The path back to the outer disciples' barracks was a winding trail of black mud and frustrated ambition. At this hour of the night, the rain had weakened into a cold, miserable drizzle—enough to seep into the bones, but not enough to wash anything clean.
On both sides of the path, rotting wooden cabins clustered together like crooked teeth in a diseased mouth, leaning against one another at precarious angles. From within came the sounds of low-level existence: coarse snoring, whispered arguments over defective spirit stones, and the occasional groan of some fool attempting to force a breakthrough without talent or resources.
Xie Luan walked slowly.Not out of fear—but out of biological necessity.
His body was a disaster of engineering. Though the energy stolen from the dying servant had fused his ribs back together and stopped the internal bleeding, his muscles remained atrophied from years of systematic malnutrition. His energy reserves were dangerously low. Each step required conscious effort to keep himself from collapsing into the mud.
What an insulting level of fragility, he thought, watching his bare feet sink into the sludge.In the higher planes, the body is merely a projection of the soul's intent—perfect, adjustable, disposable. Here, it is a defective anchor of meat. If a farmer struck me with a shovel right now, I would die. My so-called immortality means nothing against brute physics.
He stopped in front of Cabin 404.
The structure was warped, its roof patched with moldy straw and rot. A tallow candle flickered through the gaps between poorly nailed planks, casting thin lines of light onto the wet ground. From inside came the unmistakable smell of cheap rice wine—and nervous laughter.
Xie Luan paused. He closed his eyes and sharpened his senses, filtering out the rain.
"…I'm telling you, it sounded like dry wood hitting stone," said a thick, slurred voice—Wang the Bear. Alcohol dragged his words, giving them a viscous weight. "Crack. Elder Mo will be pleased. That pretty boy was becoming a problem. Too… proud to be a toy."
"What if someone asks about him?" Li the Rat interrupted, his sharp, anxious voice trembling. "The records… we have to report—"
"We'll say he ran away. Or that a spirit beast ate him in the woods," Wang snorted. "No one cares about a disciple with stone meridians. Stop shaking and drink."
Xie Luan opened his eyes.
They were pools of absolute calm in the night, devoid of emotional turbulence.
He raised his right hand. At the tip of his index finger, the residual energy he had harvested in the ravine—the pure fear of the dead boy—flickered weakly.
A single charge.One round in the chamber.
If he failed, Wang would tear him apart before he could blink. Xie Luan had no physical strength left. His only advantages were surprise, anatomy—and his enemy's stupidity.
He pushed the door open.
The rusted hinges shrieked, slicing through the conversation like metal screaming in pain. Night wind rushed in with him, making the candle flame dance violently and throwing distorted shadows across the soot-stained walls.
Wang and Li turned.
Their expressions shifted from drunken amusement to confusion—then to absolute disbelief.
Xie Luan stood in the doorway. The dim light outlined his slender frame. He was caked in dried mud, his torn robe hanging loosely from narrow shoulders. His wet black hair framed a face so pale it seemed to glow faintly—an apparition of bone and shadow.
He wasn't panting.He wasn't shivering.
He simply was.
"You—" Wang jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. The scarred, brutish color drained from his face. "You're dead! I saw you fall!"
Li let out a shrill scream and scrambled backward until he hit the far wall, copper coins scattering across the floor. "A ghost! Wang, it's a vengeful spirit! He's come back for us!"
Xie Luan tilted his head slightly, like a bird studying a worm."Falling is easy, Brother Wang," he said softly, his tone polite and utterly devoid of hostility—which made it infinitely more disturbing. "The hard part is landing."
He stepped inside and gently closed the door behind him.
The click of the latch sounded like a gunshot in the silent room.
Wang, bolstered by alcohol and the fact that the "ghost" cast a shadow, snorted. He grabbed the empty wine bottle and smashed it against the table, turning it into a jagged shard of glass.
"Ghosts don't bleed," Wang growled, bloodshot eyes locking onto Xie Luan's exposed throat. "And if you survived the fall, it just means you're a tougher cockroach than I thought. Fine. This time I'll cut off your head and deliver it to the Elder in a box!"
He charged.
Third-stage Qi Condensation. His body had been lightly reinforced by energy—stronger and faster than a normal mortal. To the current Xie Luan, it was a rhinoceros rushing him. The air displaced by Wang's momentum rippled violently. The broken bottle went straight for his jugular.
Xie Luan did not move.
He did not raise his arms.
His black eyes dissected reality itself. Time slowed within his mind, physics unfolding with merciless clarity.
Too much weight on the left foot. Right shoulder telegraphs the strike. Center of gravity too far forward—rage-driven. Breathing irregular from alcohol.Slow.Painfully slow.
At the last instant, when the stench of wine and sweat invaded his space, Xie Luan moved.
Not with an athletic leap or martial flourish.
Just a minimal sidestep—perfect economy of motion.
His body slipped out of the attack's path by barely three centimeters. Death brushed past him.
Wang's arm cut through empty air. His momentum carried him forward, exposing his back—and more importantly, his neck.
In that microscopic window, Xie Luan raised his right hand.
Index finger extended.
"Thread."
No battle cry. Just a whisper.
He touched Wang's nape—softly, almost intimately, like a lover brushing hair aside.
The stored energy discharged instantly. A crimson thread of Qi—imperceptible to the naked eye yet vibrating with Concept—pierced the skin, ignored muscle, and slid cleanly between the C1 and C2 vertebrae.
Like a heated needle seeking silk, it wrapped around Wang's brainstem and tightened.
"Stay," Xie Luan ordered.
Wang froze mid-step.
His feet remained planted, but his torso ceased to obey. The glass bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the rotting floor, shards scattering.
His eyes bulged grotesquely. A vein on his forehead throbbed violently. He tried to turn. To scream. To strike.
Nothing responded.
"Ghh… ghh…"A wet, gurgling sound escaped his throat—the last system still partially functional.
Xie Luan calmly walked around him until he stood face to face.
Wang loomed like a trembling tower of muscle, paralyzed by terror his primitive brain could not comprehend.
"You have so much blood, Brother Wang," Xie Luan murmured, studying him with scientific curiosity. "So much vitality. So much brute force… all dependent on a single little cable in your neck. Fascinatingly poor design."
He raised a hand and gently brushed Wang's sweaty cheek. Wang tried to bite him, teeth clacking uselessly—his jaw locked.
"Do you feel it? A noose. I've tied your nervous center. Right now, your brain is screaming at your heart to beat and your lungs to breathe. But the signal isn't arriving."
Xie Luan smiled.
Not a victorious smile—but an empty imitation of humanity that never reached his eyes.
"Goodbye, Wang."
He made a sharp cutting gesture in the air.
Twang.
A wet, muffled sound echoed from inside Wang's neck.
The giant convulsed violently once. His eyes rolled white. Blood erupted from his nose and ears as intracranial pressure burst catastrophically, splattering hot droplets across Xie Luan's pale skin.
Wang hit the floor face-first.
Dead before he landed.
Silence swallowed the room.
Except for the rain—and a wet sound from the corner.
Li had pissed himself.
A yellow puddle spread beneath him as he stared at Wang's corpse, then at Xie Luan, then back again. His mind could not reconcile what it had witnessed. The cripple had killed the strong with a single touch.
No struggle.No effort.
Xie Luan retrieved a dirty handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped a drop of blood from his cheek with meticulous calm. Exhaustion crashed into him immediately. The thread had emptied his reserves completely.
He was defenseless again. Hollow.
If Li had an ounce of courage, he could pick up a shard of glass and kill him now.
But Xie Luan understood cowards better than anyone.
Fear was more paralyzing than any poison.
He turned to Li.
"Brother Li," he said gently.
Li shrieked and smashed his head against the wall, trying to retreat further—though there was nowhere left to go. "No! Mercy! It was Wang's idea! He forced me! I wanted to help you! Don't kill me!"
Xie Luan approached, footsteps echoing softly on the wood. He ignored the stench of urine and terror. He crouched before Li, lowering himself to eye level.
At this distance, his pale, sickly beauty was overwhelming.
A porcelain idol stained with blood.A minor god of calamity.
"Open your eyes, Li. Look at me."
Li obeyed, trembling violently, tears and mucus streaking his face. "Please… I'll do anything… I'm your dog…"
"I know," Xie Luan said. "I won't kill you. Killing is tiring. And cleaning blood is tedious. I need someone to clean."
He extended his hand and touched Li's sweating forehead with his index finger.
Li screamed and shut his eyes, expecting instant death.
Nothing happened.
Just cold.
"I've planted a seed in your brain," Xie Luan lied calmly, his voice dropping into a confidential whisper. "A sleeping thread. Just like the one I used on Wang. It's wrapped around your mind."
He withdrew his finger. "As long as you're loyal, it will sleep. You won't even feel it. But if you betray me—if you run, or if you ever think of telling someone what happened here tonight—"
He snapped his fingers beside Li's ear.
"Pop. Your head will open like rotten fruit. No pain. Just darkness."
Li clutched his skull frantically. Suggestion did the rest. The violence he'd witnessed cemented the lie into absolute truth. He felt the thread. A phantom cold slithering through his brain.
"I'll be loyal! I swear on my ancestors!" Li sobbed, prostrating himself and slamming his forehead into the filthy floor again and again. "This slave will serve Master Xie! Thank you for sparing this dog's life!"
Xie Luan stood, looking down at the coward with contempt.
He had spent his only real bullet on Wang—but gained a reusable weapon in Li.
Fear never depreciated.
"Get up. Stop crying. You're disgusting."
Li scrambled to his feet. "W-what should I do, Master?"
Xie Luan pointed at Wang's corpse. "Dispose of it. Drag him to the Waste Ravine and throw him back where I came from."
"And… what do I tell people?" Li asked weakly.
"Wang got drunk," Xie Luan said, walking to his own cot and sitting heavily. "Tried to practice a forbidden technique he bought on the black market to impress the Elder. He suffered a Qi deviation. His heart exploded. You and I were here. We saw it. A tragic accident."
He fixed Li with a cold stare. "Do you understand the story?"
"Yes… Qi deviation… accident… I understand."
"Good. Now clean this mess. And Li—"
Xie Luan leaned back, eyes closing as exhaustion finally dragged at his consciousness.
"Do it quietly. I have a headache."
Li nodded frantically and began dragging Wang's heavy corpse toward the door, struggling to keep the noise down as dead flesh scraped across wood.
Xie Luan listened.
He had survived the first night. The immediate physical threat was gone.
But his mind did not rest.
Wang had been a pawn. The real player was still out there.
Elder Mo Zha.
Xie Luan knew Mo would come. Not tomorrow, perhaps—but he would. A man who covets a toy does not accept its disappearance without investigation.
Xie Luan stared at his empty hands in the darkness.
He needed more fear.More threads.He needed to become something far worse than the monster Mo Zha believed himself to be—and fast.