The training grounds stank of sweat, pride, and unwashed egos.
Arin was still unconscious, buried in the crater of his own making. Around him, disciples whispered in awe and concern. Not because they cared, but because no one had ever dared insult ten outer sect disciples and survive. Technically, Arin hadn't survived yet, but his fingers were twitching, so that was promising.
Up in the terrace above, where elders once sat during tournaments that never happened, a girl leaned lazily against the railing. Her violet eyes shimmered in the morning sun, sharp and dispassionate like a blade dipped in honey.
Her name was Mira.
At least, that was the name she gave the sect.
The truth was... classified.
Mira wasn't born in the Saint Morrow Sect. She wasn't even supposed to be here. Officially, she was just another hopeful outer disciple who passed the entrance trials by some miracle of average luck and above-average looks.
Unofficially?
She was a planted operative of the Veil Lotus Syndicate—a shadow intelligence organization older than some kingdoms and twice as nosy.
Her mission had been simple: infiltrate the Saint Morrow Sect, observe the new generation, and identify potential "anomalies"—those whose fate didn't align with their cultivation level.
And Arin… Arin was a neon sign wrapped in a bloodied robe, screaming anomaly.
She watched him twitch in the dirt with mild curiosity.
No spiritual roots. No combat techniques. No known lineage. No mentor.
And yet he'd survived longer than any other punching bag recruit in the last decade.
Most were dead by month two.
Arin was going on month six.
"Interesting," she murmured again, arms folded as the wind played with her long black hair.
"Do you really find him worthy of interest?" a voice beside her asked.
Mira didn't flinch. The girl beside her wore the same disciple robes, but her eyes were dull, and her back slightly bent. A handler, disguised as her roommate.
"He's broken protocol three times," Mira replied, her voice even. "First, by mocking higher-level disciples without consequence. Second, by surviving a ten-man beatdown with only minor fractures. Third…"
She tapped her chin thoughtfully.
"…by smiling after every hit like he's leveling up in some internal game."
Her companion scoffed. "Probably just another madman. Trash trying to act special."
"Maybe," Mira said. "But I like trash. It clings to the wind. Hard to control. Harder to predict."
She stepped back from the railing and dusted off her sleeves.
"I'll make contact."
"You're not authorized."
"I'm improvising."
"You always improvise."
"That's why I'm still alive," Mira smiled.
---
Later that night, Arin was dragging his half-broken body across the courtyard floor, grinning like a lunatic. His robe was in tatters, one eye swollen shut, and he was humming a weird melody that sounded suspiciously like a pop song.
He passed the herb garden. The dining hall. The statue of Sect Founder Morrow holding a sword with his nose for no reason.
And then, a voice.
"You looked like you enjoyed that."
He froze.
Not because the voice was threatening—but because it was feminine, calm, and dangerously curious.
He turned slowly.
She stood in the moonlight, arms folded, one eyebrow raised, her violet eyes glowing faintly.
Arin blinked.
"…Are you here to kill me, flirt with me, or rob me?"
"Yes."
He narrowed his eyes. "Which one?"
She smirked. "Whichever makes you scream the most."
He stared.
Then clapped slowly. "A sadist. My favorite kind of woman."
She stepped forward. "You're not afraid?"
"Lady, I've been used as a human punching post for six months. Unless you turn into a tax collector, I'm unshakable."
She tilted her head, examining him like a puzzle piece that didn't fit.
"What's your name?"
"Arin Valkar. Sect-certified stress ball. Professional meatshield. Certified idiot."
"I'm Mira Soeyri."
"Pretty name. Let me guess. You're secretly a spy, here to monitor us weaklings for hidden talent, and now you're curious if I'm some rare breed of masochistic genius with a secret power no one else can see?"
There was a pause.
A long one.
Mira's smile didn't twitch. "Lucky guess?"
"Pain gives me clarity."
Another pause.
Then, she laughed softly. "I'll be watching you, Arin."
He gave a theatrical bow and winced mid-bend. "If you're going to watch me, at least bring popcorn."
She disappeared into the shadows.
Silence...
Arin stood there alone.
Then, the familiar chime echoed in his mind—faint, but triumphant.
Ding.
[Bone-Iron Constitution – Level 2 (2000 / 2000)]
[Congratulations! Manual has reached Level 3.]
[New Capacity Unlocked. Regenerative Rate +10%. Durability Threshold Increased.]
[New Trait: Pain Conversion (Lv. 1) – Minor injuries now restore internal energy over time.]
[System Integration Rate: 9%]
Arin stared at the messages.
"Either I'm dying… or I just ranked up by getting flirt-threatened. What a system."
He chuckled.
Then another screen blinked open.
[New Status Effect: "Under Surveillance"]
[Hidden Trait Awakened: Emotional Armor – Resistance to manipulation +3%]
[Plot Entanglement Detected. Fate Threads Intertwining...]
He blinked again.
"Fate Threads?"
The system flickered.
Then added a final line:
Beware the girl who watches. Her blade cuts both ways.
Arin rubbed his neck.
"…So she is into me."