Morning light filtered over the Azure Sky Sect, scattering through the mist like molten gold. Disciples flowed through the courtyards, each absorbed in their routine: sword practice, breathing cycles, chores. The sect buzzed with quiet energy, like a hive preparing for the day.
Xue Mo walked among them in silence, his expression unreadable, steps unhurried. His robes were clean, the faintest trace of blood clinging to the cuffs—dried, nearly invisible.
He looked like any other outer disciple returning from morning cultivation.
No one gave him a second glance.
But he noticed everything.
---
At the garden walkway near the Outer Mission Hall, two disciples leaned beside the stone lanterns.
"Did you hear? Wang Lin almost got mauled last week trying to hunt spirit rabbits."
"That idiot still thinks he's a beast tamer."
They laughed. One of them, a short boy with nervous eyes, flicked his gaze at Xue Mo as he passed.
Too quick.
Xue Mo kept walking.
There was no need to stop. Not yet.
The conversation shifted behind him.
"Wasn't that Lin Feng? The guy who collapsed last month?"
"Yeah. He was supposed to be kicked out. I guess someone pulled strings."
"Waste of good resources."
Xue Mo didn't break stride.
---
The Internal Affairs Hall smelled of old scrolls and crushed herbs. A dozen disciples moved through in slow, shifting lines.
Behind the desk sat a pale attendant, sleeves rolled, ink-stained fingers.
"Lin Feng," Xue Mo said.
The man looked up. "Missed your assignment last cycle."
"Injuries."
The man grunted, pushed a pill forward. "Next time, don't bother showing your face."
A girl in line glanced over.
"That him? The one who got beaten half to death in the arena?"
"Looks like a leaf in robes," someone else muttered.
Xue Mo took the pill and left without a word.
---
The Outer Mission Board was busier than usual. Young disciples jostled for position as they examined the worn postings. Some posted requests had red stamps—urgent or high-risk. Xue Mo ignored those.
He read calmly:
Herb gathering at the eastern cliffs.
Patrol duty around the wall.
Escort mission to Clear Willow Village.
Beast subjugation in the southern woods.
He tapped the last.
The attendant glanced up. "Southern woods? Alone mission."
"Acceptable."
The man blinked at his flat tone, then handed over the wooden tag. "Bring back the cores. No corpses."
Xue Mo offered a slight nod.
A pair of nearby disciples snorted.
"He'll be lucky if the beasts leave his legs intact."
"Maybe they'll do the sect a favor."
Xue Mo walked on.
---
Back in his cave, he crushed the Qi Gathering Pill in his hand, spreading the powder into a shallow dish of water.
He drank slowly, cross-legged on the stone floor, and began circulating the Blood Deity Art.
The Qi passed through his Chongmai (Penetrating Vessel), the Sea of Qi and Blood, flaring with raw heat. It threaded through the Shenmai (Kidney Meridian), reinforcing his marrow. He redirected the excess into the Pimmai (Spleen Meridian), keeping his dantian stable. Last, he cycled it upward through the Renmai (Conception Vessel) and back down the Dumai (Governing Vessel).
His chest throbbed faintly where the blood mark rested.
Not strength.
Yet.
But the hunger within the technique stirred more easily now.
---
That evening, he stepped into a quiet courtyard for blade practice. Faint moonlight draped the tiles in silver.
A few disciples trained nearby.
Xue Mo moved alone. His blade whistled clean arcs.
One form. Repeat.
A girl across the courtyard paused to watch. Her companions whispered.
"That one again. He still doesn't know he's doomed."
"Quiet. What if he snaps?"
Xue Mo didn't care. Their opinions were clouds—loud and shapeless.
He finished, sheathed his sword, and walked off.
---
The southern woods greeted him with early mist and silence.
He stepped lightly along the mossy path, each footprint fading behind him.
The first beast was a greenback lizard. Its tongue flicked as it slithered from under a root. Before it could react, Xue Mo pierced its head cleanly, then stepped back without watching it die.
The second was a bark-skinned boar, heavier, tougher. It sniffed once, then charged.
He waited until it was nearly upon him.
Then moved.
Steel whispered.
The boar staggered, a deep cut behind its front leg. It bucked, turned, charged again.
He spun aside, slicing again. Blood pooled at its feet.
One last strike finished it.
Xue Mo knelt by the corpse. Ran his hand through the thick blood.
Then, with two fingers, drew a slow, curved line into the dirt beside the beast's body.
No symbols. No array.
Just a trace.
Tied to him.
He stood and left.
Behind him, the forest rustled. Something watched.
But did not approach.
---
The Mission Hall attendant raised an eyebrow when he returned before dusk.
"That was quick."
"I didn't take breaks."
He laid down the beast cores. The man glanced over them, then stamped the mission tag.
A girl nearby caught sight of him.
"He's back already? Alone?"
"Lucky. Or lying."
"Cores don't lie," the attendant muttered.
---
That night, Xue Mo sat in his cave, the lamp casting long shadows along the walls.
From his sleeve, he pulled a dried leaf. On its underside was a faint blood trace.
He held it steady.
Waited.
Then—a faint pull.
The mark he left in the woods had been touched.
He closed his hand over the leaf.
A smirk flickered across his lips.
Someone had followed.
And now he knew who.
He laid the leaf down beside him. From a nearby shelf of old scrolls and dried roots, he pulled a sheet of rough sect parchment and began scribbling notes with black ink. Not cultivation notes—names. Faces. Small details. Things others said or forgot to say.
A web without string.
The lamp guttered. He relit it. The fire flickered once more.
Tomorrow, he would report the mission.
The day after that, he would volunteer for another.
Some bait is best cast slowly.
He smiled faintly, not from joy.
From patience.
And the blood mark on his chest pulsed once, hungry, waiting.