Torrential rain lashed against the Discard Pavilion, a rotting structure tucked away in the most remote, forgotten corner of the Lin Family Estate. Cold, filthy water seeped through cracked roof tiles, dripping rhythmically onto the moldy wooden floorboards. Inside the cramped, damp space, a gaunt young man sat cross-legged on a straw mat. His face was deathly pale, his lips tinged with a bruised blue. This was Lin Ye, the youngest son of the Lin Clan’s most reviled branch. Lin Ye attempted to circulate his qi—a fundamental practice that even a six-year-old novice should master with ease. Yet for sixteen-year-old Lin Ye, this was not practice; it was daily torment. Every time he drew breath, pulling the universe’s spiritual energy into his body, searing pain shot through his meridians as if thousands of needles were piercing him from within. Then, as quickly as it arrived, the qi leaked out through his pores, vanishing into the damp air without a trace. It was like trying to fill a b

The roar drew closer, accompanied by the sickening crunch of snapping branches and the rumble of shifting earth. Lin Ye could sense the creature through the new awareness the black jade had granted him—a primal radar that picked up killing intent and life force with terrifying clarity. The beast was large, the size of a horse, four-legged, and radiating a thick, palpable aura of hatred. “Mutated Iron-Hide Boar,” Mo Yuan’s identification came instantly, a flood of concise knowledge flooding his mind. “Equivalent to Qi Condensation Stage Three. Hide as hard as low-grade steel. Fangs carry a neurotoxin. Weak points: eyes and underbelly. But you cannot defeat it with brute strength. You have none to speak of yet.” “Then how?” Lin Ye asked in his mind, backing slowly as he sought cover among the jagged rock formations at the ravine’s bottom. “You use the technique I just taught you. Breath of the Abyssal Maw. Not to strike the boar. To feed on its energy. It is brimming with wild qi and

The sun sank below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and grey. Lin Ye stood at the main gate of the Lin Family Estate, clutching a small bundle of his few belongings—a change of clothes, his kitchen knife now honed to a razor edge, and a handful of cheap herbal pills he’d swiped from the medicine storehouse during the ceremony’s commotion. No one wept as he left. No one said goodbye. He was a forgotten ghost, and that suited him perfectly. Beyond the gates, the mortal world stretched out before him. Qinghe City lay three li away—a regional trading hub where low-level cultivators, merchants, and ordinary folk mingled freely. It was a place where clan laws held no sway, and where true strength—not bloodline—was the only currency that mattered. “A fine first step,” Mo Yuan remarked in his mind, his voice echoing with dry amusement. “You’ve cast off unnecessary chains. Now you’re free to build your foundation without scrutiny, without clan politics, without expectations

Night in Qinghe City was never truly dark. Faint qi lantern light rippled across puddles, casting shadows that moved like living things. Lin Ye stood before the Crescent Moon Teahouse, his hand closing around the cool token Shen Kui had given him. The building looked unremarkable from the outside—rotting timber, cracked tiles, a signboard nearly faded away. But his Demon‑sharpened senses picked up something else: a thin, intricate concealment formation, masking a cultivation aura far greater than its humble appearance suggested. He rapped three times, paused two seconds, then knocked twice more. The door swung open silently, revealing a narrow corridor lit by purple candlelight. The air smelled of aged tea, sandalwood incense, and something sharper—old, dried blood, long settled into the cracks of the wood. “Enter,” a voice called from the far end. Calm. Inviting. And not friendly in the slightest. Lin Ye stepped inside, every movement deliberate. He kept clear of the walls, avo

The narrow alley behind the Crescent Moon Teahouse felt like a choking throat of stone. Its walls were damp, slick with black moss that swallowed the light spilling from the teahouse windows. Lin Ye moved without a sound, his steps avoiding puddles and loose pebbles alike. This was no longer the act of a discarded clansman; it was the instinct of a newly born predator. The black jade beneath his tunic pulsed in perfect time with his heartbeat, granting him a spatial awareness far beyond ordinary senses. He could sense three figures waiting at the alley’s far end, two perched on the roof of the building to his left, and one crouched behind a stack of old rice sacks to his right. Eyes of the Iron Sword Sect. Shen Kui had not lied. They were there, waiting with practiced patience. But they had made a fatal mistake: they saw only a frightened young mortal, not a cultivator of the Demon Path who had just passed his first trial. Lin Ye paused, pretending to retie a loose sandal strap. In