“Miss… are you sure about this?”

The little maid, no more than eight or nine, swallowed hard. Staring at the cliff that dropped into endless darkness, a chill crept up her spine for no reason.

Just moments ago, their eldest miss—the one with no spiritual root—had been kicked off this very cliff, her blood still splattered on the stones. By now, she was likely nothing more than broken flesh at the bottom. And all of this… all of it was done by the ten‑year‑old girl in white standing before her.

That girl was Yvonne Silverton, the child adopted by a wealthy couple from West City of Longxi Kingdom, blessed with a spiritual root and accepted as an outer disciple of Luoyuan Sect.

Yvonne tilted her head, raising the deep‑purple Soul Spirit Flower in her hand, a smile blooming on her lips—pure, innocent, chilling.

“She’s just a rootless waste. Father and Mother were sick of her long ago. If this flower didn’t need the blood of an untrained mortal before it could be picked, do you think I would’ve let her linger until today?”

As she spoke, Yvonne’s gaze slid sideways toward the little maid, cold light flickering in her eyes.

“What? Are you feeling sorry for her?”

The words landed like ice. The maid’s shoulders trembled, and she lowered her head so quickly her forehead nearly touched the ground.

“I wouldn’t dare! Elsa Silverton is just a useless burden. Miss is doing the master and madam a favor by saving on food. This servant wouldn’t dare think otherwise!”

“Heh, at least your tongue works.”

Yvonne waved a hand.

“This is Clifford Soulridge—fog thick enough to choke on. Let’s go.”

She turned, the corners of her lips curling in a bright little smile.

“We’ll go back… and tell them how my dear sister slipped and fell to her death.”

Without giving the cliff another glance, she strode away, light and carefree.

Below the cliff, a vast lake spread out, its waters bright and blue, full of life.

But at this moment, those clear waters were streaked with veins of red. Following the drifting crimson, a body floated on the surface—blood‑soaked, unmoving—looking as if it had been dead for ages.

“Waste! All you do is eat!”

“I raised you for what, to embarrass me?”

“Father, sister stole the spiritual fruit Master gave me again!”

“Useless thing! Waste of air living, waste of dirt dead! How did we ever pick up a fool like you? Biggest loss of my life!”

“…”

Elsa Silverton’s eyes snapped open.

What… what was this?

Why were there so many broken memories in her head?

Abandoned, then adopted, then discarded again once they learned she had no spiritual root.

Beaten. Framed. Lied to. Drained of blood.

Kicked off a cliff.

Those twisted faces seemed to hover before her, smiling as if they enjoyed her suffering. A cold shiver ran down her spine.

Fragments that weren’t hers flashed by in a torrent. Elsa narrowed her eyes.

Good. Very good.

Yvonne Silverton… the Silverton Clan…

Wait for me.

If I don’t settle this debt, I, Elsa Silverton, have no place to live in this world.

That final thought flickered, then her mind went blank. Water rushed into her lungs; she choked violently, and darkness swallowed her whole.

Meanwhile, under Clifford Soulridge, two figures were searching the area.

The boy in blue, round‑faced and broad‑shouldered, looked anxious beyond reason.

Beside him, the boy in white walked with steady steps, expression calm, sharp features unmoved like still water. For someone barely in his teens, Maxwell Olivier carried a weight far too old for his age.

The boy looked about fifteen or sixteen, tall and straight, a faint aura clinging to him, the sort that made people stare without meaning to.

Suddenly, the white‑robed youth’s brows twitched. His calm pace snapped, and he shot forward, darting in a fixed direction as if pulled by an invisible thread.

Behind him, the blue‑robed Sterling Bowell froze, baffled. But he didn’t dare hesitate. He bolted after him, shouting, “Senior Brother Olivier, what are you running for? Did you find the Soul‑Spirit Flower? Hey—slow down! I can’t keep up! Don’t run off and get lost again!”

Sterling wiped at sweat that wasn’t even there, nerves coiled tight. Everyone in the sect knew his Senior Brother Maxwell Olivier was a prodigy—bright as a blade—but had one fatal flaw: he couldn’t tell directions to save his life. No matter how strong Maxwell became, this particular weakness clung to him like a curse.

If Senior Brother got lost again… Sterling’s mind filled with the miserable scene of returning alone to the sect. He sped up at once.

When he finally caught up, the sight before him nearly made him choke—

The usually aloof, untouchable Maxwell was holding a girl in his arms.

Sterling gaped, inching closer. “S‑Senior Brother… you’re holding… a girl?”

Maxwell didn’t answer. He himself wasn’t sure why he’d suddenly rushed out like that—only that something had been calling him, tugging him straight to this pool. And there, without hesitation, he’d found her.

He lowered his eyes to the unconscious girl. Her small face was pale as paper, flecked with dried blood. Her soft pink lips parted slightly as she breathed. Wet clothes clung to her skin, outlining the faint, budding curves of youth.

This girl was none other than Elsa Silverton—pulled from another life, grievously wounded and senseless.

Maxwell’s arms tightened around her. His gaze flicked away, expression still cold as ever, but the tips of his ears turned red, betraying the embarrassment he didn’t quite know how to hide.

Before he could speak, he caught Sterling staring at the girl again. Irritation flared. “Close your eyes.”

Sterling blinked but instinctively obeyed under Maxwell’s frost‑hard stare.

Maxwell slipped off his outer robe and wrapped Elsa tightly in it, leaving only her small head exposed for air.

Then, worried she’d catch cold, he placed a hand against her back. A faint white radiance seeped from his palm, sinking silently into her body. The droplets soaking her clothes vanished in an instant; even her hair turned dry and soft, as though she had never touched water at all.

But Maxwell kept the robe wrapped securely around her, his posture tense—as if shielding something precious from wandering eyes.

“Let’s go.”

He tossed out the words without looking at Sterling and strode off.

Sterling hurried after him, now desperately avoiding looking at the girl, though curiosity clawed at him. “Senior Brother, where are we going?”

“To find a place to rest.”

“Rest? We’re not looking for the Soul‑Spirit Flower anymore?” Sterling couldn’t help sneaking a quick glance at Elsa—only for Maxwell to shift his stance in advance, blocking him completely. Sterling let out a silent sigh and dared not test his luck again.

Maxwell didn’t answer, footsteps steady as he carried Elsa forward. It was as if the Soul‑Spirit Flower had already slipped from his thoughts.

Sterling could only trail behind, muttering under his breath and keeping pace with wherever his Senior Brother chose to go.