Power was power—no matter how it came, it was undeniable.
Wang Yu could feel it in every breath he took, every movement of his fingers. His body had become stronger, his blood hotter, and his very bones seemed to hum with suppressed force. Compared to his mortal days, he was no longer the same person at all—like a mortal stepping into the realm of the divine.
Among the countless spirit slaves of the Reverse Spirit Blood Sect, he now stood out.
A cultivator at the second layer of Qi Refining—even that was enough to make him one of the best among the thousands of enslaved cultivators. Within the entire stone hut district, not a single spirit slave had reached the third layer.
Perhaps they were too cautious to risk their lifespan for power. Or perhaps… they simply could not.
To step further required one's inner limit of spiritual power to reach one hundred strands—a feat impossible without burning more life essence. And Wang Yu had no intention of shortening his thread of life any further.
Thus, for now, his only steady path forward was the [Idle Slot]. At its rate, reaching the third layer would take ninety days—three long months.
As for his physical body's own cultivation speed…
He let out a silent laugh. Three months might not even yield one strand of refined qi. For him, direct cultivation was nearly meaningless. That time would be far better spent finding ways to increase his value—value was what mattered most to those who ruled over slaves.
Yet the breakthrough brought a faint trace of disappointment as well. The [Idle Slot] system had not produced a "third slot."
He speculated—perhaps it would only appear after he reached the middle stages of Qi Refining… or even upon breaking into Foundation Establishment.
That morning, for the first time in many days, Wang Yu pushed open the iron-barred door and stepped out into the light.
It was time to attend the daily lecture at the stone plaza—and more importantly, to seek out Steward Duan.
He had made his decision. If he wanted to live well here, if he wanted to climb higher, he would no longer hide in the shadows.
He would place himself openly before their eyes and earn favor through visible effort.
He looked very different from twelve days ago.
Once-black hair had turned half to snowy white; once-youthful features now appeared pale and withered. His once-sturdy frame had grown gaunt, his posture slightly hunched—a frail, almost elderly figure among the crowd.
The price of burning ten years of lifespan in a single breath.
Yet this was a disguise as much as a sacrifice. The aging could be reversed in time, with higher cultivation or proper tonics. For now, he would wear this withered shell proudly—it was his proof, his alibi, his armor.
As the morning lecture came to its end and the period for "questions and clarification" began, Wang Yu stepped forward through the mass of slaves. The move drew angry stares, but when those around saw his aged face and the faint, chilling aura around him, all words died in their throats.
He had the look of a man who had willingly burned half his life for power.
Such a person was not one to provoke.
"This honored cultivator," Wang Yu said with a deep bow toward one of the teaching disciples, his voice gravelly and low, "I seek an audience with Steward Duan. May I know where he may be found?"
The young outer disciple blinked, a flicker of unease crossing his face as he took in Wang Yu's ghastly appearance. He himself was a triple spiritual root cultivator—he had no need to practice such life-burning methods, and the mere sight of one who did so sent a chill crawling up his spine.
He pointed quickly toward a two-storied pavilion at the side of the square.
"Steward Duan resides there. You may find him inside."
Wang Yu offered another respectful bow, turned, and departed.
When he was out of earshot, the teaching disciple exhaled softly and muttered to his companion,
"That one… he must have burned at least half his lifespan. His qi has already reached the second layer. Another one with dangerous ambition."
His companion gave a cold snort.
"So what? The Bloodburn Art is meant for people like him—disposable slaves who crave a shortcut. The damage it does to body and blood is irreversible. A man like that will never build his foundation."
"True enough…"
——
The two-storied pavilion stood quiet and stately, its red lacquered doors marked with sigils that faintly pulsed with blood-colored light.
Wang Yu approached, straightened his spine, and knocked.
"Who is it?" came a deep, lazy voice from within.
"Wang Yu," he answered respectfully. "A new spirit slave, entered into service twelve days ago. I've come to submit this month's spirit sand."
There was a brief silence. Then—
"Hm?"
With a sharp creak, the door swung open. Steward Duan appeared, his rotund figure wrapped in black robes, a few strands of beard clutched thoughtfully between his fingers. When his gaze fell upon Wang Yu, his eyes widened in genuine surprise.
"Twelve days ago—you were one of the new batch?" He squinted. "And this appearance…?"
Wang Yu smiled faintly. The expression, set against his withered face, made him look all the more eerie.
"It is my honor to serve the Holy Sect," he said calmly. "Wang Yu has cultivated with all his strength to advance as swiftly as possible, that he may better serve and repay the Sect's grace. Even if it means burning my own blood and lifespan."
A glimmer of satisfaction flickered in Duan's eyes.
"Wang Yu, is it? Good. Very good!"
He circled Wang Yu twice, nodding approvingly, then extended a pudgy hand.
"Where is your spirit sand?"
Wang Yu handed over a small pouch with both hands.
Duan weighed it briefly, then chuckled. "Only one tael… well, you've barely been here a month. Fair enough."
Clapping his hands, he reached into his waist pouch and drew out a larger bag.
"Here—three catties' worth of empty spirit stones, ground into fine dust. You'll use these as the base. Come with me."
Before Wang Yu could speak, the steward had already seized him by the arm and marched him back toward the plaza.
A few light coughs, a surge of spiritual pressure—and the entire square fell silent.
Duan's voice rang out, amplified by qi.
"This one here is named Wang Yu! A new spirit slave, barely a month within the Sect—and yet he has already completed his quota of one tael of spirit sand! You all should learn from him! This is the model disciple the Reverse Spirit Blood Sect cherishes!"
He raised Wang Yu's hand high for all to see.
"If there is anyone among you dreaming of rising to the rank of outer disciple, mark my words—Wang Yu shall be the first of this generation to ascend! I, Duan the Steward, stake my honor upon it!"
A ripple of noise spread through the crowd.
The slaves stared at Wang Yu with eyes that flickered with awe, envy, and a hint of fear.
Wang Yu's scalp prickled beneath the weight of their stares. He had wanted to draw some attention—but this was far more than he had expected.
Still, Duan looked very pleased with himself.
He led Wang Yu back into the pavilion, gesturing for him to sit at one of the hall's cushioned chairs. This time, the atmosphere was different—more relaxed, almost conspiratorial.
Duan folded his arms, his beady eyes narrowing.
"Let's not play games, boy. You've got drive. You're willing to pay the price. I like that."
He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower.
"But you must understand—our Reverse Spirit Blood Sect doesn't run quite like the so-called righteous sects."
"The Nine Peaks—each is its own dominion. Each Peak Master takes disciples, cultivates their own forces, and pursues their own ambitions. Above all of them sits the Blood Demon Hall, where the Sect Master's true line resides. Together, there are ten factions in total. Ten pillars that make up the Sect."
He smiled faintly.
"In the Righteous Sects of the Taihu Domain, the Sect Master is usually a bureaucrat, a face for the elders' council. But in the Red Kite Demon Domain…" His eyes gleamed. "The Sect Master is power itself. The strongest cultivator commands absolute authority. And if he falls—well, the sect crumbles with him."
He chuckled softly, a humorless sound.
"That is why the demonic path burns brighter and dies faster. Our rise and fall are both swift. A righteous sect can lose a master and still endure. But us? When the master dies, the vultures descend, and the sect tears itself apart."
He spread his hands.
"The Reverse Spirit Blood Sect, however, is no mere rabble. We are one of the ancient ten thousand-year sects, home to several Nascent Soul True Monarchs. Coldblood Peak—my master's domain—is but one of the nine mountains under that power."
"Each True Disciple under a Nascent Soul True Monarch holds vast authority. They can recruit, promote, and build their own networks of outer and inner disciples."
After a moment's pause, Duan's tone shifted. His gaze sharpened.
"Now, let's speak plainly—about profit."
He tapped the table between them.
"The one tael of spirit sand you submitted belongs to Coldblood Peak. But the extra four taels you owe each month—that tribute goes directly to Su Zhenchuan, the True Disciple I serve. Even if you work yourself to death, your production alone won't earn you the title of outer disciple."
He leaned closer, voice low and heavy with meaning.
"You want a path upward? Then bring me people. Recruit others into our faction—under Coldblood Peak, under my patronage. Bring me one hundred names. When that's done, I'll see to it myself that you're promoted to outer disciple."
Wang Yu lowered his gaze, saying nothing. Inside, he was neither shocked nor angered—merely grimly certain.
So this was how it worked.
Nothing came free in the demonic sects.
His rise, his so-called "reward," had merely bought him a clearer view of the web he was trapped in.
Duan's eyes narrowed, studying his silence.
"What's this? Having doubts?"
(To be continued…)