Che Fang watched the drama play out from between the thick pine trees.

Had any other cultivator called an exotic beauty out into the forest for a rendezvous he would have assumed the worst.

When he was still the young master of his clan, Che Fang would surely have acted improperly if given the opportunity. That was why he had decided to covertly follow the proceedings; he didn’t believe Zhao Mi had such debased motives.

His speculation was proved correct when the little mortal revealed herself to be a cultivator. If that weren’t enough, an affinity test from the trashiest testing tool he’d ever seen revealed notable roots and a rare affinity for snow Qi.

Cupping his chin, Che Fang reflected on exactly how Zhao Mi could have seen through the girl so thoroughly. Although her appearance was off slightly, there were no indicators that the young woman was anything more than a mere curiosity.

‘So how did he know?’ Che Fang asked himself.

He didn’t want to become ungrateful for his patron’s help, however the question of Zhao Mi’s origins gnawed away at his insides.

When Che Fang had shared his recollection of their near death experience at the hands of the demonic cultivator with his companions he had omitted a key detail.

It was true that he did not remember the fight itself. It was also true that he had not spoken with his so-called ancestor since she saved their lives.

What he had left unstated was the parting whisper their savior had left him with after the incident: “Zhao Mi is not who he seems.”

Rubbing the onyx ring on his finger, Che Fang considered his predicament.

Ultimately he did not care if Zhao Mi was a traitor to their sect, a demonic cultivator, or another kind of immoral character.

If he would fulfill his promise and restore Che Fang by granting him enough power for revenge that would be enough to warrant his service.

That didn’t mean Che Fang would sit back and let Zhao Mi do all the work. He would prove himself to the enigmatic man.

While it was difficult to separate instances of genuine behavior from the act his Master put on, Che Fang was almost certain his benefactor’s struggle with the Myriad Voices art was real.

A hand slipped into one of the hidden pockets of his robes to pull free a scroll. The graceful calligraphy of Che Fang’s own hand stared at him from the parchment, the undisclosed copy of the supposedly cursed spirit art challenging him to do more.

To be more. Not for himself, but to help the only person that had ever truly believed in him.

Gaze hardening, the former young master slipped the copied art back into its place, quickly returned to the aptly named ‘finish line’ to watch the mortal dregs carry themselves across it tiredly.

His mind drifted to the other matter that had been bothering him after their conversation with Elder Shen: why they were recruiting such low quality mortals this cycle.

Zhao Mi had engaged him in a brief discussion regarding the development, and it had quickly become apparent to Che Fang that they had converged on the same conclusion.

The Misty Cradle Sect was going to war. These recruits were to be the footsoldiers that would die by the dozens in a confrontation with their opponent.

As to who exactly they would be fighting, that much was obvious as the Yellow Autumn Sect had been their rival since before their founding. Legend claimed that the two sects’ founders had been sworn brothers that had fallen out and carried a great resentment for each other to their deaths.

Che Fang doubted the accuracy of the tale, seeing it more as a moral justification for engaging in a conflict that was predicated on greed.

The Misty Cradle Sect hosted a spiritual vein under it. The Yellow Autumn Sect was based around a spiritual treasure. Each Sect coveted the other’s wealth. A simple and straightforward antagonism between supposedly righteous cultivators.

Che Fang had always found the way his elders bent words to their whims unnecessary. Everyone knew the law of the jungle prevailed in the world of immortals, therefore disguising their intentions with flowery words was unnecessary.

Refocusing himself as the horde of mortals was herded towards the next testing site, Che Fang gripped a spirit stone from in his sleeves and pulled forcefully. As the Qi left it, the crystal crumbled to dust that he promptly scattered into the wind.

Finally being able to process Qi while having access to such a wealth of resources was truly a blessing. His rapid progress was even greater than what he had demonstrated in his youth.

While it might take an average Qi Condensation cultivator a day to fully integrate the Qi from a single Spirit Stone into their cultivation base, he could manage five in the same amount of time.

The delusional urge to name himself heaven’s chosen was everpresent, but Che Fang ruthlessly culled the arrogance that stirred in his heart. He knew the heavens had abandoned him.

He would not grovel at their altar like the dolt that usurped his position.

Che Fang’s path was one that would be hacked into the world like the work of a butcher’s blade on a fresh carcass.

---

Gu Hong watched the mortals picking up rocks with an absent gaze.

He was notating the results for each of them, but the task was thoughtless. Every test seemed duller than the last. Maybe he was just distracted.

His mind wandered back to his murder of the demonic cultivator. Lately that had been happening frequently. If he were honest with himself, the memory occupied not only every waking moment but also haunted his dreams.

The only other occurrence that could sustain his attention was the reappearance of the strange sigil on the token Elder Shen had taken from them. So many wings and eyes, static but seeming to dance as if alive.

Gu Hong could see it now, emblazoned on a faceless man’s robes as he decapitated a man and a woman begging for their life. He could smell the fire the symbol had lit, taste the ash of loss, and feel the agony of a child losing their parents.

He had re-lived their deaths countless times in the confines of his mind.

Though fanciful, Gu Hong had also imagined descending from the heavens and saving his younger self by slaying the monstrous cultivator that had attacked his village.

But now that fantasy had taken an edge to it.

Instead of cutting the villain down without remorse, Gu Hong found himself holding the greasy hair of the bastard. He felt the blade rend the thin flesh on his victim’s neck. Heard the wet grasping of a torn throat echoing in his ears.

In his mind’s eye the messy affair played itself out over and over again, leaving him no respite.

Killing was wrong. All life was valuable. For a farmer’s boy those truths were immutable, but for a disciple of the Misty Cradle Sect… perhaps not.

The act of taking a life still felt intuitively wrong to him, but after seeing the bodies of the villagers scattered haphazardly in that clearing Gu Hong had wanted that demon to die.

Zhao Mi seemed concerned that he regretted his actions, that taking a human life had traumatized him.

Gu Hong let him believe that because the truth was so much worse. Even now, the thought made him feel sick. Eventually Gu Hong knew he would need to admit it to himself. But he couldn’t do it yet.

Killing in righteous fury, or even apathetically, he could understand. But the perverse feeling that had bubbled up in him was inexcusable.

‘After all,’ he questioned, ‘what kind of person enjoys killing?’

---

Tai Yang struck the tree again, forcing detritus to rain down upon him. With heaving breaths he swatted it away.

Being an underling was frustrating. Boss Zhao was kind enough not to force him to babysit the mortals, but even the fact he needed permission to train left a bad taste in his mouth.

Another series of blows battered the damaged trunk before him.

Candidly, Tai Yang knew his irritation was being misdirected.

Stalking off into the wild to blow off steam was a childish response to his roiling emotions.

The truth was that he was disappointed in himself.

It wasn’t just that the mighty Tai Yang had been reduced to nothing in a handful of seconds that night on the training plateau. He was used to losing to more skilled opponents.

That Tai Yang had misjudged the man closest to being called a friend in his eyes was devastating in its implications.

He had been arrogant. Haughty.

The result was only to be expected, as such behavior never went unpunished for long.

In addition, as if one blow against his ego hadn’t been enough, the heavens had deigned to show him exactly how insignificant he was by placing him against a Foundation Establishment cultivator.

Tai Yang only survived for reasons that were beyond his understanding. An ancestral spirit housed in a spirit artifact? He couldn’t fathom what, exactly, that meant.

If nothing else, it made Che Fang special.

Just like how the prodigious talent of Gu Hong made the boy special.

Just like how the inexplicable skill of Zhao Mi made their leader special.

Then there was Tai Yang. He had no spirit artifact, no talent, and no skill.

His strength was a raw physical power unsuited for any task other than delivering overwhelming force.

Two paths stood before him: to lean into his blunt nature or to change it.

Bloody knuckles surged towards the chipped tree bark again, only to stop short, hovering a hair’s breadth away from their target.

Tai Yang assumed a stance, shifting his weight and feeling the way his body moved as Zhao Mi had often described during his unique exercises.

He pulled his arm back, Tai Yang’s entire body moving to accommodate the action.

With an exclamation a devastating first flew forward, carrying the entirety of his weight in the strike.

The tree’s trunk shattered, its bulk tumbling into its neighbors with a deafening cry.

Minutes passed, but Tai Yang remained unmoving from the pose he had delivered the strike with. His eyes glossed over as a frown and smile warred to express themselves.

A low growl snapped Tai Yang back to the forest, where he found a hulking bear approaching from deeper in the woods.

He tilted his head at the creature, wondering why it wasn’t hibernating.

After a few more steps Tai Yang realized the beast had a slight limp and the characteristic gait of a loser.

It snarled at him.

Tai Yang snarled back.

Clearing his head through a challenging fight was exactly what he needed.