Zhao Yan's mind churned with a hundred scattered thoughts, but one conclusion rose above the noise like a blade gleaming in the dark: This is a trap.
If what Amber Williams wrote was true—if this so-called "system" was not some miraculous gift but the will of the world itself—then there was no such thing as free power.
Heaven was bargaining with transmigrators.
It offered strength, shortcuts, rapid ascension… but in return, it demanded service.
A contract masked as fortune.
Heaven lends us wings, but only so we can carry its burdens.
As for Amber's invitation, he dismissed it outright.
'Why would I stake my life on the words of a half-dead woman I have never met?'
'Help me?' He scoffed.
More likely she wanted to devour him—drain his strength through dual cultivation and claim his system for herself, if such a thing were even possible.
His gaze drifted to the faint glow of the system window, and once again he felt a bitter laugh rise in his chest.
Amber claimed every transmigrator received one, bestowed directly by this world's will.
If that was true… then did that mean he was already bound?
Did the "tasks" hanging over him come not from some benevolent God, but from this world's will itself?
"Wait?" A sudden shiver ran down his spine as he remembered the thing which he had ignored until now.
His eyes snapped to the system window with dawning realization.
Zhao Yan's brow furrowed as he stared at the faint system window.
'Why isn't the Swallow Heaven Technique listed in the Techniques section?'
And also, Amber's diary claimed her system flooded her with daily tasks from the very moment she arrived, and that as she grew stronger the tasks came less frequently, as if Heaven itself were testing her.
But his system has remained silent.
There were no tasks.
No orders.
Nothing.
The realization struck like cold iron—
She is lying.
Whether Amber had twisted the truth to lure future transmigrators, or whether her so-called system differed entirely, Zhao Yan no longer cared.
What he knew for certain was simple: every second spent in this sect is dangerous.
Danger seeped through its walls like smoke.
Everyone wore masks. Everyone hid too much.
He turned on his heel and made for the dormitory, but the moment he pushed the door open, a wave of sound hit him—heavy breathing, guttural moans, the frantic rhythm of bodies entangled in "cultivation."
The stench of sweat and lust was suffocating. His stomach turned.
Without a word, he shut the door and leaned against the wall outside, jaw tight.
One by one, the other new disciples arrived. Without hesitation, they filed inside, throwing themselves into the grotesque practice as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Zhao Yan stood apart, watching the door swallow them in, unease gnawing at his chest.
...
A few minutes later, Zhao Yan lingered in the open grounds, the night air heavy against his skin.
He sat alone, clutching his nerves, waiting for the fat man who had promised him a way out.
Time dragged, the stars wheeled overhead, and after what felt like an eternity—an hour at least—the air shifted.
A gust brushed past his ears, and in an instant the fat man appeared before him, not alone this time but flanked by five figures—three men and two women, each carrying an oppressive aura that weighed down the very space around them. Elders.
Zhao Yan stiffened, then quickly bowed low.
"Greetings, Elders."
Their eyes swept over him like blades, dissecting every inch of his form without a word.
The silence made his heart hammer in his chest.
Then the fat man stepped closer, his broad shadow looming.
Without warning, a heavy hand clamped down on Zhao Yan's shoulder.
A surge of Qi roared through his body like fire through dry wood.
It burned down his veins, probing, searching, leaving him cold and exposed. The fat man's expression tightened into a frown.
His gaze sharpened, voice dropping to a chill.
"Where is the money?"
Zhao Yan swallowed, forcing steady hands as he took out the same bag of coins the man had threw at him yesterday.
He offered it back with both hands, head lowered in submission.
The fat man untied the bag, peered inside, and after a moment, his lips twisted.
His eyes hardened further and he shook his head.
"It's not him."
Zhao Yan couldn't make sense of the situation.
He had already realized that leaving this sect wouldn't be as simple as he first thought, but this—five elders personally stepping out to meet him—was beyond anything he could comprehend.
Before he could dwell on it, a soft yet commanding voice rang out.
The female elder spoke with calm precision, "Sect Master, if this isn't the one the ancestor seeks… then we may have to wait until next year to try again."
The fat man gave a slow, deliberate nod, as if confirming the weight of her words.
Zhao Yan's thoughts exploded in disbelief. The truth hit him like a hammer.
'This so-called fat disciple… he's actually the Sect Master?!'
Forcing down his shock, Zhao Yan quickly bowed with practiced respect.
"Disciple greets the Immortal Masters."
The title slipped from his lips almost instinctively, yet it struck the elders like a spark.
"Immortal Master"—a name reserved for legends, for those who stood at the very summit of cultivation.
Even a Foundation Establishment cultivator wouldn't dare claim it.
And yet, hearing it from him, these Qi Condensation elders couldn't help but feel a sudden warmth toward the boy, as though the grandiose respect uplifted them.
The fat man broke into laughter, puffed with pride.
"It's nothing," he said, his tone carrying more weight than the words themselves.
Then, with a casual flick of his hand, he declared, "You can leave the sect now."
A pouch sailed through the air, landing neatly in Zhao Yan's hands.
The Sect Master waved him off, face gleaming with concealed satisfaction.
Zhao Yan lowered his head, bowed deeply once more, and turned to walk away, his steps steady though his mind was anything but.
The female elder's gaze tightened as she watched Zhao Yan turn to leave. Her voice cut through the air, sharp and disapproving.
"Why not give him to me? Look at him—his body brims with vitality."
"At the very least, he could serve as a vessel for cultivation."