The city was restless.
I could feel it in the air, the way silence clung unnaturally to streets that were usually rowdy. I had walked these alleys in my first life a thousand times, back when I was just another nameless dog gnawing on scraps. Back then, I didn't understand the weight of fear, the way it seeped into the stones and dirt, the way it bent people more effectively than fists.
But now… now I could taste it.
The rumor I had seeded was no longer just words tossed in taverns. It had begun to ripple outward, like oil spreading over water.
At a market square, two old men argued while a small crowd watched:
"The First Elder is already mobilizing his disciples, I tell you! He'll crush the others within the month!"
"Nonsense. The Second Elder's shadow hall has assassins everywhere. Even the outer city is filled with their spies!"
The words were nothing but speculation. They had no proof, no names, no certainty. But they argued with the kind of conviction that only comes when fear and pride fuse together.
I didn't need them to be correct. I only needed them to sound confident enough to infect others.
I slipped past the gathering, my hood low. The less I stood out, the better. Let the city believe in shadows that weren't there. That was my weapon.
* * * * * * * * *
Merchants were next. I stopped by a street lined with apothecary stalls and noticed half the shops had their shutters drawn. A fat herbalist wiped sweat from his brow as he packed bundles of dried spirit grass into a cart.
"Leaving the city already?" I asked, feigning casual curiosity.
He flinched at my voice, eyes darting nervously. "Business is… uncertain. No sense staying here if blades start flashing."
So, he'd heard. Maybe from gamblers, maybe from a drunk guard, maybe from a whisper I had carefully placed days earlier. It didn't matter where — what mattered was that he believed enough to abandon profit.
Fear was worth more than gold.
* * * * * * * * *
Further in the slums, I came across the gangs. These men were my real barometers of success. Thieves and killers don't follow rumors blindly — unless they believe blood will flow soon.
At a crooked tavern door, I paused and listened.
"…Second Elder's dogs already marked this district."
"Then pull the boys back. No need to bleed for free. Wait until it's clear who's paying."
I almost smiled. Pulling back meant hesitation. Hesitation meant vulnerability.
In my first life, I remembered how the Crooked Daggers had acted boldly in this period, pushing their control of gambling dens while the sect ignored them. That boldness had cost them dearly when the real conflict broke out. Now? They were already retreating, fearing ghosts. My rumor had warped their instincts.
This was the difference between strength and control.
I left without entering. They didn't need to see me. The city was already speaking the lines I had written.
* * * * * * * * *
Night fell, and I found myself on a rooftop overlooking a bustling gambling house. The lanterns glowed, voices slurred with drink, dice clattered. On the surface, it looked normal. But I had lived too long in chaos not to see the change.
The gamblers weren't just betting silver. They were betting lives. Every other word circled back to the sect, the elders, who would win, who would fall.
It was poison made into entertainment.
And I was the one who had mixed it.
I leaned back against the tiles, staring at the crescent moon. My mind replayed memories of my first life. I remembered this very gambling den, a year later, drenched in blood after a sect clash spilled into the slums. At the time, I had cursed fate. I had cursed the sects for fighting their petty wars while ants like me were crushed underfoot.
But fate was a fool's excuse. Now, I understood. Chaos was not a curse. Chaos was an opportunity.
I had sown the first seed. Now I only had to water it.
* * * * * * * * *
The city was restless. And restless things break easily.
I stood, brushed dust from my robes, and prepared for the next move. The whispers had grown teeth. Soon, they would start to bite.
And I would be there to guide them where I pleased.
* * * * * * * * *
Gold was heavy.
Not in the physical sense — though the weight of a pouch on my belt was always reassuring — but in the way it bent people. It bent backs, bent morals, bent destinies. But gold alone was crude. Information… that was liquid gold. It flowed faster, seeped deeper, poisoned cleaner.
That was what I would sell.
* * * * * * * * *
The next morning, I positioned myself not as a cultivator, not as a schemer, but as something far more useful: a man who "happened to know."
I chose my stage carefully. Not a crowded market where words would scatter like leaves, nor a desolate alley where whispers died unheard. No, I went to a gambling den, the kind where information was currency and lies were sharpened into weapons.
The room was hazy with smoke, stinking of sweat and cheap wine. Men with hollow eyes tossed dice, cursed loudly, and clutched coins as if their lives depended on them. Perfect.
I took a corner seat. Didn't play. Didn't boast. Just listened. That always draws attention faster than shouting.
Sure enough, one of them noticed. A scar-faced man with yellow teeth leaned toward me.
"You've been sitting here an hour and haven't rolled once. Broke, or hiding something?"
I smiled faintly. "Neither. I'm listening."
That hooked him. Men like him were drawn to secrets the way dogs are drawn to blood.
He squinted. "Listening, eh? To what?"
I let silence stretch, just long enough for the others nearby to prick up their ears. Then I said softly, "To which elder's shadow stretches longest."
The dice stopped rolling. Cups of wine froze halfway to mouths. I had them.
* * * * * * * * *
I didn't flood them with details. Too much, and they'd suspect. Instead, I dangled hints like baited hooks.
"Second Elder's men have been spotted near the southern gate. But the First Elder? He's moving coin, not blades. That says he's preparing for something… big."
It was nothing but conjecture stitched from fragments of overheard gossip and my own invention. Yet in their minds, it became gospel.
The scarred man leaned closer. "How do you know this?"
"Same way a gambler knows when the dice are loaded," I murmured. "You learn to listen, not to speak."
I didn't confirm. I didn't deny. That uncertainty made them lean forward, desperate for more.
* * * * * * * * *
By the time I left, I had traded three "bits of information" for four silvers and one small pouch of dried spirit grass. They thought they had cheated me. In truth, they had paid me to spread my own lies deeper.
Walking out into the night air, I felt the shift. Already, the story was mutating.
"The Second Elder is moving on the southern gate!"
"No, the First Elder is gathering coin for mercenaries!"
Both wrong. Both useful.
Because no matter which version spread, the outcome was the same: distrust, paranoia, paralysis.
* * * * * * * * *
Over the next few days, I worked like a spider weaving its web.
One day, I sat in a tea house frequented by merchants, casually mentioning that "safe caravans would soon be impossible." The price of dried food spiked by evening.
Another day, I whispered in a tavern that "the outer guards were already bought by one faction." By morning, two rival gangs had pulled their men from the walls, leaving gaps in security.
I wasn't just spreading rumors now. I was creating fractures. Each word I spoke was a chisel blow against the city's fragile unity.
The most satisfying part was watching people destroy themselves with my words.
* * * * * * * * *
On the fourth night, I was approached directly.
A cloaked figure intercepted me in an alley, moving with the practiced silence of someone who had killed before. I didn't flinch. If they were here, it meant my bait had reached exactly the kind of fish I wanted.
"You," the voice was low, male, controlled. "You've been talking too much."
I tilted my head. "Talking, yes. But only to those who listen."
A pause. Then, instead of drawing a blade, he said: "Then listen to me. You have information. Sell it… to us."
Us. A faction. A sect's hidden hand, or at least its outer claws.
I had expected this. Feared it, in my first life. But now? This was the doorway I wanted.
I bowed lightly, masking the cold satisfaction in my chest. "Information flows where silver flows. I don't care who holds the cup, as long as it's filled."
The man studied me. Then tossed a small pouch at my feet. Inside was not coin, but a jade slip — the kind used to transmit sect messages.
"Next time," he said, "bring something worth drinking. We'll know where to find you."
Then he vanished into the dark.
* * * * * * * * *
I knelt, fingers brushing the jade slip. It was heavier than gold, heavier than any pouch of silver. Not for its weight, but for what it meant.
I was no longer just a rumor-monger to drunks and merchants. I had been noticed by the shadows behind the curtain.
And in a world ruled by cultivation, being noticed was both the most dangerous and the most profitable position.
I straightened, tucked the slip into my robe, and let a thin smile curl my lips.
The first stage was complete. The whispers had grown into chains, binding merchants, gangs, gamblers, and now even sect agents.
But chains could be pulled in any direction.
And I was the one holding the slack.
* * * * * * * * *
Words alone were never enough.
If I only whispered, then sooner or later the clever ones would test them, and when they found nothing, the web would tear. No, rumors needed proof — proof born of action, of blood on the cobblestones. Only then would they stop being "rumors" and start being "truth."
So, I lit the match.
* * * * * * * * *
The gangs in the outer city were useful for this. They weren't cultivators, but they were desperate. Men with hunger in their eyes will believe any excuse to draw a blade.
I approached them carefully, never showing my face twice in the same place. To one gang, I whispered that the rival had "sold itself to the First Elder's dogs" and would soon hand over their turf. To the other, I murmured that "the Second Elder's coin" had already bought their enemies' loyalty, and if they didn't act first, they would be slaughtered like pigs.
I didn't even need to tell them to fight. The seed was enough.
By the third night, blades clashed in the alleys.
* * * * * * * * *
I heard the first screams while walking the rooftops. The city below roared with chaos — men running, torches flaring, the wet clang of steel against steel. My lips curled.
This was the music of my rumor becoming flesh.
Down below, one gang surged against another. Not trained warriors, but brutes with clubs, knives, and stolen swords. It was sloppy, savage. A fat man screamed as a dagger sank into his gut. Another's skull cracked against the wall, blood spraying.
I crouched in the shadows above, calm as still water. These weren't my pawns — they were my smoke. When people smelled smoke, they no longer questioned whether there was fire.
Tomorrow, they would say: "The elders' war has already reached the streets."
* * * * * * * * *
But I wasn't here to gawk. I had another purpose.
A dead man speaks louder than a whisper.
I slid down from the roof, hood drawn low. In the confusion, no one noticed a cloaked figure moving along the alleys. Bodies fell, blood pooled. Screams echoed.
I approached one of the dying men — young, barely more than a boy, clutching his stomach as blood soaked his shirt. His eyes rolled toward me, filled with terror.
"Wh-why…?" he gasped.
I knelt beside him. My hand pressed his wound, not to save him, but to make him look at me. "Tell them…" I whispered in his ear. "…the Second Elder sent them."
His eyes widened. Confusion, then realization, then… death.
When his comrades found his body, his last words would already be chosen.
* * * * * * * * *
I repeated the act twice more, careful, deliberate. In the chaos of battle, no one knew who had finished off whom. But when the survivors crawled home, all of them carried the same story:
The Second Elder's hand was behind this.
The war was no longer rumor. It was written in blood.
* * * * * * * * *
The following morning, the entire city buzzed like a kicked hive.
Merchants refused to open stalls. Caravans left early, wagons groaning under hastily loaded goods. Prices doubled overnight. Women dragged children indoors, whispering prayers. The gambling dens brimmed with speculation.
And most importantly, the sect's outer disciples began to move.
They weren't fools. They didn't believe every whisper. But when bodies appeared in the streets, they couldn't ignore it. Patrols doubled. Curfews whispered into existence. Watchers were set at the gates.
Exactly as I wanted.
Because when they tightened their grip, resentment would spread among the people. And resentment was another fire I could feed.
* * * * * * * * *
I returned to the gambling den that night, this time with a pouch heavier than before. Silver flowed into my hands like water. A merchant begged me for "the safest route out of the city." Another gambler offered wine for "the truth about which elder would win."
They didn't realize it yet, but they weren't buying information. They were paying me to guide their fear, to decide where their panic would run.
One man, a scarred guard who reeked of cheap liquor, leaned across the table. His hand shook as he gripped my sleeve.
"Tell me," he hissed, "is it true? Did the Second Elder order the killings?"
I met his eyes, let silence stretch long enough for doubt to strangle him. Then I nodded once.
His face went pale. He staggered out of the den without another word.
By morning, ten more mouths would be repeating what he believed to be truth.
* * * * * * * * *
That night, I returned to the rooftops. The fires of violence had dimmed, but their ashes glowed red. The gangs had retreated, licking wounds, plotting revenge. The sect patrols had doubled again, torches bobbing like restless eyes.
It was working.
I lay back against the tiles, eyes on the moon. In my first life, I had lived like a rat in this city — scurrying for scraps, hiding from cultivators, crushed under their boots. Every rumor I heard was a blade waiting to cut me.
But now?
Now I was the one sharpening the blades.
I exhaled slowly, my breath misting against the night. This was only the first ripple. Soon, the pond would boil.
And when it did, I would be the only one who already knew how to swim.
* * * * * * * * *
The city didn't sleep.
Even as the sun rose, the taste of blood lingered in the air. I saw it in the way people walked faster, the way they avoided shadows, the way shopkeepers kept one hand under the counter, ready to draw a blade. Fear had seeped into the cobblestones themselves.
And all of it traced back to me.
That thought didn't make me proud. Pride was a weakness. No—what it gave me was clarity. A reminder that control didn't come from brute strength alone. It came from shaping perception, from guiding where people looked, what they whispered, what they believed.
In my past life, I had been at the mercy of such things. A nobody, swept along by waves I couldn't see, unable to resist when rumors blackened my name, when whispers condemned me. Now, with a second life in my grasp, I was the one steering the tide.
I had learned.
And I would never be the same fool again.
* * * * * * * * *
The sect reacted exactly as I hoped.
The elders tightened their grip, sending disciples to patrol the markets, the taverns, the gates. Rules multiplied overnight. What had been permitted yesterday was forbidden today. A curfew hung over the outer city, though no one spoke it aloud.
But force alone was clumsy. The more they pressed, the more cracks spread. Merchants cursed the delays, gamblers grew restless, gangs festered in silence. Fear didn't bring order—it bred anger.
I watched it grow like mold on bread. Slowly, quietly, everywhere.
* * * * * * * * *
Of course, there was danger.
A whisper could elevate me, but it could also expose me. If I was traced back, if the wrong ear caught the faintest hint, I would be crushed. Against the elders, I was still nothing more than an ant.
But that was the beauty of it. No one looked for ants.
While they stared at each other, measuring blades, sharpening schemes, I burrowed beneath their feet, carving tunnels through the foundations of their power.
By the time they noticed, it would already be too late.
* * * * * * * * *
That night, I sat in my small rented room, a single candle burning low. The flame trembled as if it too feared the darkness pressing against the walls. I unrolled a piece of parchment and began to write.
Not a diary. Diaries were for fools who wanted to be exposed when their rooms were searched.
No, I wrote calculations. Timelines. A ledger of debts owed, favors granted, and rumors planted.
Information was coin, but coin by itself meant little. It had to be spent wisely, invested where the yield was greatest. Every whisper had to be traced, followed, measured. A rumor spread too quickly burned itself out. One too weak died unheard. The trick was balance.
I tapped the quill against the parchment, eyes narrowed.
The outer city was too small a stage. My web would have to extend further, into the sect itself. But how?
That was the puzzle.
I remembered my past life vividly—days of scrubbing floors in the servant halls, years of bowing my head to petty seniors, decades of clawing for scraps of cultivation resources. The sect was a beast, bloated with secrets, driven by greed. Inside it, rumors didn't just spread—they multiplied like flies over corpses.
If I could plant one inside the inner walls…
The thought thrilled me.
But I wasn't reckless. The gap between outer and inner was a chasm. One misstep and I would vanish without a trace.
So I returned to patience. Strategy was not about speed. It was about timing.
A single whisper placed too soon was wasted. A single whisper placed too late was irrelevant. But at the right moment?
It could topple mountains.
* * * * * * * * *
I leaned back, staring at the flickering candle. My mind drifted.
Bao's corpse flashed before me—his death in my hands just days ago. I remembered the warmth leaving his body, the helpless twitch of his fingers, the disbelief in his eyes.
A weaker man would have flinched. A kinder man would have regretted.
But I felt nothing.
That was what this world demanded.
In my first life, I had wavered. I had given trust where it wasn't deserved, shown hesitation where I should have struck. And every time, I had been punished for it—by betrayal, by loss, by humiliation.
This time, I embraced the truth.
Kindness was a lie. Morality was a leash. In this world, only cold calculation mattered. Only strength.
And strength wasn't just measured in fists or blades. It was measured in who controlled the flow of information, who controlled the stories others told themselves when they went to sleep at night.
That was the strength I was building now.
* * * * * * * * *
Days passed. The city did not quiet. If anything, the tension thickened.
Two merchants' caravans clashed on the road, each accusing the other of spying for rival elders. A gambling den erupted in a brawl after someone shouted that the dice were "fixed by sect orders." Even in the marketplace, where women haggled for rice and fruit, whispers slithered under every exchange.
Every whisper was a string. And every string led back to me.
I pulled one, and a gang bled.
I pulled another, and a merchant fled the city.
I pulled a third, and an elder's reputation curdled like spoiled milk.
And through it all, I remained invisible.
* * * * * * * * *
But invisibility was not enough.
I needed growth. Power. If I remained as I was—an ant with no cultivation—then eventually, someone would step too heavily and crush me by accident.
I clenched my fist.
Cultivation. The eternal climb.
I had failed once. Spent years stuck in the lowest realms, watching others soar while I crawled. But this time… this time, I would plan differently.
Every resource was precious. Every opportunity had to be weighed. I wouldn't chase quick gains. No, I would cultivate like I spread rumors: carefully, strategically, with patience.
Because just as a whisper could topple a man, so could a single well-placed cultivation breakthrough change the balance of power.
* * * * * * * * *
The candle sputtered, nearly gone. I stared into the dying flame, listening to the faint noise of the restless city outside my window.
In my first life, I had been swallowed by this city's chaos.
In this life, I would be its chaos.
The outer city was already mine, though the people didn't know it yet. With each rumor, each corpse, each whisper turned into truth, I grew stronger—not in body, but in influence.
And influence, when wielded coldly, was more terrifying than any blade.
The time would come to move beyond whispers. To climb higher. To reach into the sect itself and stir its beating heart.
But not yet.
Patience. Always patience.
I closed my eyes and let the dark surround me.
The city trembled, the sect shifted, and the future bent under my hands like wet clay.
I was no longer a rat scurrying in shadows.
I was the shadow itself.
And shadows never die.