unconscious reaction to him seeking his sword.

In Taoism, celibacy was not required, but cultivation nearly eradicated all bodily urges. Just as Madam Li sacrificed for youth, Taoists sacrificed such desires for cultivation.

Quinming shifts uncomfortably, the concept of intimacy foreign to him. Years spent perfecting his swordsmanship and stealing wine from elders and crushing rivals had left little room for such thoughts.

He glances at his reflection, noting the youthful features that belie his true age. Even now, at eighty-nine going on fourteen, the idea of desire feels like a distant, untouchable star, entirely beyond his grasp.

Romance and crap? Distractions. Give him a sword and a good fight any day. ‘Intimacy,’ he thinks, ‘is as alien to me as trying to smell the color blue.’ He had seen others lose themselves in passion, but those feelings were as distant as foreign lands.

And now, thrust into these foreign lands? Forced to witness passions up close? The mere idea is... horrifying.

Embarrassment floods his senses, his face burning as if caught in an unforgivable act. ‘My old comrades would laugh themselves hoarse at my naivety. Damn them all. And I’d laugh right along with them, wouldn’t I?’

The brothel’s charged atmosphere clashes violently with his inner tranquility, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.

‘This isn’t the first time I’ve felt exposed,’ he reminds himself. ‘But at least then, I had a sword.’

He once faced horrors with unwavering purpose, each battle a step towards a greater goal.

He clenches his fists, trying to steady his nerves. Yet, none of it compared to the dread curling in his gut at the thought of the sanguine rooms.

He casts a glance at Auntie Mei, her stern expression unyielding. ‘No mercy here,’ he realizes. ‘Time to face the music, Quinming. From slaying demons to slaying lustful gazes. Perfect,’ he thinks.

Taking a deep breath, he straightens his shoulders, a facade of confidence slipping over his features. ‘Alright, let’s get this over with.’

Despite his outward calm, his mind churns with dread and irony. ‘A warrior who faced death countless times,’ he muses, remembering the battlefield where he earned his name, ‘now brought low by human intimacy. How utterly pathetic. If the Cheonma returns, he’d die a second time from laughing.’

As Quinming steps forward, Auntie Mei’s voice stops him. “And Quinming,” she says, her tone softening slightly but still stern, “Madam Li is meeting with important people tonight. She doesn’t need any disruptions. You better behave yourself and not cause any trouble.”

Quinming nods, the weight of her words adding to his apprehension. ‘Important people?’ he thinks, his curiosity piqued despite his dread. ‘Could this be related to those whispers about Madam Li breaking free from old ties?’

He watches her walk away, back down the stairs before continuing. His steps falter as he approaches the sanguine rooms. Each step towards the door feels like a march to the gallows. The hallway, once familiar, now feels like an endless gauntlet. The distant murmur of voices, the faint scent of perfume weigh heavily on him, tightening the knot of anxiety in his chest.

He grips the inside of his large sleeves with his clammy hands, knuckles still aching. His mind, however, remains sharp, analyzing the layout of the rooms, identifying potential exits, and formulating a plan to navigate this new challenge with minimal damage. ‘First rule: Always know your escape routes.’

“Should've brought a shield. And maybe something to stuff my ears with. Breathe, Quinming. It’s just a job. You’ve survived worse. Remember fighting off a dozen bandits with a broken sword? This is just another fight... just more awkward. I’ll survive this,” he tells himself, a mantra to steady his nerves.

He reaches for the door handle, his fingers trembling. “Just another battlefield,” he mutters, trying to convince himself.

As he pushes the door open, the charged atmosphere hits him like a wave, engulfing him in a world that tests his resolve in ways he never imagined. The soft hum of distant music, the low murmur of voices, and the faint clinking of glasses blend into a symphony of intimacy that clashes violently with his warrior's heart.

Here goes nothing,’ he thinks, his heart pounding. ‘Sword Saint, prepare for your strangest battlefield yet.’

He steps inside, the warmth and perfumed air enveloping him. Courtesans glance his way, their gazes appraising. He swallows hard, his throat dry.

‘Just another mission, Quinming. Get in, do your duty, get out.’

But even as he tries to steel himself, a part of him knows this will be unlike any battle he has faced before. He just cannot imagine how this night will effect him.