Nine days had passed since the sky bled violet and the Eternal Soul Sovereign chose the most unworthy vessel in the entire city.
The streets of the outer slums had already begun to heal in that ugly, stubborn way slums always do. Broken beams were dragged away for firewood, bloodstains trampled into the mud until they looked like ordinary dirt, and the crater itself was slowly being filled with garbage, broken carts, and the occasional corpse that no one bothered to claim.
Lin Zhao moved through this familiar decay like a ghost who had forgotten he was supposed to be afraid.
He wore the stolen charcoal-gray cloak now, hood pulled low. The twenty-three low-grade spirit stones he'd taken from the Jade Serpent trio clinked softly against each other in the inner pocket—small, comforting weight. His dagger rested against his thigh, still stained with dried blood he hadn't bothered to clean.
The hunger hadn't left him. It had only grown teeth.
Tonight it guided him toward the northern market edge, where the smell of stolen qi was strongest: sharp copper mixed with bruised orchids and something faintly metallic, like old coins left in the rain.
He found the source in a narrow dead-end alley behind a shuttered tea house.
Three cultivators. Outer disciples of the Crimson Thorn Sect, judging by the blood-red thorns embroidered on their sleeves. They had cornered a thin, middle-aged woman who clutched a bundle of dried medicinal herbs to her chest like a shield.
"Hand over the Blood Ginseng root," the leader snarled. He was tall, early twenties, with the smug confidence of someone who had never once doubted his place in the world. "You think you can sell high-grade spirit herbs in our territory without paying the proper tax?"
The woman trembled. "Young masters… this root is for my sick son. I've already paid the market fee—"
A backhand sent her sprawling. Herbs scattered across the filth.
Lin Zhao watched from the mouth of the alley, silent.
The fragment inside his sea of consciousness stirred lazily, almost… excited.
Then a new scent cut through the copper-orchid stink.
Jasmine. Old paper. And something clean, like rain on stone.
Lin Zhao's head turned.
A girl stood on the low rooftop opposite him.
Sixteen, maybe seventeen. Black robes simple but well-tailored. Long dark hair bound with a single crimson ribbon that fluttered slightly in the night breeze. Eyes the color of storm clouds before lightning.
She wasn't looking at the scene below.
She was looking directly at him.
And she spoke first.
"You smell like grave dirt and stolen thunder."
Her voice was calm, adult, carrying easily across the gap between rooftops.
Lin Zhao blinked once.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted—just a fraction.
"And you smell like someone who's about to ask a very dangerous question."
The girl tilted her head, studying him the way a jeweler studies a stone that might be worthless or priceless.
"My name is Yue," she said. "I hunt people who wear souls that don't belong to them."
Below them, the Crimson Thorn disciples had begun kicking the fallen woman while she curled around her remaining herbs.
Lin Zhao didn't move.
Neither did Yue.
A long silence stretched between the two teenagers on opposite rooftops.
Then Lin Zhao raised his right hand slowly, palm open.
A single violet thread appeared between his fingers—alive, curious, swaying like a cobra tasting the air.
"Tell me, Yue-who-hunts-thieves…" The thread stretched toward her, not touching, just hovering a meter away, questing.
"…are you here to kill me?"
Yue didn't flinch.
She simply stepped forward once, boots silent on cracked tiles.
"Not yet."
The violet thread paused, as though surprised by the answer.
Below, one of the disciples laughed and raised a boot to stomp on the woman's hand.
Lin Zhao sighed—small, almost disappointed.
He flicked his wrist.
Three violet threads snapped out like whips.
They didn't strike flesh.
They struck dantian.
The three Crimson Thorn disciples froze mid-motion, mouths open in silent screams.
Their cultivation bases—six years, five years, four years of accumulation—began flowing backward in perfect unison.
Not violently. Not messily.
Cleanly.
Like wine poured from cracked jars.
The qi streamed through the threads, crossed the distance, and sank into Lin Zhao's open palm.
He exhaled once, slowly, savoring the rush of foreign warmth spreading through his meridians.
When it was done, the three outer disciples collapsed like puppets with cut strings—alive, breathing, but hollow. Their cultivation realms had been shaved down to the very bottom of Qi Gathering. They would probably never recover.
The woman scrambled to gather her scattered herbs, tears mixing with dirt on her cheeks.
She looked up at Lin Zhao once—eyes wide with terror and gratitude—and then fled without a word.
Only then did Lin Zhao turn his attention back to the girl on the opposite roof.
Yue hadn't moved.
She was still watching him.
Not the drained disciples. Not the fleeing woman.
Him.
"You didn't kill them," she observed.
"They were loud. Killing them would have drawn attention."
"You could have taken more. Their bloodlines carry faint Thorn Intent. Useful."
Lin Zhao's eyes narrowed slightly. "You know quite a lot for someone standing on a slum rooftop at midnight."
"I know enough." Yue took another step forward, closer to the edge. "The fragment inside you… it's awake now, isn't it? Starting to whisper."
Lin Zhao didn't answer immediately.
The fragment pulsed once—slow, pleased, almost smug.
He finally spoke.
"And if it is?"
Yue smiled then.
Small. Sharp. A little sad.
"Then we have even less time than I thought."
She reached into her sleeve and withdrew something small—a black jade token etched with a single silver crescent moon.
She tossed it.
It spun through the air in a perfect arc and landed in Lin Zhao's open palm.
"Black Lotus Auction," she said. "Three nights from now. Hidden floor. Invitation only."
Lin Zhao turned the token over. It felt warm. Heavy with array formations he couldn't yet read.
"Why give this to me?"
"Because the fragment you carry is only the smallest piece," Yue said quietly. "And the people who want it back… they're already coming to Black Lotus City."
She met his gaze one last time.
"Try not to die before then, Copycat."
Then she simply stepped backward off the roof.
No qi flare. No movement technique.
She simply fell—and vanished into shadow before she ever hit the ground.
Lin Zhao stood alone on the rooftop, the black jade token warm against his skin.
The fragment in his sea of consciousness pulsed again.
This time it almost sounded like laughter.
End of Chapter 3