The boundary between the Black Stone region and the ordinary Black Mist Forest was, in truth, invisible.
But to Yan Kesh, the difference was as stark as night and day.
The moment he stepped beyond the stone's sphere of influence, the world became noisy.
The rasp of leaves rubbing together, the droning of poisonous insects, and the sticky humidity of the air assaulted his senses all at once. The forest felt "alive" again—alive in the most disgusting sense of the word. A place where creatures devoured one another, fought over territory, and exuded a filthy lust for survival.
Yan Kesh paused at the edge of a murky puddle.
He stared at his own reflection.
His hair was a tangled mess, filled with dry twigs. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharply protruding, his skin a sickly greenish pale. The disciple robe of the Yan Clan he once wore with pride was now nothing more than mud-soaked rags barely covering his body.
Anyone who saw him now would see only one thing:
A victim.
A loser abandoned by his clan, unable to survive, now waiting for death at the edge of the forest.
"Perfect," Yan Kesh whispered. The cracked corners of his lips curled upward slightly.
The cultivation world was full of arrogant people who judged books by their covers. They scorned beggars, ignored the sick, and never guarded against the half-dead.
Yan Kesh loved that.
An enemy's ignorance was the most valuable intangible asset of all.
He continued forward, this time following the faint sound of clashing metal he had heard earlier. His steps were unhurried. He did not run like a hero rushing to save someone, but crept forward like a hyena waiting for a lion to finish its meal.
The closer he got to the source, the clearer the fluctuations of energy in the air became.
Yan Kesh closed his eyes briefly, using his newly acquired perception to sense the "waves" of conflict.
There were two distinct energies.
One was hot, explosive, and crude.
The other was cold, sharp—yet trembling with fear.
"An unequal fight," he analyzed. "One side dominates. The other clings to life. This isn't an honorable duel. It's a robbery… or a slaughter."
In the moral framework of ordinary humans, conscience would urge one to help the weak.
But in The Audit, there was no column labeled "morality."
There were only columns for "Risk" and "Profit."
Helping the weak: High risk (death), uncertain profit (gratitude cannot be eaten).
Helping the strong: Low risk, low profit (perhaps some leftover loot).
Waiting for both sides to falter: Controlled risk, maximum profit.
Yan Kesh chose the third option.
He climbed silently onto a massive tree branch thick with moss. His position was ideal—concealed by shadows and foliage, yet offering a clear view of the small clearing below.
Down there, a clichéd drama was unfolding.
A young man in a light blue robe—the uniform of the Iron River Clan, a neighboring clan allied with the Yan Clan—was cornered against a large boulder. His face was covered in blood, his sword broken in half. His breathing was ragged, his eyes darting wildly for an escape.
Opposite him stood two burly men clad in animal hides.
Wild Hunters.
Their auras were brutal, at least at Body Tempering Stage 7 or 8—far beyond Yan Kesh, who was technically at Level 0.
"Hand over your spatial pouch, Young Master," one hunter sneered, casually toying with his massive axe. "And maybe we'll let you leave with just one arm missing."
The Iron River disciple trembled. "Y-you dare rob a clan disciple? If my elders find out—"
"Your elders aren't here, kid," the second hunter cut in, spitting on the ground. "Out here, clan law doesn't apply. Only the law of flesh."
From above, Yan Kesh observed with eyes colder than ice.
Boring dialogue. Predictable threats.
But his gaze was not fixed on the people themselves.
With his new ability to perceive "transactions," he focused on the air around them.
Each time a hunter swung his axe with killing intent, Yan Kesh saw faint sparks of "debt" flash into existence.
Each time the young man faltered in fear and despair, Yan Kesh saw an accumulation of "loss."
Conflict created imbalance.
And imbalance was fuel for The Balance.
"I can't fight those two physically," Yan Kesh calculated swiftly. "Their axes would split my skull before I could even blink. I can't save that young man either."
But Yan Kesh needed something.
He needed a way out of this forest, and the Iron River disciple surely had a map—or at least knew the direction. He also needed proper food, and perhaps a bit of money.
So Yan Kesh decided to wait.
He would allow the transaction below to continue a little longer. Let desperation peak. Let the value of that young man's life fall to its lowest point.
When someone stands at the brink of death, they are willing to pay any price for salvation.
"The outside world really hasn't changed," Yan Kesh thought, leaning his back against the tree trunk. "Still full of lost sheep and starving wolves."
"And I…" he looked at his thin, bony hands. "…am merely a tax collector passing by."
Below, a hunter's axe began to swing once more. Bloodshed was only seconds away.
And Yan Kesh, patiently, began counting down.
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