The jade slip left behind by Shijia Mingkong stayed warm in Jiang Mucheng's palm all night.
It was a fragment of the Diamond Sutra—only the first three sections remained, yet every line carried the weight of forged gold. With his eyes closed, Jiang silently recited the verses. The words flowed through his sea of consciousness, each character glowing faintly in soft gold, like the first sunlight cutting through morning mist.
With every repetition, his mind grew calmer. The restlessness that had built up over the past few days gradually dissolved.
More intriguingly, the sutra carried a subtle trace of Buddhist power—not the aggressive surge of spiritual energy cultivators were used to, but something gentler. Warm. Like spring water soaking into dry soil, quietly nourishing his soul without a sound.
Just who exactly was that monk…?
Jiang couldn't figure it out. In the end, he chose not to dwell on it.
Dawn was breaking outside the window. And with the expedition to the Mistbound Forest only three days away, there was far too much left to prepare.
The door creaked open.
Wang Duobao stumbled in, dark circles hanging under his eyes. He collapsed into a chair like a fish thrown onto dry land.
"Brother Jiang… I got the intel," he said hoarsely. "Phantom Mist Manor is sending people into the forest too. Their leader is a female disciple—name's Huan Xinyue."
He paused, then spat out two words.
"She's trouble."
"How so?" Jiang asked calmly.
"Arrogant," Wang said, pouring himself a bowl of cold water and gulping it down. "I went to their camp—didn't even let me through the gate. Just sent a message out: if we want Illusion Petal Dew, we bring something of equal value."
"I offered spirit stones."
"They said they don't lack stones. What they lack is… sincerity."
Jiang smiled faintly.
He understood perfectly.
"There's more," Wang lowered his voice. "On the way back, I saw Lin Tianying."
Jiang looked up. "Wasn't he thrown into the dungeon?"
"Released." Wang's expression darkened. "Young Master Xiao Chen spoke up for him—said his crimes didn't warrant death. Just a warning. Now he's walking free."
"Not causing trouble?"
"Not openly. But the way he looks at us…" Wang shuddered. "Like a poisoned blade."
As expected.
To Jiang, Lin Tianying was already a crippled dog. Loud, vicious—but still limping. The real danger lay with whoever held his leash.
"Has Senior Brother Lu returned?" Jiang asked.
"Not yet."
Almost on cue, the courtyard gate opened.
Lu Hanshan walked in—followed by someone else.
The moment that man stepped inside, the room felt smaller.
Nearly nine feet tall, towering even over Lu, his body was knotted with muscle like ancient tree roots. He wore a coarse, faded tunic with frayed elbows. But the most striking thing was his left arm—
Not flesh.
Iron.
A heavy, black metal arm from shoulder to wrist, seamless and solid. Arcane runes pulsed faintly along the joints, casting a cold metallic sheen. The fingers curved like talons.
Zhao Tieniu.
Among the Coldborn Mutual Aid Society, he was infamous—the "Iron Bull." Fifth level of Qi Refinement. Practitioner of a broken Vajra Body manual. Rumored to withstand a full-force strike from a sixth-level cultivator.
Simple-minded. Stubborn. But when he gave his word, he kept it.
In this world, that was rarer than talent.
"Junior Brother Jiang," Zhao said, his voice like grinding iron. "Lu told me everything. I'll go to the Mistbound Forest."
"I want thirty percent of the Soul-Nourishing Wood."
He paused. His metal fingers clenched with a sharp clack.
"But I won't die for you."
Straightforward.
Jiang rose and clasped his hands. "Senior Brother Zhao, your help is more than enough. Thirty percent is agreed. As for danger—this is a harvesting mission, not a suicide charge. We avoid fights where possible. Only fight if there's no other choice."
Zhao stared at him for several breaths, as if weighing the purity of ore.
Then he nodded. "Fair words. When do we leave?"
"Three days. At dawn. Outside the mountain gate."
"Good."
He turned to leave, then stopped, his iron arm bumping the doorframe with a metallic clang.
"One more thing. Lu said you're fixing a teleportation array?" He scratched his head awkwardly. "That thing… reliable?"
"We'll do our best."
Zhao grunted and left, his heavy footsteps fading like drumbeats.
After he was gone, Lu finally spoke. "Zhao may be blunt, but once he commits—he'll walk through hell for it."
"I know," Jiang said. "That's why I trust him."
By noon, Zhou Xiaohuan and Zheng Xiaoqi returned, spreading gathered intelligence across the table.
The Mistbound Forest was growing dangerous.
Half a month ago, two disciples from Azure Nether Sword Sect had died near Phantom Mire—no wounds on their bodies, but their eyes were missing, faces frozen in terror.
Five days ago, a squad from Blazing Sun Cult entered Wailing Grove. One never came out. The rest suffered soul damage and now screamed about ghosts in the infirmary.
"And there's more," Zhou whispered. "Thunder Hall, Golden Armor Sect, Star Pavilion… they all have people nearby. This isn't normal training."
"They're searching for something," Zheng added grimly. "I overheard talk at the Nether Ghost Manor. The border between the Ghost Domain and the forest is unstable. Yin energy surging. Crying at night."
"Possibly… an Yin Relic."
Jiang's eyes narrowed.
But their priority was clear.
Soul-Nourishing Wood first. Everything else—fate permitting.
By evening, Jiang gathered everyone under the lamplight.
Orders were given. Roles assigned.
No one complained.
Because everyone knew—this wasn't a stroll.
This was survival.
Late that night, Jiang sat alone. The map from Murong Xueli lay beside the jade slip from the monk.
Two paths. Two philosophies.
Illusion ruled the forest.
The Diamond Sutra could steady the mind—but it wasn't enough.
He pulled out Foundations of Formation Dao and turned to the page on Illusion-Breaking Arrays.
Grains of sand… can become a tower.
And this tower—would be built with people.
Outside, the oil lamp flickered.
Jiang Mucheng's shadow stretched long across the wall.
Like something waking up.
Tongue of the Licking Dao — True Saying
The sharpest blade is never the one you hold yourself.
It's the one you place into everyone else's hands.
Then you point and say—there. That's the enemy.
When enough people raise their blades together,
even the heavens must yield.