The southern peak of the Soul-Sealing Alliance was home to the Divine Path Sect. Unlike other sects that were sparsely settled, this mountain teemed with disciples, servants, and—most prominently—beasts. Avians with wingspans broader than rooftops, predators with hides like iron, and exotic creatures from faraway lands all nested here. The slopes, whether sunlit or shadowed, rang with the cries of mounts both feral and proud.
As Gene followed Old Wang through the winding paths, the older man pointed out one beast after another, recounting their masters' names and temperaments as though they were noble courtiers. A crimson-feathered hawk that would only heed the call of wine. A storm eagle that despised the smell of iron. A golden-winged falcon known to devour servants who fed it carelessly.
Gene tried to listen, but the names blurred into one another. He would not be the one feeding them anyway—his role as an assistant to the stables exempted him from such duties. It was enough to observe and remember what he could.
By the time they reached the sunlit face of the mountain, Gene found himself gazing down the slope. The roads leading into the valley showed no sign of Haolan or the others who had once entered with him. Only a handful of woodcutters moved along the forest edge.
He tilted his head toward the heavens, judging the sun's arc. By his reckoning, it was the third quarter of the Serpent Hour. A circuit of the mountain would take roughly another hour.
When they returned to the stables, the scent of cooked meat drifted on the air—it was time for the midday meal. Unlike the other halls of the Alliance, which relied on a central kitchen to feed both cultivators and servants, the stables had its own hearth. The reason was simple: certain spirit-beasts required cooked meals, and so the servants had long enjoyed the benefit of richer food than their peers.
Yet privilege came with its order. The best cuts of meat were always reserved for the mounts. After all, these beasts fought and bled beside their masters, deserving of respect and reward. The servants made do with whatever scraps and broths remained.
Today, the dining hall was crowded. Mistress Hu, the stern woman who oversaw the stables, appeared as well. She wasted no words. With a curt nod, she introduced Gene to the others once more, reminding them that though he was new, he was to be obeyed and assisted in learning his duties. Then, with her plain vegetarian meal in hand, she departed.
Once she was gone, the atmosphere loosened. Servants laughed, argued, and devoured what was set before them. Gene noticed that his portion was different—his bowl contained not only gristle and broth but a few meaty bones. Curious, he leaned toward Old Wang.
"That's how it is," the older man said simply. "Assistants and overseers always eat better than the rest. It's the way of things."
Gene nodded, though the explanation didn't quite satisfy his unease. His gaze wandered across the hall, falling upon a large copper basin placed at the central table. Within lay a mound of roasted bones thick with flesh. Around it clustered half a dozen servants, eating and drinking as though they owned the place.
At their head was a man of thirty or so, with a round, ruddy face and eyes that glimmered with arrogance. In one hand he clutched a wine flask, in the other a greasy bone. He drank, laughed, and shouted without restraint.
Noticing Gene's glance, Old Wang tugged discreetly at his sleeve. When Gene turned, the man shook his head with a warning look.
"Who are they?" Gene asked quietly.
"That fat one is Zhu Dachang," Old Wang muttered. "A distant kin of Sect Master Zhu Yunping. He struts about like he owns the place. No one dares cross him."
"And Mistress Hu allows this?"
Old Wang sighed. "Many of the servants here are related to cultivators in one way or another. Too many stones beneath her feet. If she moves against one, the ripples may reach the sect masters themselves. She pretends not to see."
Gene said nothing more. He cast one last look at Zhu Dachang and his companions. Instead of moderating their behavior, the man seemed to revel in Gene's attention, growing louder, rowdier, more obscene. The rest of the servants lowered their heads, accustomed to such tyranny.
Gene too chose silence. He had only just arrived. Better to endure for now than stir a hornet's nest.
Still, when he noticed Old Wang eyeing his bowl with thinly veiled longing, Gene quietly slid the largest bone into the man's dish. After a brief protest, Old Wang accepted with a sheepish grin and a word of thanks.
The day passed in routine. Beasts were fed at dawn and dusk; the afternoons were idle. Gene returned to his small wooden hut, resting against the cool shade. Sleep, however, eluded him. He pulled out the manuscript of the Three-Flame True Fire, copied by Ji Lianyu.
The text was nothing more than mantras and obscure verses, lacking commentary. Though Gene knew the rudiments of the Five Elements, these writings seemed distant as stars, layered in riddles. The only thing he understood clearly was that the Three-Flame True Fire had nine stages, and to master them was to surpass even Golden Immortals, reaching the threshold of demi-sainthood.
Frustrated, he closed the scroll. From his pack he drew another object: the bronze disk he had taken from the coffin in the roadside mortuary. No larger than a palm, etched with three concentric rings—the mechanism of a hidden lock. He turned it over in his hands, certain it concealed some secret, though he had yet to uncover its key.
As he pondered, a commotion broke out beyond his hut. Shouts, curses, and the unmistakable sound of blows carried across the yard.
Gene frowned. The voices came from the servants' compound, a hundred paces away. One voice in particular chilled him: the desperate cries of Old Wang.
He sprang to his feet and hurried toward the noise.
Inside the courtyard, Old Wang lay crumpled on the ground, clutching his head as four or five servants kicked and struck him mercilessly. Towering over them was Zhu Dachang, red-faced and bellowing.
"Thief! Glutton! You dared steal food meant for the eagles?!"
Old Wang groaned, denying through split lips, begging for mercy.
Around them, dozens of servants stood watching in silence. None dared intervene.
Gene's gut clenched. He understood at once. This was no punishment for theft—this was a message. A warning to him, the newcomer. They had chosen Old Wang, his only ally, as the scapegoat.
As soon as Gene appeared, Zhu Dachang's eyes locked on him. Instead of backing down, the fat man's sneer widened. His voice rose, shrill and mocking.
"Hit him harder! This old fool doesn't know his place. Does he think the meat was his to take?!"
"Enough!" Gene's shout cut through the din.
But his command carried no weight. The beating only intensified. Blood ran from Old Wang's nose and mouth.
Gene strode forward, fury rising. "You accuse him unjustly! That meat was mine. I gave it to him!"
Zhu Dachang snorted. "Then you admit it. A servant of the stables, stealing food meant for spirit-beasts? You are guiltier than him!"
His words dripped venom. It was not justice he sought, but domination.
Something in Gene snapped. He did not argue further. Instead, he turned on his heel and marched toward the kitchen. There, heavy cleavers lay upon chopping blocks, tools for breaking the bones of oxen and boars. He took one in hand and returned.
The moment Zhu Dachang saw the blade, his confidence faltered. "What are you doing?!"
Gene said nothing, his steps steady, his eyes like ice.
"You wouldn't dare," Zhu Dachang blustered, though his voice cracked. "Strike me, and you'll pay with your life. Come then! If you have the guts, cut me down right here!" He tapped his own forehead, trying to mask fear with bravado. "Right here!"
Without hesitation, Gene lifted the cleaver.
The hall rang with a single, resounding cry.
"AAAHHH—!"