Lin Feng's POV"Arrest him!"The Headmaster’s voice shattered across the courtyard like fragile glass under pressure. Usually he’d always been composed. Never having any reasons to falter in that aspect, but now. The authority it once carried dissolved into something frantic, something desperate. His face, usually carved into a mask of marble-cold composure, twisted violently, flushing into a deep, uneven purple. His veins pulsed visibly along his temples as he pointed his shaky finger toward the grotesque display before him, the floor designed with severed heads, the broken fragments of the World-Tree staff scattered like fallen relics."Blasphemy! Murder!" he roared, though there was a tremor beneath the rage now, something unstable. "Guards, seize this animal! Execute him on the spot for the murder of a noble in the academy and the slaughter of these... these men!"The Academy Enforcers, the feared Police of the Spires, moved instantly following the order of the headmaster.Twel

Young Master Shen's POVI didn't expect Feng to spare me first of all, talkless of making me a servant in his kingdom. The stench of the Scavenger Pits invaded my entire sinuses. It wasn’t a smell that lingered politely at the edge of awareness. It forced itself in, thick and suffocating, like a living thing crawling down my throat and settling into my lungs. Rot, decay, stagnant mana. Burnt metal. Something sour… something biological. It layered itself over my senses until I could literally taste it now, I could feel it, almost hear it humming faintly beneath the air.It felt like a physical weight pressing against my skin, clinging to me, seeping into the fibers of what remained of my robes.I stood at the edge of the pit, frozen.My silk robes, once immaculate, once a symbol of status that parted crowds and commanded respect, were now nothing more than singed, salt-stained rags. Torn at the sleeves. Burnt along the hem. Stiff with dried sweat and grime. They fluttered weakly i

Lin Feng's POV“Bring it to me.” I ordered the messenger, I didn’t have to raise my voice with that command. The messenger flinched anyway.There was something about the way he held the scroll, too tight and careful, as though he feared it might either be stolen… or rejected. His fingers trembled slightly as he extended it toward me, his head still bowed low in forced reverence.I stepped forward and took it. I didn't choose to look at it because I doubted his words, nor because I needed confirmation of what he had already said.But because some things… you don’t trust to someone else’s voice.Some traps, you need to look in the eye yourself. The Imperial scroll was actually heavier than it looked.The golden wax seal of the Great Altar sat firmly at its center, embossed with a symbol that radiated authority even without mana. It felt… warm.Unnaturally so, I know for a fact the warmth wasn't caused by sunlight, but by something deeper that lingered within. It pressed faintly again

Lin Feng's POVAfter reading the whole thing, I dropped the slip and left my man Cave, I desperately needed to stand.When I stepped out, the air in the Scavenger Pits felt thicker. Not just with smell, but with presence.Ozone lingered faintly, a sharp, metallic tang that stung the nose. It mixed poorly with the heavier scents beneath it, unwashed bodies, rusted iron, damp soil, and the slow rot of industrial waste. Together, they formed something oppressive to the lungs. Something that clung, it was the scent of survival.I stood atop the rim of a rusted turbine housing, its jagged edges groaning faintly beneath my weight. From there, I looked down at them.Two hundred in number. Men, women, some barely more than children.All of them discarded. All of them labeled as "Dregs."They stood unevenly across the pit floor, some straight-backed, others slouched from exhaustion, but all of them watching me. Their eyes weren’t hopeful or loyal.They just looked hungry and hunger could be

Lin Feng’s POVWe began our journey to the capital the next day, by evening. An important trip. The journey toward the Imperial Capital didn’t involve war-stallions or gilded palanquins. There were no banners, no honor guards, no prestige. Only the slow, grinding humiliation of chains and wood and dust.It involved the rhythmic, soul-crushing rattle of a slave carriage.Every turn of the wheel sent a shudder through the damp, splintered floorboards beneath me. The wood was soaked with old sweat, old blood, and something sour that clung to the back of the throat. The stench lingered and it was suffocating, mixing with the iron tang of the shackles biting into my wrists.Heavy “Mana-Suppression” shackles.To any other cultivator, that would have been a death sentence, a silent execution of everything that made them powerful. I could feel their intent, the way they tried to smother the natural flow of energy, like a hand clamped over a mouth.It was useless. I sat still, letting my