Wang Da froze, stunned. He had braced himself for a bloody confrontation, not this unexpected offer.
Xu Feng's eyes flicked toward Wang Da, who stood infront of this mysterious cultivator, a storm of envy and resentment in his gaze—envy that Wang Da was chosen, resentment that he had been the one to rescue this mysterious cultivator.
Still, Wang Da bowed deeply, voice steady despite his shock.
"Disciple is willing."
Zhao Yan clapped once, and the powerful aura that had enveloped him vanished instantly, leaving Wang Da staring, baffled.
"I am just a beggar," Zhao Yan said, his tone calm, almost weary.
"How could I possibly be worthy of taking disciples?"
He glanced at the bandits around him and continued, "Bring me paper and something to write."
Though his words were measured, inside he felt the sting of disappointment—his temporary cultivation had vanished, leaving him helpless.
Moments later, a bandit stepped forward, handing him a sheet of paper and a quill.
Zhao Yan lowered himself onto a tree stump, positioning the paper carefully, and began to transcribe the breathing technique he had observed at the Kunlun Sect.
Soon, Zhao Yan set down the quill and spoke clearly, his voice carrying an unusual authority.
"This technique allows anyone to step onto the path of cultivation. If fate wills it, the technique will find its rightful owner."
He lowered himself to the ground, prostrating with deliberate humility.
"I am a beggar, and I humbly ask the master to grant me some coins."
The bandits froze, caught between confusion and disbelief, as they watched this strange young cultivator bow so low.
Zhao Yan lifted his head, fixing Wang Da with a steady gaze.
"When a beggar begs, you must give him money."
The message was unmistakable: enough coins, and the technique would be his.
Wang Da's face twitched, then he barked orders sharply.
"Bring out all the money from the warehouse!"
Minutes later, piles of coins and scattered jewels were carried forward, stacked carelessly in front of Zhao Yan.
He studied them, noting that his revulsion points and pity points had yet to change.
Without hesitation, he lowered himself once more, his posture perfect, and repeated, "Benefactor, please grant me some coins."
Wang Da's lips twitched in a mix of exasperation and awe.
"Senior, this is everything we have. All of it is for you."
As the words settled in the air, Zhao Yan's eyes flicked to the status window—and finally, he saw the change he had been waiting for.
Zhao Yan
Age: 15
Cultivation: None (+)
Techniques: Phantom Step Technique - Beginner (0/5) (+)
Revulsion Points: 8910
Pity Points: 74
Zhao Yan felt a surge of laughter rising within him, but he swallowed it down, keeping his composure.
He stood up and leaned close to Wang Da, as he whispered, "I obtained this technique by killing the elder of a demonic sect."
"With the right partner of the opposite sex, you can reach the peak of Qi Condensation, maybe even Foundation Establishment."
He straightened and shouted, his voice carrying across the clearing, "Whoever helped me by the river, you should teach them this technique."
"The rest… do as you see fit."
With a flick of his sleeves, all the gold and silver coins vanished into his inventory.
The jewels and ornaments were left untouched. "I don't need these," he declared with quiet certainty.
Then, focusing his Qi, he temporarily raised his cultivation to the Qi Condensation 1st layer and activated the Phantom Step Technique.
In a single, fluid motion, he leapt over fifty meters, vanishing into the mountains.
The bandits stared after the departing figure, awe and disbelief etched into their faces.
Meanwhile, Zhao Yan's own eyes widened in shock as he continued leaping, three more bounds taking him farther than he could have imagined.
"God…," he murmured under his breath, stumbling slightly with each jump, yet slowly mastering the rhythm as he pushed himself deeper into the mountains.
....
After more than two hours of weaving through ridges and leaping across boulders, Zhao Yan finally broke free of the mountains.
The dense trees gave way to an open plain, and there in the distance stood Florence City.
A towering wall of stone encircled it like a fortress, its shadow stretching far across the earth.
At the gates, guards scrutinized the endless flow of travelers, some recording names, others collecting coins with practiced indifference.
Zhao Yan paused for a moment, pulling a folded set of robes from the spoils he had taken from the mountain bandits.
He shook them out, slipped into the dark-blue cloth, and ran his hands through his tangled hair. His face, smeared with dust and dirt, he left as it was.
It hardly mattered.
'Clothes maketh man.' The thought made him smirk as he stepped from the wilderness with steady confidence, his ragged features hidden behind the dignity of clean robes.
The guards' eyes flicked to him, lingering for a heartbeat before moving on.
No questions. No suspicions.
He kept walking, merging into the line of travelers waiting to be admitted.
When his turn came, the guard in charge gave him a flat stare.
"Name and purpose."
Zhao Yan dipped his hand into his sleeve and slipped a few silver coins forward in a subtle gesture.
"Zhao Yan. Here for sect recruitment." His voice was calm, his words measured.
The guard cleared his throat, pocketed the bribe, and waved Zhao Yan through without so much as a glance at his robes.
Inside, Florence city unfolded before him in all its restless energy.
Vendors shouted over one another to peddle their wares, their stalls crammed with trinkets and produce.
Narrow streets wound between tall, medieval-styled buildings with timber frames and tiled roofs. Zhao Yan took it all in with a quiet murmur.
"Antique… beautiful, in its own way."
But his eyes didn't linger much.
To someone who had lived in the twenty-first century, quaint streets and aged architecture were little more than curiosities.
What mattered now was cultivation, the one pursuit that eclipsed everything else.
He moved quickly, scanning signboards until one caught his eye—Dragon Inn.
Without hesitation, he stepped inside.
At the reception, Zhao Yan set a gleaming gold coin on the counter with a soft clink.
"Hot water. Fresh clothes. And as much food as you can bring—I'm famished."
His words tumbled out in one hungry breath.
The innkeeper, a heavyset man with a shiny forehead, froze mid-step.
His gaze darted from the coin to Zhao Yan, and in an instant, his demeanor transformed.
Bowing deeply, he gestured upstairs.
"Young master, please! Right this way."
A serving woman hurried to guide Zhao Yan, while the innkeeper palmed the coin with both reverence and excitement.
"Hot water will be brought at once," he promised, nearly stumbling as he rushed outside to fulfill the order.
That single coin glittered brighter than anyone in the room had ever seen.
One gold piece could sustain a common family for an entire year, and Zhao Yan had tossed it down as if it were pocket change.
Whispers rippled through the inn.
Some eyes followed him with open envy, others with hunger barely concealed.
....