Wuji stepped down from the cart, his eyes fixed on the purple bamboo grove ahead. The stalks swayed gently, their leaves whispering against one another, an undisturbed rhythm suggesting nothing lay hidden within.
He walked forward and stopped five meters from the edge. From Mei Xu's memories, he knew three ways to enter the gathering.
The first was simply to walk through. The outer array, set by the gathering's leader, wasn't meant solely to kill, it filtered. Mortals would be repelled, enemies shredded, but any cultivator who harbored no hostile intent could pass unharmed, no matter how weak.
The second path was for those who sought more. Layered arrays were embedded deep within the bamboo, a silent invitation to array path practitioners.
Solving them wasn't just entry; it was a demonstration and success in the test meant immediate recognition, respect, and possibly patronage from the leader herself, or even more.
He dismissed the second option at once. In his current state, recognition meant exposure, and exposure meant death.
That left the third: enter as a first-timer. Truthfully, aside from Mei Xu's memories, he was a first-timer—just another loose cultivator seeking opportunity. This approach offered the anonymity he desperately needed.
But it had one major flaw. The moment their spiritual sense brushed against him, they would sense a mortal. That would invite questions. Questions invited scrutiny. And scrutiny invited disaster.
His gaze turned to the husk. "Perhaps I should do it that way..." He paused. "No—not should. Must. If I'm to obtain a body forging art, I have no choice. If I arrange it properly..."
His mind began refining the plan, adjusting positions, rehearsing responses. Who would speak first? Who would bow? How much of the husk should he reveal? How much conceal?
Perhaps seventy percent chance of success. The remaining thirty depended on variables, and cultivators were variables incarnate. Many were eccentric.
Some, like the demonic cultivators if any were inside, were unstable. A few arrogant ones might kill simply because they disliked the way a mortal breathed the same air.
He took three steps forward. The air tightened immediately, hostile gazes settling on him from within the bamboo, heavy and unwelcoming.
He didn't look around. Instead, he strained the Eye of the End, his pupils darting as he walked. Several steps deeper, the numbers revealed themselves.
Two lifespan counts, faint and half-obscured by bamboo leaves, hovered side by side to the right.
[Lifespan: 50/130?]
[Lifespan: 49/125?]
"Guards," he guessed. He stopped where a cautious newcomer would, not too close, not too hesitant, and waited. He let his gaze wander respectfully, careful not to linger. Fixating on the numbers would mean he could see them, and that was an invitation to investigation he couldn't afford.
"Esteemed Immortals, my master wishes to enter," Wuji said, bowing deeply.
The air rippled. The stealth spell dissolved. Two figures stepped from the bamboo, one man, one woman, their robes dark, daggers strapped at their waists, their eyes sharp and unwelcoming.
Wuji lifted his head slowly. His gaze was calm, but a hint of mortal fear lingered within it, enough to be believable, not enough to be contemptible.
They advanced slowly. With every step, Wuji's stomach tightened. If they examined the husk too closely, they would sense it was too corpse-like. They might even brand him a demonic cultivator if they mistook it for a corpse puppet, not that it was much different.
He could kill them. The husk could manage it in a breath. But killing here would be suicide. "I can't let them probe any deeper." An idea surfaced, it was a reckless, provocative but nonetheless necessary.
He activated the husk with six days of lifespan.
Whoosh—
The slender sword burst from the cart and sliced past Wuji's right shoulder. The man barely reacted before the blade grazed his cheek, leaving a thin red line. The woman recoiled, but the sword curved midair and cut a matching mark across her face before withdrawing in a flash.
The curtains parted just enough. Inside, the husk sat unmoving, dim eyes and heavy presence visible, the blade resting in its waiting grasp.
Silence. The two guards touched their cheeks. Their fingers came away warm and red.
"A warning," they understood immediately.
"Forgive the disturbance, Senior," the man said at once, his voice tight but controlled. "Routine inspection. Surely someone of your status understands. You are not the first we have seen do something like this."
The woman's jaw clenched. Her fingers twitched near her pouch, but she restrained herself.
Wuji remained bowed, studying their micro-expressions. He could not interrupt. A mortal had no right to speak between cultivators, especially when tempers ran high. One wrong word, and they might take out their humiliation on him.
Seconds stretched. Behind them, bamboo leaves rustled faintly in the evening wind.
Then Wuji slowly straightened, lowering his gaze in deference.
"Esteemed Immortals," he said carefully, "my master asks that you clearly state what is required."
Their eyes snapped toward him. "We already stated it," the woman said coldly. "Routine inspection. It is your master who is unreasonable."
The air grew taut again. But beneath their anger lay caution. They had felt the sword's speed, its control, the deliberate symmetry of the wounds. This was not the work of a Qi Cycle realm cultivator, nor even a typical Foundation Pillar Establishment cultivator.
Wuji kept his breathing steady. From their expressions, he knew the first exchange had worked. Now he only had to survive the second.
Wuji flinched, a small, instinctive reaction, as if the guards' words might provoke his unseen master. It was subtle. But not subtle enough. The two guards shifted almost imperceptibly, their expressions tightening as they registered his response.
They felt, suddenly, as if they had overstepped some boundary they could not identify.
Wuji lowered his gaze to hide the smile threatening to surface. They are already inside the snare.
Without another word, he turned and hurried to the back of the cart. Bowing toward the curtains, he bent deeper than necessary.
A pale hand emerged, the husk's palm offering two low-tier spirit stones, their soft cyan glow unmistakable in the evening light.
Wuji accepted them with both hands, reverent and careful, as if holding something sacred. He could feel their curious gazes on him.
He shuffled back quickly, posture humble, head lowered. When he reached them, he opened his palms. The glow reflected in their eyes. For a moment, greed surfaced, then vanished beneath cultivated restraint.
"Mm," the male guard said, clearing his throat. "It seems Senior understands procedure." He didn't even glance at the jade record in his pouch. "You are not listed among the wanted individuals of the Heaven's Fall Sect. You may enter."
The stones disappeared into his sleeve. Wuji exhaled slowly, allowing relief to touch his shoulders, but not too much. Never too much.
But those last words, records of Heaven's Fall criminals, lodged in his thoughts like a splinter.
As he returned to the cart, his mind retraced the last few weeks. The guards, the hired men, all dead. The disciple still sealed. Who else could identify him?
He climbed onto the driver's seat and flicked the reins. The horse stepped forward. The bamboo parted.
"Perhaps those villagers," he thought suddenly. A flicker of calculation passed through him. But no—those mortals held no significance in the sect's eyes. Unlike the disciple sealed within the interment space, the risk was small. But not nonexistent.
Wuji kept his expression calm as the cart rolled deeper into the gathering, passing through the purple bamboo.
Small risks were acceptable. Uncalculated risks were not, and he had already taken enough of those.
He pushed the lingering thoughts aside and focused on the road ahead. Minutes later, the purple bamboos thinned. A paved path stretched forward. With one final step beyond the trees, the world opened up, a clearing unfolded before him.
Houses stood in a loose circular formation, spaced deliberately apart, as if each occupant feared their neighbor more than they desired company. A central path cut through the formation like a spine.
The horse slowed naturally. Wuji observed without turning his head. Some buildings were modest, single-story structures. Others rose two stories high, their wood lacquered and reinforced. A few were wide courtyard compounds, too large for ordinary cultivators.
"Probably belongs to people with influence or power,"he thought, his eyes narrowing on the shimmering barrier domes faintly visible. Grade one defensive arrays, he estimated, studying the symbols. Perhaps a few offensive triggers embedded within, he couldn't see clearly.
What caught his attention was the silence between the houses. It was heavy. No idle chatter, no one moving about casually. Isolation was the default state here.
Solitary wolves sharing territory, he murmured inwardly, lifting his gaze toward the horizon. Beyond the clearing, low hills rose gently. On top sat larger residences, imposing, deliberate and dominant.
"Positions of authority," he murmured, shielding his gaze from the golden sunlight settling between the hills. He drove forward nonetheless.
After a dozen minutes, the atmosphere shifted. The outer stillness gave way to sound: voices, metal clashing, laughter, sharp, but he couldn't feel any warmth in them.
He reached the center. Looking around, the place resembled a city without walls. Buildings stood shoulder to shoulder. Stalls crowded the streets.
Cultivators moved about openly, some bartering, some arguing, some fighting with restrained moves, mostly fist fights that stopped just short of damaging the surrounding area.
Others leaned against walls, their eyes watching, measuring. Wuji immediately felt dozens of gazes on him, making his hair stand on end. Some had already realized he was mortal, but they didn't act recklessly, deterred by the master of the old mortal.
Wuji calmed his nerves, his face still, his mind sifting through the sight. Information brokers. Opportunists. Perhaps future robbers. He noted each one he could while guiding the cart deeper, his eyes roaming.
Stalls displayed herbs in bundles, their faint fragrance barely noticeable beneath layers of dust. Large clay pots sat sealed with yellow talisman slips. Weapons lay exposed on cloth mats. Wuji's gaze swept methodically. Low-tier goods, mixed quality with flashy presentation.
He listened to the vendors' cries: "Ancient sword of the Sword God!"
"Heaven-blessed herb—once in a lifetime!"
He almost scoffed aloud. No sane cultivator would believe this. Yet he noticed blue-robed youths standing before certain stalls.
"Heaven's Fall Sect. So they came here, too. Interesting. Perhaps they're buyers. Or perhaps they're bait. Or both. But who is stupid enough to touch them?"
As he thought it, he remembered he was that idiot. He didn't linger his gaze on them and moved the horse at an unhurried pace. The calmer he appeared, the fewer eyes watched him.
For several minutes, he drove slowly through the inner streets, scanning signboards, insignias, and the subtle architectural differences that marked the divide between poverty and wealth.
He needed a shop prestigious enough to possess body forging arts, but careless enough not to question why a "master" would send a mortal servant to bargain. A narrow balance.
Too small, and they wouldn't have what he needed. Too large, and they would probe too deeply. After dozens of minutes, he found neither.
Then, at the western edge of the market district, he saw it: a two-story wooden building with dark red beams and gold-trimmed eaves. The plaque above the entrance was simple, but the structure's aura was not, subtle array fluctuations clung to its walls.
Not ostentatious and not poor, but acceptable within his range.
He guided the cart to the side and dismounted. He bowed faintly toward the curtained back, nodding once as though receiving silent instructions.
"Even if they aren't desperate," he muttered to himself, "perhaps they are indifferent."
He swept his gaze across the street. Eyes were still on him. Loose cultivators pretended not to stare. Two Qi Cycle youths leaned near a stall. A middle-aged man with a wandering gaze watched.
Fortunately, none had the spiritual strength to truly scan him. That was enough, with that he turned and entered the building.
At the same inside the cart, the Heaven Burial Coffin responded to his will. The interment space's black viscous liquid appeared. Mei Xu's dark, refined robes, those of a higher-realm cultivator surfaced.
He fed it a month's worth of stored lifespan and the husk rose stiffly from stillness. Within two minutes, fabric draped over its lifeless shoulders.
Then the hat emerged from the liquid, wide brim adorned with a black silk veil cascading downward, obscuring face and expression.
When the silk settled, the transformation was complete. It no longer looked like a corpse, but a silent, veiled cultivator of unknown depth. It remained motionless, awaiting the next cue.
Wuji paused at the threshold, inhaled, and stepped inside. A few heads turned toward him, then most returned to what they were doing.
A handful glanced with mild curiosity. A mortal. In a place like this? The conclusion was obvious: he worked for someone. No mortal walked into such a shop alone and lived to tell the tale.
Their indifference loosened the tightness in his chest. "Good." He thought as he carefully scanned the interior.
Books of different sizes and colors were arranged neatly on shelves lining the walls and the center of the room. Scroll racks stood in orderly rows. Spiritual lamps burned with steady white flames. The air smelled faintly of ink and musty parchment.
To the right, behind a rectangular cutout in the wall, a woman observed him. A receptionist, he guessed, as his Eye of the End flickered subtly above the patrons' heads.
Most present were Qi Cycle realm cultivators, little threat. Except for three. Their lifespan numbers showed Foundation Establishment. The woman behind the counter was one of them.
He approached and bowed deeply. "Esteemed Immortal, my master has instructed me to procure several books."
"Oh?" she said lightly. "Your master? Can she not come herself? What would a mortal understand about cultivation texts?"
"Esteemed one," Wuji replied carefully, "my master's temperament is... peculiar. She said that a true cultivator wouldn't concern herself with trivial errands."
A faint smile tugged at the woman's lips. "Your master sounds interesting. I would like to meet her." She paused. "Too bad she doesn't seem interested."
"Yes, right," Wuji answered, lowering his head just enough to appear uncomfortable.
She leaned slightly against the frame. "So, what does your master require? Arrays? Alchemy manuals? Inscription guides? Orphan spells? We don't sell natal spells here, so don't ask."
"Esteemed Immortal, does your establishment have body forging arts?"
Her brows lifted. "Body forging?" She studied him more closely, then smiled, not warm, but calculating. "That path doesn't just eat spirit stones. It starves for them. So either your master is very rich..." She let the silence stretch. "...or very desperate. I haven't decided which makes her more interesting."
She the tilted her head, observing his expression closely, then leaned back after not seeing much. "But yes. We have several."
Her tone shifted, becoming less dismissive. "What rank?"
"My master seeks a low-tier Yellow Grade. True Yellow Grade," Wuji clarified. "Not mortal techniques."
She nodded slowly. "We indeed have Yellow Grade body forging arts. The highest available is high-tier Yellow grade." She then paused. "They cost five hundred spirit stones each."
"Five hundred spirit stones." The number settled like cold weight in his gut. It wasn't just a price, but a provocation. She was testing the master's patience through the servant's reaction.