The journey had been long. The road slithered like a dusty serpent through hills, groves, and ancient bridges. Villages, huts, and faceless murders lay behind him. Patshakhan was in no hurry—he absorbed the world around him like a snake before shedding its skin.
On the twentieth day of travel, he saw the gates of Bailin City—the last outpost before the Sacred Forest, where the sect's selection would begin.
A crowd buzzed at the gates. Young cultivators in robes from various schools chattered, argued, even fought. Some released their spiritual energy to show off their strength; others bartered resources. The air reeked of artifacts, pills, sweat, and ambition.
Patshakhan stood to the side, leaning against a stone pillar. His aura was restrained, almost unnoticeable—4th level of Qi Concentration, middle stage. Here, that was considered low. Most were at the sixth, some even at the eighth.
> "Too early to bare fangs. Better to be a pale shadow... until they turn their backs."
He watched carefully.
In the center of the square stood a loud youth in crimson robes embroidered with a phoenix—7th level, shaved temples, booming voice.
"Ten days until the selection begins! Weaklings, go cry to your mothers! Hahaha!" he shouted, drawing laughter from the crowd.
No one dared challenge him.
Nearby stood a girl in silver, her gaze indifferent. Her cultivation level was suppressed, but her breath felt whole, like a perfect mirror. Her spiritual power was subtle yet sharp—and pride flickered coldly in her eyes.
> "She's no ordinary one. Possibly... Spirit Realm."
But the girl didn't even glance at Patshakhan. She didn't notice him at all.
> "As it should be. To you, I'm nobody. Just a faded silhouette in the corner."
---
While the crowd bustled, Patshakhan headed to the cheapest inn near the city well. Inside was dark, musty, and smelled of stale oil. Just right.
He rented a room and locked the door behind him. On the floor, he laid out spirit herbs, pills, and artifacts he'd acquired on the road. Among them—a blood-black ring taken from a cultivator—quivered faintly, as if thirsting for a new victim.
> "The selection starts in ten days… and will last just as long. That gives me twenty days—to redistribute power, learn a few techniques... and find new targets."
He closed his eyes.
The world fell still.
Patshakhan's inner world opened.
Bodies, souls, memories—he began to process them, to study. Once-ordinary recollections became techniques. Pain turned into medicine. Terror—into a weapon.
> "Their lives... fertilizer for my path. I thank you, pitiful ones…"
---
Five days before the selection began, Patshakhan stepped into the street.
The crowd of cultivators had tripled. Some had formed groups. Alliances emerged. Resource exchanges, sparring, scheming—the city seethed with activity.
He walked among them, alone.
One young man tried to stop him:
"Hey, you! What level are you? Going to the selection? We're looking for one more for our group!"
Patshakhan stopped and slowly looked him in the eyes. The boy suddenly felt his chest tighten.
"I—I was just joking!" the youth stammered, backing away, pale.
Patshakhan simply continued on.
> "Soon the forest will be painted red. And you… you're still laughing."