Lui Ming lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling with a look that could only be described as *mildly deranged*. His brows twitched. His fingers tapped against his stomach like a villain plotting in an old black-and-white film.
He had wasted his time.
Three days until Mu LingFeng's banishment—and potentially the beginning of a massive sect scandal—and all Lui Ming had done was eavesdrop, pretend to drink suspicious medicine, and organize his socks by thread count.
It wasn't like he was lazy. In fact, in all due respect, he was doing his best.
But his best required nightfall. Because that's when the maids gossiped. And some nights, well... the gossip was about salted cabbage shortages or someone's bun getting stolen in the kitchen. Not exactly world-changing intelligence.
Now with the deadline creeping closer, and no real escape plan to speak of, Lui Ming finally thought about something crucial.
Money.
That thing that could get you food, transport, protection—and possibly enough bribes to convince someone not to throw you off a mountain.
He blinked slowly. "...I have nothing."
Looking around the sad little room, he confirmed it again. Nothing in this courtyard was remotely worth selling. The furniture was rotting, the curtains were older than the dynasty, and the only thing made of jade was probably fake.
"Am I supposed to leave here and trade my cold expression for steamed buns?" he muttered, rubbing his forehead. "Who's going to give me money? The Rat King?"
At that very moment, a sharp squeak echoed from the wooden beams above.
Lui Ming froze.
Then blinked.
And then—he sat up very slowly, eyes narrowing.
The rats.
The house was crawling with them. He heard them at night. He once woke up to find a tail hanging off his blanket. And Mammy Lu had nearly thrown a candle at the ceiling last week.
He had a rat problem. A serious one.
And if his rundown, haunted-looking courtyard had rats... what were the odds the neighboring homes didn't?
He slowly turned his head toward the window, and for the first time in days, a flicker of excitement—true, slightly unsettling excitement—sparked in his chest.
"I'll sell rat poison."
Yes. Yes!
It was brilliant. It was tragic. It was *desperate*.
And best of all—it made sense.
He remembered the mystery medicine Mammy Fang kept feeding him. It always made him dizzy, groggy, and slightly numb in the face. If that wasn't poison-adjacent, he didn't know what was. All he had to do was figure out the ingredients, tweak them slightly, and repackage it as household-grade pest control.
Even better, he could test it on the actual rats in his room. Win-win.
He shuffled to the window, peeking out through the gap between the crooked frame and the warped wooden panel. Beyond the courtyard, he saw other houses—not much better than his. Some had crumbling fences, a few were held up by wooden beams, and all of them probably had the same rat problem.
A whole market.
He didn't need spiritual pills or sword arts. He needed a cheap pot, a few crushed herbs, and some paper to write "Miracle Rodent Death Powder" in nice calligraphy.
A wild grin crept onto his face.
Lui Ming, former medical student and certified emotionally unavailable introvert, was about to become a poison dealer.
"Well," he said to the spider in the corner, "if I'm going to die here, might as well be financially stable first."
____________
Throughout the day he didnt find anyway to get poisonous plants without buying them and he didn't have money.
guess money really makes the world go round.
He waited for nightfall.
That was when things usually happened—when secrets whispered through thin walls and the household's already questionable structure creaked with just enough mood to feel dramatic.
Tonight, he wasn't interested in gossip. He needed ingredients.
Of course, it wasn't like he knew where anything was. The courtyard barely had working hinges, let alone a labeled cabinet of toxic herbs. But he had to try.
After Mammy Fang finished her usual patrol—by which he meant her loud complaining about how much she'd sacrificed for this household while stomping in a circle—he crept out of his room and began wandering.
He checked under floorboards. Empty.
Behind the kitchen? Moldy tofu.
Inside the grain jars? A spider nest and one petrified dumpling.
Just as he was about to give up and reevaluate his life choices, his foot brushed against a patch of ivy crawling up the back wall. He paused. Something was there—a narrow wooden door tucked awkwardly behind a crooked beam, warped with age and half-sunken into the earth.
He tilted his head.
"…I live here?" he muttered.
There was no memory of this place. Not from him, not from the original owner. He pushed it open with a slow creak. The smell hit first—old herbs, soil, and something pungent that might've once been medicinal or possibly a crime.
Inside was a storage room.
A small one. Unlit. The shelves inside were coated with dust, but clearly disturbed. Jars of dried herbs sat beside bundles of strange roots. Several of them had smudged labels written in hasty, crooked calligraphy. One jar still had condensation on the inside.
Whoever used this room had been here recently.
Lui Ming scanned the items, eye narrowing in recognition. Crushed *duan cao*, powdered *bitter plum*, fermented *black sesame husks*—all ingredients he'd considered using for the poison. Trying to poison him?
No. Not for him. right?
That meant…
"…someone was already making this."
That was when a very strange idea entered his head—what if these weren't left by accident? What if someone who had planted them, find out he took them
He didn't like that thought.
but how let such a chance go? It was too convenient.
It can't be they come check on it everyday.
But for now, he shoved that unease to the side and carefully pocketed the herbs he needed, placing them inside a cloth bag he tied under his robe.
When he slipped back inside the house, the courtyard was unusually quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
Until suddenly—
A *wail* split the night.
"HEAVENS CURSE YOU ALL! I GAVE MY LIFE TO THIS HOUSE!"
It was Mammy Qin.
She was being escorted out—finally. But instead of leaving quietly, she chose violence. Verbally, anyway.
She shouted at the walls. At the moon. At a broom. She accused Mammy Lu of poisoning the rice. She accused Lui Ming of summoning ghosts in the latrine. She even tried to set her own sleeve on fire as a form of protest, but couldn't get the tinder to light.
Servants from the next courtyard peeked over the wall, wide-eyed. One of them clapped.
Mammy Fang tried to silence her, but Mammy Qin bit her hand and threw her shoes into the pond.
Lui Ming, standing behind a window, nodded solemnly.
"A truly horribly place to live in ."
He watched as they finally dragged her past the gates. The heavy doors creaked shut. The silence returned.
And with that, the strange storage room—and its contents—were now fully his.
He returned to his room and laid out the ingredients. The rat poison could be made by morning.
Everything was falling into place.
Lui Ming sat cross-legged in the corner of his room, cradling a small bowl like it was a pot of gold. The bitter herbal stench wafting from it would've scared away most people, but to him—it was the scent of potential profit.
He'd spent most of the night grinding herbs, carefully crushing and mixing what he needed. The dried peels, dark green powder from crushed *duan cao* (which he still wasn't sure was a real plant or just something someone cursed into existence), and a few sprinkles of Mammy Fang's *miracle sedative powder*. He'd scooped out enough doses from the water bag he'd been secretly filling over the last two weeks—at this point, he was probably immune.
Still, he wasn't about to market it without testing.
And for that… he needed a volunteer.
As the sky lightened into dull grey, the courtyard's usual rat orchestra began to scatter—he could hear the little claws skittering off into beams and floorboards. Lui Ming stiffened, bowl in hand, eyes sharp.
Now or never.
He crept toward the wall and crouched next to the little wooden pantry hole where he'd seen a rat squeeze in before. Setting down a crust of dried bun soaked with his newest "recipe," he held his breath.
Five minutes.
Ten.
And just when he began to think the rats had developed divine instincts—one appeared. Fat, confident, and clearly the boss of this run-down house. It waddled closer, sniffing at the bread before nibbling cautiously.
Lui Ming watched with surgical focus.
Nibble.
Pause.
Chew.
Wobble.
He blinked. The rat gave a full-body shudder, then slowly slumped onto its side with a tiny squeak of regret and poor life decisions.
"...Success," Lui Ming whispered, as if he'd just witnessed a medical miracle.
No vomiting. No exploding. Just peaceful, targeted expiration. The sedative base clearly worked in low doses—he could sell this in powdered form to nearby households. Package it with instructions. Maybe offer bundle deals.
He could already imagine it:
**Heaven's Wrath Rat Powder**
*"Fast, Clean, Quiet—Just Like an Assassin."*
He nodded in satisfaction, wiping his hands with the cloth he'd tucked in his sleeve. All he had to do now was dry the mixture into packets and find a few houses brave—or desperate—enough to try it. But before any of that…
"...Three days," he whispered.
Only three days left before Mu LingFeng's banishment.
Only three days left to act before the plot took a turn that would sweep everyone into it—including him.
And now, with a working product in hand and a clear reminder that staying passive led to nothing but helplessness, Lui Ming finally felt the urgency sink in.
He turned from the window and stared down at the bowl in his hand.
He had something.
Not much.
But something.
Time to use it.