The sunlight outside the woodshed was blinding, a stark, white assault after the gloom of his imprisonment. Li Ye stood for a moment, letting his pupils contract, his chest expanding as he inhaled the mountain air.
It should have smelled of pine and spiritual mist—the hallmark of a Cultivation Sect. Instead, down here in the servant quarters of the Outer Court, the air smelled of unwashed bodies, woodsmoke, and the copper tang of slaughtered livestock.
Li Ye looked down at himself. He was a disgrace. His grey hemp robes were stiff with dried blood—his own, from the beating, and the fresh, darker stains from the filth of the shed. He smelled of death.
"Perfect camouflage," he muttered, his voice a low, vibrating rumble in his chest.
He flexed his hand. The skin was still caked in grime, but beneath the dirt, the muscles coiled like steel cables. He could feel the Qi circulating in his meridians—not the sluggish, muddy trickle of the previous owner, but a river. It was turbulent, aggressive, and tinged with a biting chill—the remnant of Han Ruoxue's Ice Essence.
He checked the System interface that hovered in his peripheral vision like a cracked heads-up display.
[STATUS: STABLE] [CURRENT STATE: PREDATORY] [HUNGER: 15%] [WARNING: HOST IS CURRENTLY UNARMED AND UNPROTECTED. RECOMMENDED ACTION: ACQUIRE RESOURCES.]
"Acquire," Li Ye chuckled darkly. "You mean steal."
He began to walk.
He didn't skulk in the shadows like a rat. He walked down the center of the mud-packed path that wound through the shantytown of the lowest-ranking disciples. These were the "servant disciples"—those with trash aptitude who were kept around to clean latrines, chop spirit wood, and serve as punching bags for the true Outer Sect members.
Men and women in ragged grey robes hurried past, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the mud. In this world, making eye contact was an invitation for trouble.
Li Ye moved with a fluid, predatory grace that belonged to a hitman, not a servant. His steps were silent. His center of gravity was low. He scanned every face, every shadow, mapping the environment.
Three targets ahead. Two carrying water buckets. One sitting on a stump, sharpening a rusted blade.
They ignored him. To them, he was just another broken body walking to its grave.
Li Ye's destination was a long, low-slung wooden barrack at the edge of the servant district. It was known as the "Dog Kennel." It was where the bullies of the servant quarters congregated—the lackeys who did the dirty work for the Young Masters in exchange for scraps of pills and protection.
It was also where his belongings were.
Or rather, where they were before Zhao Hu took them.
The memory surfaced: Zhao Hu. "Fatty Zhao." A cultivator at the 3rd Layer of Body Tempering. A pig of a man who delighted in using the original Li Ye as a footstool.
Li Ye's eyes narrowed. In the corporate world, you didn't just fire incompetent employees who stole from you. You liquidated them.
He reached the door of the Dog Kennel. It was a sturdy oak slab, scarred with knife marks. Laughter boomed from inside—crude, raucous, and wet.
Kick.
Li Ye didn't knock. He drove the heel of his foot into the center of the door.
BAAAM!
The wood splintered with the sound of a gunshot. The heavy door flew off its rusted hinges, crashing into the room and sending a cloud of dust and splinters into the air.
The laughter inside died instantly.
The room was dimly lit by flickering oil lamps. The air was thick with the smell of cheap grain alcohol and roasted meat. Five men sat around a low table, frozen in various states of shock. Cards and spirit coins were scattered across the wood.
In the center sat Zhao Hu. He was a mountain of greasy flesh, his grey robes stained with oil, his belly spilling over his sash. He held a roasted chicken leg halfway to his mouth, grease shining on his chin.
"Who seeks death?!" Zhao Hu roared, spitting bits of chicken. He slammed his fist on the table, making the coins jump.
The dust settled, revealing Li Ye standing in the doorway. The sunlight from behind him cast his face in shadow, but his eyes glowed with a faint, unnatural blue luminescence.
"Li... Li Ye?"
One of the lackeys, a skinny rat-faced man named Gou San, squinted through the gloom. "Boss, it's the Waste! I thought you said he was dead!"
"I did," Zhao Hu grunted. He wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. The floorboards groaned under his weight. "Seems the King of Hell didn't want him. Or maybe he crawled out of the latrine to beg for scraps."
The other men laughed, though it was nervous laughter. There was something wrong. The Li Ye they knew would be trembling. This man stood with his arms hanging loose at his sides, completely relaxed.
"You're interrupting my lunch, trash," Zhao Hu sneered, picking up a heavy iron club that leaned against his chair. "Since you survived the beating from the Seniors, I guess I have to finish the job. Break his legs, boys. Throw him in the ravine this time."
"On it, Boss!"
Gou San and another lackey, a burly man with a scar across his nose, grabbed wooden staves and rushed forward. They moved with the clumsiness of low-level thugs—telegraphing their attacks, their footing sloppy.
Li Ye watched them come in slow motion. To his enhanced senses, upgraded by the Ice Empress's Qi, they were moving through molasses.
Target 1: Right flank. Exposed neck. Weak stance. Target 2: Left flank. Leading with the shoulder.
"Too slow," Li Ye whispered.
When the burly man swung the stave at Li Ye's head, Li Ye didn't retreat. He stepped into the swing.
He raised his left arm, catching the wooden stave on his forearm.
CRACK.
The wood shattered against his flesh. His body, tempered to Layer 5, was now harder than ironwood. The burly man's eyes bulged in disbelief.
Before the man could scream, Li Ye's right hand shot out. He didn't make a fist. He used his fingers like a spear, driving them straight into the man's throat.
THWACK.
It was a wet, sickening sound. Li Ye's fingers crushed the windpipe and tore through the soft tissue. He ripped his hand back, bringing a spray of bright arterial blood with it.
The burly man gurgled, clutching his ruined throat, and collapsed, drowning in his own blood.
Gou San, who was mid-charge, froze. He looked at his fallen comrade, then at Li Ye's blood-drenched hand. "You... you killed him..."
"You're next," Li Ye said.
He moved.
He closed the distance in a blur. Gou San tried to raise his stave, but Li Ye backhanded him. It wasn't a slap; it was a kinetic impact. Li Ye's hand connected with the side of Gou San's head.
CRUNCH.
The sound of the jawbone pulverizing was audible to everyone in the room. Gou San spun 360 degrees in the air before slamming face-first into the wall, sliding down in a heap. He didn't move. His neck was twisted at an unnatural angle.
Silence descended on the room. Total, terrified silence.
Two seconds. Two dead bodies.
Li Ye stood in the center of the room, shaking the blood off his hand with a casual flick of his wrist. He looked at Zhao Hu.
"That chicken looks greasy," Li Ye said calmly. "And you look like you have something of mine."
Zhao Hu's face had gone pale, the grease on his skin now looking like cold sweat. He was a bully, not a warrior. He preyed on the weak. He had never seen someone kill with such efficient, emotionless brutality.
"You... you are a demonic cultivator!" Zhao Hu stammered, raising his iron club with trembling hands. "You used a demonic art! The Enforcers will execute you!"
"Let them come," Li Ye said, taking a step forward.
"Die!" Zhao Hu screamed, fueled by panic.
He was a Layer 3 cultivator. He channeled all his meager Qi into his arms. His muscles bulged. He swung the iron club with enough force to crack a boulder.
It was a clumsy, desperate strike.
Li Ye didn't dodge. He raised his right palm.
[TECHNIQUE ACTIVATED: FROST PALM (INCOMPLETE)]
The temperature in the room plummeted. Hoarfrost bloomed on the floorboards around Li Ye's feet. His hand turned a translucent, ghostly white, wreathed in a mist of freezing air.
He caught the iron club.
CLANG.
The sound of metal hitting... ice?
Li Ye caught the heavy iron head of the club in his open palm. The force of the blow was immense, but Li Ye's feet didn't move. The floorboards beneath him cracked, but he stood firm.
"Is that it?" Li Ye asked.
Frost raced from his palm onto the iron club, spreading like a white virus. The metal groaned as it rapidly cooled. The frost reached Zhao Hu's hands.
"AHHH! IT BURNS!" Zhao Hu shrieked, dropping the club. But he couldn't let go. His hands were frozen to the metal.
"You took my spirit stones," Li Ye said, taking another step. "You took my family pendant. You took my dignity."
He released the club and grabbed Zhao Hu by the throat. He lifted the three-hundred-pound man into the air with one hand. Li Ye's arm muscles screamed with the effort, but the Qi reinforced his structure.
"P-please... Grandfather Li... spare me..." Zhao Hu wheezed, his legs kicking uselessly. His face was turning purple, frost spreading from Li Ye's grip onto his neck, freezing the skin.
"The System doesn't accept apologies," Li Ye whispered. "It only accepts currency."
[PLUNDER INITIATED]
Li Ye squeezed.
The black vortex erupted from his palm again. But this time, it wasn't the sweet, cold nectar of a woman's Yin. It was the muddy, chaotic Life Essence of a low-tier thug.
It felt like drinking gutter water.
Zhao Hu's eyes rolled back into his head. His massive body began to wither. The fat seemed to melt away, not dripping off, but being consumed from the inside. His skin sagged. His hair turned grey.
"No... no..."
Within ten seconds, Zhao Hu was a husk. A bag of loose skin and bones.
Li Ye dropped him. The corpse hit the floor with a dry rattle.
[SYSTEM NOTICE] [TARGET ELIMINATED: ZHAO HU] [ABSORBED: LOW-TIER VITALITY] [GAINED: 10 SYSTEM POINTS] [ATTRIBUTE: STRENGTH +2] [WARNING: ABSORBING LOW-QUALITY MALE ESSENCE PROVIDES MINIMAL GAINS AND CAUSES 'YANG FIRE' TO BUILD UP. HOST WILL REQUIRE VENTING (VIOLENCE OR SEX) SOON.]
Li Ye grimaced. "Tastes like trash."
He looked at the remaining two lackeys in the corner. They were huddled together, wetting themselves.
"Leave," Li Ye said.
They didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled over the broken door and ran into the sunlight, screaming for their mothers.
Li Ye didn't chase them. He needed witnesses. He needed the fear to spread.
He turned his attention to the room. He began to loot.
He kicked Zhao Hu's withered corpse over. He found a pouch at his belt. He tore it open. Twelve low-grade Spirit Stones. A bottle of basic Healing Pills. A jade pendant—his own, from his previous life's family.
He pocketed them all. Then, he looked at the wooden chest at the foot of Zhao Hu's bed. He smashed the lock with a frozen fist.
Inside, he found a set of clean, navy-blue robes. They were slightly too big, meant for Zhao Hu's bulk, but they were better than his bloody rags. There was also a steel sword in a shark-skin scabbard—a decent weapon for an Outer Disciple.
Li Ye stripped off his bloody clothes, standing naked in the dim, blood-scented room. His body was lean, scarred, and dangerous. He wiped the blood from his skin with a rag, then dressed in the clean navy robes. He tied the sash tight. He strapped the sword to his back.
He looked at his reflection in a polished bronze mirror on the wall.
The face staring back was handsome, but sharp. The softness of youth was gone, replaced by the hard angles of a killer. His eyes were dark, bottomless pools.
"Phase one complete," he told his reflection. "Now, to the Mission Hall. I need to make sure the Sect knows I'm not just alive... but that I'm hungry."
He walked out of the Dog Kennel, stepping over the corpse of the man who had tormented him for years. He didn't look back.
Outside, a crowd of servant disciples had gathered, drawn by the noise and the fleeing lackeys. They stood in a wide circle, staring at the broken door.
When Li Ye emerged, wearing fresh robes, carrying a sword, and radiating a cold, bloody aura, the crowd gasped. They parted like the Red Sea.
Li Ye walked through them. No one dared to breathe.
He was no longer the Waste. He was a calamity in the making.
And up on the high peak of the Outer Sect, in a palace of ice and silk, a woman was shivering uncontrollably, her hand pressed to her chest, feeling the phantom touch of a ghost who had stolen her soul.