Morning light filtered over the Azure Sky Sect, scattering through the mist like molten gold. Disciples moved through the courtyards, absorbed in their routines: sword practice, breathing cycles, chores. The sect hummed with quiet energy, like a hive preparing for the day. The air was thick with the scent of dew-kissed grass and the faint clash of blades, laced with the promises of what lay ahead.
Xue Mo walked among them in silence, his expression unreadable, steps deliberate but unhurried. His robes were clean, save for the faintest trace of dried blood clinging to the cuffs—a remnant of a task others would shun but he accepted as part of his existence. To outsiders, he looked like any other outer disciple returning from morning cultivation, an unremarkable figure in a sea of faces.
No one gave him a second glance.
But he noticed everything. Every whisper behind cupped hands, every sidelong glance, every subtle shift in the air as disciples maneuvered around one another, careful not to provoke or attract attention. He was a shadow among them, blending in yet existing just outside their shared reality.
---
Near the garden walkway by the Outer Mission Hall, two disciples leaned beside stone lanterns, their laughter bright and airy—a stark contrast to the muted shade of Xue Mo's world.
"Did you hear? Wang Lin almost got mauled last week hunting spirit rabbits."
"That idiot still thinks he's a beast tamer," came the jibe, punctuated by a chuckle.
Their voices carried like notes on the wind. One, a short boy with nervous eyes, flicked a glance at Xue Mo as he passed.
Too quick.
Xue Mo kept walking, uninterested in their banter or their exaltation of fools. No need to stop. Not yet. He was the silent observer, drifting through a vibrant tapestry of youthful dreams and naïveté.
The conversation shifted behind him.
"Wasn't that Lin Feng? The guy who collapsed last month?" one asked, curiosity tinged with malice.
"Yeah. Supposed to be kicked out. Guess someone pulled strings," the other replied, mirth fading to shared disdain.
"Waste of good resources."
Xue Mo didn't break stride. Let them chortle and speculate—on him, on Lin Feng—but he cared little for opinions born from shadows less dark than his own.
---
Inside the Internal Affairs Hall, the air was thick with the musty scent of old scrolls and crushed herbs. A dozen disciples moved in slow, shifting lines. They whispered, weaving tales and spinning rumors, unaware that Xue Mo's presence was a faint line barely drawn in their enthusiasm.
Behind the desk sat a pale attendant, sleeves rolled, ink-stained fingers tapping impatiently, eyes flicking over the incoming disciples like a watcher of souls.
"Lin Feng," Xue Mo said, voice steady, revealing nothing despite the weight of the name.
The man looked up disinterested. "Missed your assignment last cycle," he stated plainly.
"Injuries," Xue Mo replied, the truth biting quietly but without inflection.
The man grunted, pushed a pill forward without another word. "Next time, don't bother showing your face."
A girl in line glanced over, curiosity tugging at her expression.
"That him? The one beaten half to death in the arena?" she whispered, not quite low enough.
"Looks like a leaf in robes," someone muttered mockingly as Xue Mo took the pill and left, their laughter trailing after him like a shadow.
---
The Outer Mission Board was busier than usual. Young disciples jostled for position, energy crackling as they examined worn postings. Some requests bore red stamps—urgent or high-risk. Xue Mo ignored those, wisdom guiding him to choose battles carefully.
He read calmly:
Herb gathering at the eastern cliffs.
Patrol duty around the wall.
Escort mission to Clear Willow Village.
Beast subjugation in the southern woods.
He tapped the last, letting his finger linger on the wooden tab. The attendant glanced up, surprise flickering across his face. "Southern woods? Alone mission," came the probing.
"Acceptable," Xue Mo answered flatly, resolve steady.
The man blinked, taken aback by the unwavering tone, then handed over the wooden tag. "Bring back the cores. No corpses."
Xue Mo nodded slightly, no need for explanations. Nearby disciples snorted, their mockery thinly veiled.
"He'll be lucky if the beasts leave his legs intact."
"Maybe they'll do the sect a favor," another added with a laugh.
Xue Mo walked on, their derision fading like echoes of a forgotten tale. He was undeterred; their perspectives were shallow reflections of ignorance, harmless but naïve.
---
Back in his cave, darkness was a comforting womb. He crushed the Qi Gathering Pill in his hand, releasing a fine powder that scattered like dust motes in the muted oil lamp light. The essence's aroma was faint but distinct—a promise of strength yet to come.
He drank slowly, bitterness mingling with the dull taste of hope, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor. The familiar flow of the Blood Deity Art passed over him like a well-rehearsed melody.
Qi coursed through his Chongmai (Penetrating Vessel), the Sea of Qi and Blood flared with raw heat—a tempest within. It threaded through the Shenmai (Kidney Meridian), reinforcing marrow. He redirected excess, letting potency surge into the Pimmai (Spleen Meridian), stabilizing the storm. Finally, he cycled it upward through the Renmai (Conception Vessel) and back down the Dumai (Governing Vessel), each pathway familiar yet charged with possibility.
His chest throbbed faintly where the blood mark rested—a reminder of a promise, and of darkness clawing at the edges of his mind. Not strength. Yet. Yet wasn't absence; it was a path still unfolding.
The technique's hunger stirred more easily now—a predator roused from slumber.
---
That evening, he stepped into a quiet courtyard for blade practice. Faint moonlight draped the tiles in silver, illuminating sharp contrasts of light and shadow. A few disciples trained nearby, engaged in their rituals of clanging iron and heavy footfalls.
Xue Mo moved alone, the weight of solitude anchoring him. His blade whistled through the air, arcs slicing silence. Each stroke was purposeful, each stance a dance of unyielding resolve.
One form. Repeat. An exercise in patience and perfection.
A girl across the courtyard paused, watching, her companions whispering judgments cloaked in youthful arrogance.
"That one again. He still doesn't know he's doomed," one remarked, dismissing Xue Mo with a wave.
"Quiet. What if he snaps?" another countered, a genuine concern threading through mockery.
Xue Mo didn't care. Their opinions were clouds—loud, shapeless, ever-shifting.
He finished, sheathed his sword, and walked off. Their laughter faded behind him, diminished by deepening night. He was less a participant in their stories, more an artist crafting his own narrative—woven with determination, fluidity, and hungry ambition.
---
The southern woods greeted him with early mist and silence—a world brimming with potential yet shrouded in uncertainty.
He stepped lightly along the mossy path, footprints fading behind him as he sank deeper into nature's embrace. Greenery loomed like ancient sentinels, guarding secrets untold.
The first beast: a greenback lizard. Its tongue flicked, tasting air as it slithered from under a root. With swift precision, Xue Mo pierced its head cleanly—effortless execution. He stepped back without watching it die—no time for attachment, only purpose.
The second: a bark-skinned boar, heavier, embodying wilderness raw power. It sniffed once, then charged—tenacious, stark against Xue Mo's calm.
He waited until nearly upon him—focused, an unwavering stone amid chaos.
Then moved.
Steel whispered. The boar staggered, a deep cut behind its front leg. It bucked, turned, charged again, but Xue Mo was already a ghost—blade dancing in an elegant flash of lethality.
He spun aside, slicing again—blood pooled dark and rich, soaking earth. One last strike finished it, decisive and clean.
Xue Mo knelt by the corpse, running his hand through thick blood, anchoring himself to the world.
With two fingers, he drew a slow curved line in the dirt beside the beast—a simple, profound act of connection. No symbols. No array.
Just a trace. Tied to him.
He stood and left. The quietude around him was palpable, the forest breathing its secrets.
Behind him, a shiver ran up his spine. Something watched.
But did not approach.
---
The Mission Hall attendant raised an eyebrow when he returned before dusk, the sun retreating behind the horizon, casting long shadows.
"That was quick," the attendant noted, skeptical surprise lacing his words.
"I didn't take breaks," Xue Mo replied flatly, chin lifting in silent defiance, resolve unwavering.
He laid down the beast cores—heavy, real, a testament of effort. The man glanced over, then stamped the mission tag with finality.
A girl nearby caught sight of him, surprise mingled with barely contained vitriol.
"He's back already? Alone?" Her incredulous tone dripped judgment.
"Lucky. Or lying," another added, eager to place him beneath gossip's cruelty.
"Cores don't lie," the attendant mumbled, scanning metallic orbs as keys to deeper mystery.
---
That night, Xue Mo sat in his cave, the tiny lamp casting long shadows on rough stone walls, flickering light revealing more than just space. It illuminated layers of thought—the labyrinth of ambitions weaving through the cave like silk through a loom.
From his sleeve, he pulled a dried leaf, its rough surface bearing a faint blood trace—an echo of his earlier conquest. He held it steady, palms steady like the unwavering resolve that coursed through him.
Waited.
Then—a faint pull, the sensation of being tethered beyond space and time—the mark he left in the woods had been touched; it pulsed with a light of its own, resonating as if connecting two disparate threads in a larger weave.
He closed his hand over the leaf, feeling its texture against his skin, a tangible reminder of the bond he forged in the wilderness—one that spoke of power, patience, and unyielding resolve.
A smirk flickered across his lips, a grim blend of satisfaction and cunning playing at the edges of his features.
Someone had followed.
And now he knew who.
He laid the leaf down beside him, feeling its energy linger in the air—an offering of both warning and invitation. From a nearby shelf of old scrolls and dried roots, he pulled a sheet of rough sect parchment and began scribbling notes with black ink. Not the usual cultivation notes; these were names that belonged to lives intertwined with his own, faces that echoed through the corridors of the sect, and small details that may seem insignificant but held a gravity he was slowly learning to appreciate.
A web without string, an intricate pattern reflecting his insights and observations, a silent testament to the connections he was weaving—between himself, his enemies, and those who would one day prove useful or detrimental.
The lamp guttered, struggling against the drafts of time and ambition that flickered through the room like ghosts. He relit it, the fire flickering with renewed vigor as darkness fell deeper.
Tomorrow, he would report the mission.
The day after that, he would volunteer for another, letting the tides of fate lift him further into the currents that life had to offer.
Some bait is best cast slowly.
He smiled faintly—not from joy, for joy was a luxury he could not afford. This was the satisfaction of a hunter, feeling the thrumming pulse of the chase echo in his chest, a call to rise, to act, to devour.
And the blood mark on his chest pulsed once, hungry and alive, waiting, the fire within him awakening anew, setting the stage for battles yet to come.