Merin walks the dirt path, quiet and empty, for several minutes.
On either side, the forest rustles with movement—ordinary beasts roaming freely.
He stops as a wolf pack emerges ahead, crossing the path.
The Alpha pauses, locking eyes with Merin, silent and still, until the last of its pack disappears into the trees. Then it follows, vanishing into the woods.
The forest within the town is home to many beasts, but no one here fears them.
Everyone in Greenview Martial Town is a martial artist, and the weakest among them are already in the Qi Condensation Realm.
Even a Body Forging martial artist could easily defeat an ordinary beast.
Here, it's not the people who are in danger—it's the beasts who wander too close.
No matter how fierce, any beast could end up as someone's ration with a moment's notice.
Yet, more and more beasts continue to stray into the town's outer edge, fleeing the deeper forest—fleeing the Giant Beasts that rule the inner wilds.
And for the martial artists here, ordinary beasts hold little value—their meat contains too little Karst energy to be worth harvesting.
Eventually, Merin begins to see others ahead—people walking the dirt path, all heading toward the heart of the town.
He knows he's nearing the centre, where shops and stalls line the road, catering to the needs of martial artists living in Greenview.
As he walks, he hears a vendor shouting, "Martial art techniques for sale!"
Merin doesn't even glance his way.
It's likely just lower-tier techniques—basic forms designed to teach how to use the physical body to attack.
He has no use for those anymore.
At the Unification Realm, his control over his body reaches the cellular level.
He no longer needs crude methods to guide his movements.
What he needs now are upper-tier techniques—methods that merge True Energy with Karst energy to unleash devastating attacks.
But just as he walks past, something makes him freeze.
Did he hear that right?
The vendor's voice rings out again: "Upper Martial Arts technique for sale!"
Merin turns around, eyes narrowing as a small crowd gathers around the stall.
He walks toward it, anticipation rising—only to notice people already turning away in disappointment.
Fragments.
That's the word passed among the murmuring crowd.
The so-called upper-level martial techniques being sold are incomplete—only one or two moves from a full set.
For most presents, it's not worth the price.
Many are lower-realm martial artists who can't use such techniques yet, even if they wanted to.
Others belong to martial sects and will be given complete upper-tier techniques when they advance—no need to waste credits on scraps.
Only a handful remain—like Merin—martial artists in the lower Unification Realm.
But unlike Merin, they're older, most without backing, their potential already judged and dismissed by major sects.
They remain out of desperation, hoping to gain an edge before their cultivation stalls for good.
Merin joins them and browses the scrolls, eyes scanning the worn covers and vague descriptions.
He has no intention of buying.
In a month, he'll be at the Karst Energy Research Centre—doors to elite resources will open.
It's just curiosity.
Merin reads through the names, introductions, and the number of moves listed for each technique.
That's all the stall owner allows anyone to see—names, short descriptions, and how many moves the fragment contains.
Nothing more.
It's enough.
At the Unification Realm, a martial artist's mind becomes sharper, memory near-photographic, strengthened by the constant refinement of both body and spirit.
A single glance is all it takes to remember everything.
Merin stops at one particular scroll.
Ice God Palm.
A technique that channels True Energy, merges it with Karst energy, and uses the resulting force to freeze and strike.
He isn't drawn by the elemental alignment—it doesn't match his current path.
But this scroll is different.
It contains four complete moves.
Most of the others barely offer one or two.
His interest doesn't go unnoticed.
The stall owner leans forward, eyes gleaming. "Little brother, that scroll will cost you 300,000 credits."
Merin glances at him but says nothing.
He knows the market.
A complete high-level technique often starts around a million credits.
And demand can drive it even higher.
Three hundred thousand for four moves—this is a good price.
Still, he doesn't bite.
Not urgent.
Not compatible.
His Blue Light Breathing Technique emphasises burst, heat, and explosive momentum, while Ice God Palm is rigid, cold, and suppressive.
Opposing philosophies.
Merin places the scroll's introduction list back onto the table and turns to leave when the stall owner calls out, "Brother, how about 250,000 credits?"
Merin shakes his head. "It's not compatible with my breathing technique."
The stall owner smiles knowingly. "Then take a look at this." He rummages under the table and pulls out a slim manual. "White Light Breathing Exercise. If you buy the technique, I'll throw this in for free."
The name catches Merin's attention.
It's strikingly similar to his Blue Light Breathing Technique—a variation perhaps, or a refinement of the same lineage.
Still, the price stings.
The amount the stall owner asks could easily be earned with a single successful hunt, especially if the beast is Colossal Realm. But Merin doesn't spend based on impulse—curiosity isn't reason enough.
The two techniques might not benefit him at all.
Yet his interest lingers. High-level techniques reveal more than just moves—they show how others refine their energy, how structure and flow evolve with realm.
Merin says, "I'll buy it if you sell it for 150,000 credits."
The stall owner's face tightens. "I bought it for more than that. How can I sell it at such a loss?"
Merin shrugs. "You're not selling it to me exclusively. You'll copy and resell it. One or two more sales and you'll recover your cost."
The stall owner falls silent, eyes narrowing as he studies Merin, calculating.
After a pause, he says, "How about 200,000 credits?"
Merin shakes his head. "I'll only pay 150,000."
He turns to leave.
The stall owner sighs, realising Merin won't budge. "Fine. Take it."
Merin stops, nods, and says, "Give me your ID—I'll transfer the money."
A minute later, Merin walks away from the stall with two books in his hand.
He checks the time—just a couple of minutes until six.
He quickens his pace, not wanting to be late.
Soon, he stops in front of a modest building with a faded signboard that reads Fire Inn.
Merin opens the door and steps inside, immediately wrinkling his nose at the overwhelming stench of alcohol and smoke.
He weaves through the main hall, filled with tables crowded by martial artists laughing and drinking, but Ben is nowhere in sight.
He glances around the bar—still no sign.
His eyes shift to the staircase leading to the upper floor.
This meeting's important, he thinks. It must be upstairs—in a private room.
He climbs the stairs and reaches the upper level, spotting a receptionist behind a desk.
Just as Merin walks toward the receptionist, a voice calls out behind him.
"Adam."
He turns to see Ben standing in the doorway of a private room.
Merin walks over and says, "Sorry, I'm late."
Ben waves it off. "Don't worry. Most haven't arrived yet."
He steps aside, giving Merin space to enter.
Inside, only three people have arrived.
They glance at Merin and nod in brief acknowledgement.
Merin nods back and takes a seat, his eyes passing over the three—two men and one woman.
He recognises them by face and reputation.
Black from Thunder Shark Gate, Jamie from Dark Knife Pavilion, and Belinda from Rose Club.
All three are members of martial sects—each from a different one.
A few minutes pass.
Then one by one, the others arrive—Ryan, Madelyn, and more—until ten people fill the room.
Ben closes the door, and the meeting begins.
Their target: a Triple-Horn Rhino.
Merin listens closely.
Rhinos are infamous for their natural defence, but the triple-horn variant is equally dangerous in attack. He wouldn't have dared target one alone.
But ten martial artists working together? It's doable.
The reason for choosing this beast becomes clear.
It's massive—plenty to divide among ten people without conflict.
And most importantly, it had only just broken through to the Colossal Realm a month ago.
Still new.
Still unstable.
A perfect window to strike.
Once the plan is finalised—time, formation, escape routes—Merin quietly leaves the room.
The others follow soon after, each heading toward their own cottages scattered across Greenview.
Under the dimming evening sky, the group disperses like shadows fading into the forest.
But one among them returns with something else on his mind.
As soon as he enters his cottage, he checks every room in silence—eyes sharp, ears alert.
He locks every door and window, pulls the curtains tight.
Then he enters his bedroom and kneels beside the bed.
From beneath the mattress, he pulls out a statue wrapped in aged cloth—its surface etched with faint, twisted runes.
The man is Jamie.
He places the statue on the bed and kneels before it, whispering prayers with a voice trembling in devotion.
His eyes burn with fanatic obsession as he stares at the idol.
Then, without hesitation, he draws a blade and slices his wrist, letting blood drip onto the statue's surface.
The runes glow faintly, the statue pulsing with eerie light.
Jamie exhales shakily, eyes fluttering closed.
And moments later, he collapses beside the bed, already deep in a blood-bound trance.