Zhao Yan moved quietly along the narrow mountain path, the chill of the night sinking deep into his bones. His body was wrapped in little more than threadbare rags, each step echoing with the reminder of what he had lost.
The Kunlun sect robes had been stripped from him at the gates—guards declaring that no sect garments could leave their walls.
What remained was what he had entered with: the clothes of a beggar, worn and pitiful against the cold.
He pulled the fabric tighter around himself, muttering through shivering lips, "It's cold…" His voice vanished into the wind.
Still, he pressed forward.
The mountain loomed silent, its path bleak but mercifully free of beasts.
Shen Hao had once told him that Kunlun sect disciples had long since hunted the slopes barren.
That alone gave Zhao Yan a sliver of comfort—safer than plunging into the woods where shadows birthed predators.
Even so, the night carried its own dangers.
"Bandits," he breathed, eyes flicking sharply from tree to tree.
"That's the real threat." His steps slowed, every crunch of gravel deliberate, his senses stretched thin across the silence.
He could have used his points, raised his cultivation, and fled swiftly into the dark. But suspicion gnawed at him.
What if someone's following me? Watching me? Waiting for this exact moment?
He refused to gamble with his life so recklessly.
So instead, he endured the biting cold and trudged on, every breath sharp in his chest.
At last, he lowered his gaze to the shimmering panel before him—his status window glowing faintly in the blackness.
Zhao Yan
Age: 15
Cultivation: None (+)
Techniques: Phantom Step Technique - Not Initiated (+)
Revulsion Points: 800
Pity Points: 14
Zhao Yan's face lit up with unrestrained delight as he glanced at his status window.
The surge in points thrilled him, but the true joy came when he loosened the pouch tossed his way by the female elder.
Inside, the glitter of six gold coins and a pile of silver caught the faint moonlight.
Then he remembered the heavier pouch from the fat sect master. Curious, he pried it open—and his breath hitched.
The silvers had vanished, replaced entirely by gleaming gold. Fourteen coins, bright and pure, resting inside.
A laugh escaped him.
"I'm rich!" he whispered, half in disbelief, half in triumph. His ragged body suddenly seemed lighter as he hopped and spun along the lonely mountain trail, coins clinking faintly in rhythm with his steps.
The pale moonlight spilled across the path, silvering the stones and outlining the trees. Even in the darkness, the road ahead seemed clear, almost inviting.
Creak.
The sound sliced through his joy, sharp and out of place.
The wind stilled.
Zhao Yan froze mid-step, head snapping toward the treeline. His eyes swept the shadows, searching, but found nothing—no figures, no glint of steel, only branches shifting softly in the wind.
His heartbeat quickened.
He tugged his rags tighter around him, smothering the coins against his chest, and without another thought, bolted forward, feet pounding the earth as he raced down the moonlit trail.
Du Hong dropped soundlessly from the branches, his sharp eyes fixed on the ragged figure of Zhao Yan darting through the night.
His brows drew together in a hard frown.
A moment later, Du Feng landed beside him, breathing quickly.
"Brother… that beggar—he's running straight toward—" He cut himself short, but Du Hong already understood.
With a weary rub of his temples, Du Hong muttered under his breath, "Of all nights… why does it have to be today?"
His gaze followed the beggar's silhouette fading deeper into the dark ridges. He clenched his jaw.
"If he keeps running in that direction, he'll head deep into the mountains."
His voice was low, heavy with calculation.
"If something kills him there, the stench of blood will draw beasts. Worse, it might alert the caravan."
His decision came quick and sharp. "Guide him. Steer him toward Cloud City before he ruins everything."
Without another word, Du Hong vaulted back onto the branch, his figure swallowed by the shadows as he resumed his search for the caravan.
Meanwhile, Du Feng pushed off the ground, sprinting at his fastest pace, the night wind tearing at his robes as he chased after the clueless beggar.
...
Zhao Yan sprinted through the cold night, every step echoing with dread.
His breath came in ragged gasps as he muttered under his breath, "Someone's following me… "
"I knew it." A terrible thought flashed through his mind.
'Could the Kunlun Sect have planted disciples in the shadows, waiting to use me as some cultivation furnace?'
His pulse quickened, panic digging its claws into him.
"Heavens, am I really about to be harvested like some livestock?"
He ran harder, as if the ground itself was trying to swallow him.
His mind wrestled with the thought—should I use the points now to raise my cultivation, and gamble everything?
Then—
Growl.
The sound was deep, guttural, shaking through his bones.
Zhao Yan froze for half a heartbeat, his hair standing on end. Slowly, he turned his head.
From the darkness, two burning yellow eyes pierced through the night.
A hulking figure padded forward, its growl rolling like thunder.
The moonlight revealed it in full—a monstrous wolf, towering at nearly two meters, its body broader and thicker than a carriage, its fangs glinting like swords.
Zhao Yan's face drained of color.
"Shit!" he spat, panic twisting into desperation. He readied himself, willing to spend all points to increase his cultivation—
But before he could act, a voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
"Damn beast! Begone!"
Steel screamed through the night.
A sword, colossal in size—four meters long, nearly three in width—slammed into the earth between Zhao Yan and the wolf, its gleaming edge splitting the moonlight.
The beast snarled, pacing in fury, when a shadow descended.
A young man appeared, his figure balanced effortlessly atop the massive hilt, his robes stirring in the night wind.
From his vantage, he looked down at the wolf with cold, merciless eyes.