White River City.
Located fifty miles from the Iron Blood Sect, this city was a bustling hub of mortals. It was a place of red lanterns, stone streets, and the smell of roasting meat and spices. To a cultivator, this place was filthy—filled with the "Dust of the Red Realm" that could clog one's spiritual pores.
But to the Sovereign, it was nostalgic.
He walked through the crowded market, his terrifying midnight-blue robes replaced by the simple, elegant white garments of a traveling scholar. He had suppressed his aura completely. To the naked eye, he was just a handsome, albeit somewhat aloof, mortal noble.
"Unit Alpha," the Sovereign whispered. "Remind me why we stopped here?"
Unit Alpha, disguised as a maidservant carrying a bamboo umbrella, replied telepathically. "Master stated that the 'Ambrosia of the Immortals' in the palace lacks 'soul.' You expressed a craving for... greasy carbohydrates."
"Correct."
The Sovereign stopped in front of a greasy, open-air stall. An old man with a hunchback was frying noodles in a giant black wok. The smell of burning scallions and pork fat was thick enough to chew.
"Shopkeeper," the Sovereign said, taking a seat on a wooden stool that creaked dangerously. "One bowl of your signature noodles. Extra spice."
The old man looked up, wiping sweat from his brow. "Coming right up, Young Master! That will be three copper coins."
The Sovereign watched the man cook. The fire was ordinary wood fire. The ingredients were grown in mud. There was zero spiritual energy in the food.
Yet, when the bowl was placed before him, steam rising in the cool evening air, the Sovereign felt a twinge of satisfaction.
He took a bite.
It was oily. It was salty. It was imperfect.
"Excellent," the Sovereign murmured. "The texture is chaotic, and the flavor profile is unrefined. It tastes like... life."
He finished the bowl in silence, ignoring the dirt on the table and the noise of the crowd. For a brief moment, he wasn't the God of the Forbidden Zone. He was just a man eating dinner.
"I am satisfied," the Sovereign stood up. "Alpha, pay the man."
"Master," Alpha hesitated. "We do not possess Mortal currency. We only have the items in your chaotic storage."
The Sovereign paused. "Ah. A distinct oversight."
He looked at the old man, who was washing dishes. He couldn't very well leave without paying. That would stain his Dao heart.
"Manifest," he whispered under his breath.
He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a single gold coin. He had created it on the spot, visualizing a standard currency coin from his memories, but applying the laws of this world.
"Keep the change," the Sovereign said, flicking the coin onto the wooden table.
He turned and walked away, vanishing into the crowd with Alpha.
The old man wiped his hands on his apron and went to pick up the coin. "Generous Young Master, thank y—"
He tried to lift the coin.
It didn't move.
The old man frowned. He used two fingers. Then his whole hand. Then both hands. He strained, his face turning red, veins popping in his neck.
The coin, the size of a thumb, sat on the table as if it were a mountain.
"What... what is this?" the old man gasped.
A passing martial artist, a mere bodyguard for a local merchant, saw the struggle and laughed. "Old man, getting weak? Let me help you."
The martial artist grabbed the coin. His smile vanished. He exerted his internal force. The table began to creak.
CRACK.
The wooden legs of the table shattered. The table collapsed, but the coin remained floating in the exact same spot in the air for a fraction of a second before plummeting down.
BOOM!
The coin smashed through the table, through the stone pavement, and sank three feet into the earth, sending a tremor through the entire street.
The martial artist stared into the hole, his face pale. He saw the coin glowing with a faint, terrifying golden light. It wasn't gold. It was Heavy Star Metal, a material so dense that a fingernail-sized piece weighed ten thousand pounds.
"An Immortal..." the martial artist whispered, falling to his knees, trembling. "An Immortal was here!"
The Sovereign had merely forgotten to adjust the atomic density of the gold.
Iron Blood Sect. The Resource Hall.
While the Sovereign was accidentally terrorizing a noodle shop, Lin Fan was facing a different kind of terror.
The sun was setting, casting long, blood-red shadows over the sect. The "Monthly Inspection" was underway.
Dozens of servant disciples stood in line at the base of the Resource Hall stairs. At the top stood Deacon Zhao, a man with a rat-like face and a whip made of braided snake leather.
"Next!" Deacon Zhao shouted.
A skinny boy trembled as he stepped forward, offering a basket of spirit herbs. "Deacon... I found three Star-Leaf Grasses..."
Crack!
The whip lashed out, striking the ground inches from the boy's feet.
"Three? The quota is five!" Deacon Zhao spat. "You lazy trash! No food for you for three days! Scram!"
The boy ran away weeping.
Deacon Zhao sneered. He enjoyed this. He was stuck at the Qi Condensation 4th Stage with no hope of advancing, so he took his frustration out on the servants.
"Next! Lin Fan!"
Silence.
"Lin Fan!" Deacon Zhao scanned the crowd. "Where is that waste? Did he finally die?"
"I am here."
A voice, calm and cold, drifted from the back of the line.
The servants parted. Lin Fan walked forward.
His clothes were torn. He was covered in dried mud and the strange black blood of the beast he had slaughtered earlier. But he wasn't hunching over. He walked with a steady, rhythmic pace.
Deacon Zhao frowned. He sensed something different about the boy, but he dismissed it. A waste was always a waste.
"You're late," Deacon Zhao growled, fingering his whip. "And you look like a beggar. Where is your contribution? Where are the herbs? Or the wood?"
Lin Fan stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He looked up at Zhao.
"I have no herbs," Lin Fan said.
The crowd gasped. To come empty-handed was suicide.
"No herbs?" Deacon Zhao's face twisted into a cruel grin. "Good. Very good. Then you shall pay with your skin. The punishment for missing the quota is twenty lashes."
He raised his arm. The snake-leather whip hissed as it was infused with his Qi.
"Kneel!" Zhao shouted, swinging the whip down with enough force to strip flesh from bone.
The servants closed their eyes, expecting to hear a scream.
PA!
A sharp, crisp sound echoed. But it wasn't the sound of a whip hitting flesh. It was the sound of a hand catching leather.
The servants opened their eyes. Their jaws dropped.
Lin Fan was standing there, his right hand raised. He had caught the whip in mid-air.
"You..." Deacon Zhao's eyes bulged. He yanked the whip back, but it wouldn't move. It was as if it were clamped in an iron vise. "Let go!"
"Deacon Zhao," Lin Fan said, his voice flat. "Is this how the Iron Blood Sect treats its disciples? Or is this just how you treat those you think are weak?"
"Disciple?" Zhao roared, channeling his Qi. "You are a slave! A servant! Die!"
Zhao abandoned the whip and lunged, his fist glowing with a faint yellow light—the Stone Fist Art. He aimed straight for Lin Fan's chest.
Lin Fan didn't dodge.
The Nine-Seal System hummed in his mind. The energy he had absorbed from the Glitch Raptor—that pure, high-grade essence—surged through his meridians.
[System Notice: Combat Mode Engaged.]
[Enemy: Qi Condensation Stage 4 (Unstable).]
[Host: Qi Condensation Stage 3 (Perfect Foundation).]
[Outcome: Total Suppression.]
Lin Fan clenched his fist. The Heaven-Devouring Art didn't just eat energy; it made his Qi heavy, dense, and predatory.
He punched.
It was a simple, straight punch. No technique. Just raw power and speed.
BOOM!
Fist met fist.
A shockwave of dust blasted outward.
"ARGH!"
A sickening crack echoed through the plaza. Deacon Zhao screamed as his wrist bent backward at an impossible angle. The force of Lin Fan's punch blew through his defense like a cannonball through a paper wall.
Zhao flew backward, tumbling up the stairs of the Resource Hall, finally crashing into the stone pillar at the entrance. He coughed up a mouthful of blood, clutching his shattered arm.
"You... you..." Zhao stared at Lin Fan in horror. "Qi Condensation... Stage 3? How?!"
The entire plaza was dead silent. The servants looked at Lin Fan as if he were a monster wearing human skin.
Lin Fan dusted off his hands. He walked up the stairs, step by step, until he stood over the groaning Deacon.
"According to Sect Law," Lin Fan recited from memory, "any servant who reaches the 3rd Stage of Qi Condensation is automatically promoted to Outer Disciple. Is that correct?"
Zhao nodded frantically, terrified by the cold look in Lin Fan's eyes. "Yes! Yes! You are an Outer Disciple! Senior Brother Lin, please, mercy!"
"Then give me my robes," Lin Fan said, extending his hand. "And my monthly allowance. Now."