The residence of the Outer Sect Elder was a stark contrast to the humble huts of the disciples.
It was a stately, two-story building constructed from dark, polished wood, exuding an aura of quiet authority. The spiritual energy in the air here was noticeably thicker, cleaner, and more potent.
Thoran knocked firmly on the heavy door. Seconds later, it swung open to reveal a female disciple. She wore the same blue and grey uniform as Damian, though the cut and quality of the fabric were clearly superior. She offered a polite, practiced bow.
"Greetings, Teacher Thoran," she said, her voice smooth. As she bowed, the robes shifted. Damian caught a brief, distracting glimpse of the delicate curve of her collarbone and immediately chided himself. 'Focus,' he thought, shaking his head slightly. This was no time for a stray thought.
"Is Elder Thorwin present?" Thoran asked, his tone formal and serious.
"Yes, Teacher. The Elder is in his study. Please, wait in the guest area, and I will call him," the disciple replied. She gestured toward an adjoining room where a plush sofa, crafted from what looked like the hide of a formidable black-furred beast, sat before a low table.
Both Damian and Thoran entered and sat. The moment Damian sank into the sofa, he felt his muscles uncoil. It was absurdly comfortable, a world away from the hard wooden stool in his own cottage.
He felt like he was sinking into a warm cloud, a small luxury that highlighted the massive chasm between his life and that of a sect elder.
He was still marveling at the comfort when footsteps sounded from the upper floor. A middle-aged man descended the stairs, his movements measured and deliberate.
He didn't look particularly old, but his eyes were ancient. They were sharp and piercing, honed by decades of cultivation and conflict, and they seemed to see right through the surface of things. This was Elder Thorwin.
"Greetings, Elder," both Thoran and Damian said in unison, rising to their feet.
Thorwin gave a slight nod, his gaze already assessing Damian. "Thoran. What matter requires my attention?"
"Elder, it is this disciple who has something to report," Thoran replied, stepping aside slightly and giving Damian a look. It was a clear, unspoken command: 'It's your turn. Tell the story.'
Damian's heart began to pound. This was it. He had to be convincing. He took a breath and channeled the very real terror he had felt on the forest path.
"Elder, my name is Damian Ashborn," he began, his voice carefully pitched to sound shaky and unnerved. "Today, on my way to the lecture hall from my cottage, I took a detour through the woods. On the way, I… I heard voices."
He let his body tremble, a genuine tremor born from the memory of the cold blade on his neck.
"They were talking about how to… how to take care of a dead body," he stammered, his eyes downcast. "I hid, terrified. I listened to everything they said. They were talking about killing me."
He looked up, his eyes wide with manufactured fear. "I was so scared. I just ran. I ran as fast as I could and used a different route to get here." He delivered the story, a careful blend of truth and strategic lies, hoping it was enough.
Thorwin's sharp eyes narrowed, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. A cold fury emanated from him. "How many were they?" he questioned, his voice low and dangerous.
An assassination attempt on a disciple within the sect's territory was a grave insult to his authority. "Could you gauge their strength?"
"There were five of them, Elder," Damian replied, keeping his head low. "All masked. I… I don't know their strength. I was too scared to even look at them properly. I just ran." It was a plausible lie for a terrified Stage 1 disciple.
Thorwin and Thoran exchanged a brief, grim look. "Thoran, escort this disciple back to his residence," the Elder commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I will investigate this matter personally. Such audacity will not be tolerated within the Green Valley Sect."
He stood, a silent dismissal. Thoran and Damian bowed and quickly took their leave. The walk back to Damian's cottage was a silent one. The only sound was the crunch of their boots on the gravel path. When they finally reached the small, isolated hut, Thoran stopped.
"Damian," he said, his expression serious. "Cultivate well. You have your words to fulfill." He turned and walked back the way they came, his figure receding into the dusk.
"I will, Teacher!" Damian shouted after him, then entered his cottage, the silence of the small space feeling more profound than ever.
He felt grimy and exhausted. He desperately wanted a bath, only to remember that modern amenities like showers were a world away. Even a simple bathtub was a luxury reserved for the rich and powerful.
"Should I go to the Blue Jade Lake?" he mused. The memories told him it was the closest body of water, clean and infused with a faint trace of Qi that was good for the body. "No. Let's not die again today," he decided with a shudder.
Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed from his door.
Damian froze, his heart leaping into his throat. Assassins. They had found him. He grabbed the heaviest piece of firewood he could find, and flattened himself against the wall beside the door. "Who is it?" he called out, his voice a harsh whisper.
"I am here on behalf of Young Master Roan," a calm, professional voice replied from the other side. "He wishes to thank you for your assistance and has sent a few gifts in gratitude."
"Oh." Damian sagged against the wall, relief washing over him so intensely his knees felt weak. He dropped the firewood and unlatched the door.
Standing there was a young man of similar age, dressed in fine, embroidered silks that made Damian's own robes look like rags. 'Gods, even his servant is better dressed than I am,' he thought wryly.
He gestured for the servant to enter, but the young man simply shook his head. "My master extends his thanks for not leaving him to the mercies of the forest," he said, handing Damian a small, intricately stitched pouch.
He then bowed and walked away as swiftly as he had arrived, only to pause and turn back. "Master also said that he will return this favor, should you ever find yourself in trouble."
Damian nodded, closing the door and leaning against it. He sat on his bed and examined the pouch. It was barely ten centimeters long and felt impossibly light, as if there was nothing inside at all.
"Is this a joke?" he wondered, but then opened the drawstring. A soft, shimmering light emanated from within. With a mix of fear and curiosity, he inserted his hand. It slid in past his wrist, past his elbow, all the way to his shoulder, disappearing completely into the tiny opening.
"A spatial pouch?" he breathed, the joy of a child discovering a new magic trick lighting up his face. This was the first truly magical item he had ever held.
He eagerly reached inside, his fingers brushing against cool, smooth objects. One by one, he pulled them out.
Five small, elegant porcelain bottles clinked on his bedspread. He read the labels, his eyes growing wider with each one. Two bottles of 'Body Tempering Pills.' Two bottles of 'Marrow Washing Pills.' And one bottle of 'Healing Pills.'
"So many pills," he whispered, his mouth forming a silent 'O' of amazement.
He had just challenged the entire class for a single bottle of Body Tempering Pills, and now he had two, along with other, even more precious elixirs.
But that wasn't all. He pulled out a clinking bag of fifty silver coins and twenty lustrous, blue-tinged spirit stones that hummed with latent energy.
The wealth was staggering, but for Damian, the true treasure was the spatial pouch itself. It had a space of roughly one cubic meter inside, a pocket dimension all his own.
He held the gifts in his hands, a feeling of profound hope swelling in his chest. His one act of kindness, a choice made in a moment of mortal peril, had just given him the capital he needed to truly begin his journey. It was a chance to finally fight back.