The morning gong of the Outer Sect did not ring; it shattered the dawn like a physical blow.
In the sprawling dirt courtyard of the disciple barracks, three thousand Outer Court members knelt in perfect, rigid lines. The morning air was bitterly cold, but no one dared shiver. Pacing before them was Deacon Shen, a man with eyes like rusted iron and a temper to match.
"I will ask one more time," Shen's voice boomed, carrying a wave of oppressive Qi that made the weaker disciples gag. "Where are Zhao and Lin?"
Silence.
Shen's heavy gaze swept over the kneeling masses until it locked onto a figure near the very back. Dver.
"You," Shen snapped, pointing a thick, calloused finger. "Rat. They were hunting for you last night. Speak."
Dver didn't just answer; he performed. He let out a pathetic squeak, violently flinching as if Shen had struck him. He scrambled forward on his knees, his head practically buried in the dirt.
"T-they did, Deacon!" Dver stammered, his voice trembling so violently his teeth chattered. "T-they cornered me near the alley! But I ran! I swear, I ran as fast as I could and hid in the latrines all night! The smell... I didn't come out until the gong! Please, don't let them beat me again!"
A ripple of cruel, mocking laughter washed through the kneeling disciples. To hide in the filth all night just to avoid a beating—it was the ultimate display of cowardice.
Deacon Shen's lip curled in absolute disgust. He waved his hand dismissively, turning away. "Pathetic trash. Zhao and Lin probably chased a beast into the lower woods and got themselves eaten. Roll call is over. Get to your duties."
Dver kept his forehead pressed to the dirt until the Deacon was gone.
"Flawless," the Void God mocked in his mind. "You grovel with such natural talent, Vessel."
Dver didn't reply. As he stood up, dusting the dirt from his knees, his mind was already calculating the odds of the next phase. The sect was nothing but a massive betting table, and every interaction was a wager of risk versus reward. The disappearance of the two bullies was a low-risk gamble that paid off with a perfect alibi. But his physical body was a problem.
Thanks to his meal the night before, the frail, cracked vessel of the original Dver had been reforged. Beneath his baggy, ragged grey robes, his physique had completely transformed. He wasn't bulky or massive; he was lean, packed with dense, hyper-defined musculature that looked like it had been carved from tempered steel. A web of old, silvery scars—souvenirs from the pitch-black pit—crisscrossed his torso.
He moved with a lazy, almost bored slouch, his hands tucked loosely into his sleeves. It was the relaxed posture of an apex predator that knew it didn't need to flex to be the deadliest thing in the room.
But if he ever had to fight in public, his raw, explosive physical strength would instantly give him away. Cultivators used Qi; they didn't snap necks with bare hands. He needed a cover story. A martial art that justified his physical supremacy.
Dver navigated the winding paths to the Martial Arts Pavilion, a towering, three-story pagoda that smelled of old parchment, dust, and cheap incense.
He bypassed the sections for sword arts and elemental Qi manipulation, heading straight for the darkest, dustiest corner of the first floor: Body Refinement.
In the Blood Lotus Sect, Body Refinement was considered a path for untalented failures. It required agonizing pain, destroyed the user's meridians over time, and offered very little magical power.
Dver ran his fingers over the discarded jade slips until he found exactly what he needed.
The Asura's Iron-Blood Mantra. A suicidal technique that involved violently compressing one's own blood vessels to generate explosive physical force. Anyone who practiced it usually died of internal hemorrhaging by the age of twenty. It was the perfect disguise.
Just as Dver picked up the jade slip, a heavy hand slammed into the wooden shelf, trapping his arm.
"Drop it, rat."
Dver slowly turned his head. Standing next to him was a young man in pristine, silk-lined grey robes. It was Ma Chen, an Outer Court tyrant ranked in the top 500. Two lackeys stood behind him, snickering.
"I need something to balance a wobbly table in my courtyard," Ma Chen sneered, looking Dver up and down with absolute contempt. "That garbage manual will do perfectly. Hand it over, and maybe I won't break your jaw."
"Eat him," the Void God whispered, a spike of cold hunger stabbing the back of Dver's eyes. "Swallow his arrogant tongue."
Dver's mind instantly ran the odds. A direct kill? 100% chance of exposure. A brutal, public beating? 80% chance of drawing an Elder's attention. An 'accident'? 0% risk. High reward.
Dver let his shoulders slump. He clutched the jade slip to his chest, taking a trembling step backward. "S-Senior Ma... please, I just want to learn..."
"I said give it!" Ma Chen barked, stepping forward and viciously shoving Dver in the chest.
Dver let the push connect. But the moment Ma Chen's force transferred, Dver perfectly shifted his center of gravity. He threw himself backward, flailing his arms wildly as if completely out of control.
As Dver "stumbled," his left heel whipped out with surgical, blinding speed, hooking directly behind Ma Chen's ankle. At the exact same microsecond, Dver's elbow seemingly flailed backward, driving the hardened point of the bone directly into a major nerve cluster on Ma Chen's inner thigh with the force of a falling anvil.
THWACK.
"Aaaarrgh!"
Ma Chen's leg instantly paralyzed. The sheer agony of the crushed nerve sent his brain into shock. He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, his face smashing brutally into the hardwood floor. He shrieked, clutching his thigh, unable to comprehend what had just happened. To his lackeys, and to the Pavilion Elder watching from a distance, it looked exactly like Ma Chen had aggressively pushed Dver, tripped over his own feet, and pulled a muscle in a humiliating, clumsy fall.
Dver scrambled to his feet, panting heavily, looking utterly terrified.
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, Senior! You pushed me, and I lost my balance!" Dver bowed frantically, clutching the Asura manual tight. Without waiting for a response, he turned and sprinted out of the pavilion like a frightened rabbit.
As he stepped out into the cool afternoon air, leaving Ma Chen's humiliated screams echoing in the pagoda, the cowering posture vanished. His lazy, slouched stride returned.
"You play the clown far too well," the Void God grumbled, annoyed that there was no blood.
"I'm just placing my bets," Dver whispered, looking up toward the floating peaks of the Inner Sect. "When the stakes are high enough, I'll collect the debt."
Suddenly, the hair on the back of Dver's neck stood up.
A gaze.
It wasn't the harsh, probing scan of an Enforcer. It was soft, immensely powerful, and chillingly pure. Someone was watching him from the bridge of the highest floating peak.
Dver didn't look up, but he felt the suffocating pressure of a flawless, untainted aura.
The Saintess.