The world of cultivation was merciless. Every step forward was bought with blood; every fortune, a price of agony; every name remembered, carved over the corpses of those too weak to defend their own destiny. Lu Mao understood this better than most.
He had survived the labyrinth—a place where walls were cold enough to pierce the skin, and cries of the fallen echoed long after their lives had ended. The labyrinth did not merely test strength; it measured ruthlessness. Allies were only as reliable as their blades, and betrayal came faster than a heartbeat. Its corridors had stripped away the final illusions about cultivation: it was not merely the refinement of qi, or the strengthening of spirit—it was the mastery of death, precision, and the cold willingness to kill without hesitation.
Yet, as Lu Mao walked toward the Grand Library of the Black Dragon Sect, hands clasped behind his back, his expression remained calm. Each step was deliberate, each breath measured. He knew his limits. His treasures—the Moonveil Dagger, the Shadowglass Pendant, the Ebon Serpent Ring, the Golden Orb, and the obsidian cat figurine stored safely in his inner world—could only shield him so far. His Wind Fist, though sharp and fast, could only crush Spirit Accessions and Spirit Masters if cornered. Against true War Blood Realm practitioners, he was prey, and he knew it. That was precisely why he had come here.
The Grand Library rose above him like a mountain carved from stone and cloud, tiers stacked toward the heavens as if daring cultivators to ascend. Each floor radiated faint colored qi, protective arrays humming with life, ancestral symbols etched into the stone by cultivators long gone. Rumor had it that even the lowest floors contained martial techniques coveted by entire factions, while higher levels hid golden-tier or earth-tier secrets, sealed by traps left by generations of cultivators, ready to crush the greedy or unworthy.
Lu Mao's presence drew attention. Disciples whispered, glances sharp with awe, envy, or hatred.
"Isn't that… Lu Mao?"
"The one who returned from the labyrinth?"
"The … the one who returns while others bled?"
A faint smile curved Lu Mao's lips. Reputation was a blade; it could cut down those who feared him, but it could just as easily be turned by enemies. He did not speak—silence was always a more dangerous weapon than words.
He recalled his father's advice: "The best thief is not the one who steals the most, but the one who knows how to use what he takes. Brute force may break walls, but skill can topple empires."
Five treasures already lay at his disposal—but they were useless without mastery. The Moonveil Dagger could slice, Shadowglass Pendant could let him vanish, Ebon Serpent Ring could coat strikes with venom qi, the Golden Orb could absorb and release qi, and the obsidian cat figurine… a mystery, its power hidden until needed. Tools alone were insufficient. Precision, strategy, and the killer instinct made them lethal.
He moved past scrolls filled with brute-force techniques: Tiger Claw Rend, Iron Boulder Palm, Crimson Fire Whip. They were fine for the strong and reckless—but he was neither. He needed silence, speed, precision. Death that arrived unseen.
Then came the voice. Smooth, teasing, dangerous:
"Still chasing the path of shadows, Lu Mao?"
He turned. Lan Yue of the Azure Sky Pavilion stood there, robes of azure embroidered with silver threads. Her eyes shimmered like calm pools hiding secrets. Graceful as ever, but here, in the quiet of the library, there was a new allure—a predator who knew she could toy with a dangerous animal and survive.
They were not strangers. Blood and terror had forged an unspoken bond in the labyrinth. They had seen each other's backs, seen hesitation and fleeting trust. Enough that she could approach without suspicion.
"I see you've grown quieter since the labyrinth," she said, stepping closer. Her presence brushed against him like a subtle fragrance carried on the wind. "Did the shadows teach you fear… or wisdom?"
"Perhaps both," Lu Mao replied evenly.
Her laugh was soft, curling like smoke. Leaning closer, she pretended to study a shelf, her shoulder brushing his. Her voice lowered, intimate. "These scrolls? Crude. You'll bleed yourself dry trying to master one. They're for those who mistake flailing for killing."
He did not reply. His silence was enough for her.
"Come," she said, whispering, "let me repay a debt from the labyrinth. Allow me to guide you properly."
She led him deeper into the library, to a section glowing with golden light. Reserved for disciples of merit, guarded by arrays that demanded contribution. Yet when Lan Yue brushed the inscriptions, the wards parted like mist. She moved as though it were her home.
Her hands lifted two scrolls and pressed them into his palms deliberately. The first shimmered faintly: Ways of the Dagger. A golden-tier foundational art, teaching adaptability, precision, and the refinement of killing intent. The second glimmered darkly: Daggers of Wraith. Two-handed, weaving illusion and deception into every strike, fracturing shadows and creating phantom attacks.
"A dagger isn't for the strong," she murmured, leaning close so only he could hear. "It's for the patient. The one who waits while others exhaust themselves."
Before he could respond, her head tilted, and her lips brushed his cheek lightly. Gasps rippled through the library. In the silence, the act struck like thunder.
Lu Mao did not flinch. His eyes met hers, steady, calm, unshaken.
Lan Yue's smile deepened, satisfaction flickering. "Good. You've grown. Perhaps next time, we'll see whose dagger finds the other's heart first."
Her laughter lingered in the quiet air as she departed, leaving a faint scent behind, teasing, dangerous, unforgettable.
⸻
In the Secluded Stone Hollow, carved deep within the mountain, Lu Mao spread the scrolls before him. The chamber was silent, save for the hum of ambient qi.
"Li Xian," he called, "no interruptions."
The first scroll, Ways of the Dagger, dissolved into golden light, flooding his meridians. Pain surged as his God Devouring Vein throbbed, resisting and threatening to spiral out of control. Teeth clenched, he forced the knowledge into his body. Phantom enemies fell in shadowed visions, weak points pierced with quiet precision.
Then came Daggers of Wraith. Darkness poured into him, heavy, cold. His shadow fractured, striking independently, mirroring his intentions. He breathed ragged, yet his foundation held.
When the scrolls faded, silence returned, save for his heavy breathing. The Moonveil Dagger trembled faintly, resonating with new arts.
He rose, beginning practice. Silver crescent blades of qi arced through the air, slicing stone like clay. Daggers of Wraith split his form into five shadows, each moving independently. The Shadowglass Pendant let him swap places with a phantom mid-strike, catching himself in motions he had not anticipated. Ebon Serpent Ring coated strikes with venom qi. Golden Orb absorbed ambient qi and released it in pulses, shaking the cavern walls.
He collapsed to one knee, chest heaving, veins faintly black and gold, whispering, "Tools, mind, shadows… I'm learning."
⸻
Days later, tension stirred through the faction compound. Red Hawk, Moonfire, and Iron Fang ambushed Black Dragon disciples during missions, killing and sabotaging. Rumors spread: Jade Moon Syndicate, a powerful tier-2 faction, was behind it, pushing to crush the Black Dragon Sect before it could rise.
Lu Mao listened quietly. Hands relaxed at his sides, eyes narrowed.
"They want to hunt us," he murmured. "Then they will learn what it means to be hunted."
That night, beneath the silver moon, Lu Mao stood at the edge of the valley. Shadows stretched long, fracturing faintly into mirages as the Daggers of Wraith stirred. Moonveil Dagger gleamed silver, Shadowglass Pendant hummed, Ebon Serpent Ring pulsed, Golden Orb floated like a tiny sun.
He raised his gaze to the sky. Whispered quietly, deadly:
"You wanted blood,… Then I will give you blood."
And without another sound, he vanished into the mist, stepping into the darkness—not prey, but hunter.