"The best way to bury the truth isn't erasing the evidence—it's manufacturing a new 'truth.'"
Lin Mu stood over Gao Xiong's corpse, the heavy military-grade steel saber weighing in his grip.
Residual warmth from the dead man's palm still clung to the hilt, but by the time it reached Lin Mu's hand, it had turned to nothing but cold killing intent.
The air at the bottom of the well seemed to congeal.
Only the thick stench of blood continued to ferment, clawing at his nostrils.
Lin Mu drew a deep breath. In the darkness, his gaze sharpened to surgical precision.
He studied the fatal wound on Gao Xiong's neck—the incision left by the Iron Leaf Gu.
Where the flesh had split, fine serrated edges were visible.
Around the wound, the muscle tissue had taken on an eerie gray-green withering, the unmistakable corrosion of Wood-attribute Primeval Essence.
Ironclad evidence.
"This wound has to disappear."
No more hesitation.
He gripped the saber with both hands, arm muscles coiling tight, and brought it down hard on the corpse.
Thwack.
The first blow landed precisely on the neck.
Heavy. Vicious.
The angle was brutal—it severed the cervical spine outright and utterly destroyed the clean, precise incision left by the Iron Leaf Gu.
The original serrated wound vanished beneath the crude, ragged gash. The telltale gray-green residue of Wood Qi was swallowed by the eruption of fresh blood and mangled flesh.
"Not enough."
Lin Mu's expression remained blank. His eyes were as cold as if he were butchering a slab of meat on a cutting board.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Second strike. Third. Fourth.
He hacked at the chest, the abdomen, the back. Each blow was deliberately chaotic—brutal, vengeful, senseless.
He was mimicking the handiwork of the rogue Demonic Path cultivators common to the Southern Border.
In this world, Demonic Path Gu Masters were notoriously unstable.
They often cultivated quick-growth Gu with severe side effects, warping their temperaments into something savage and bloodthirsty.
When they killed, they never aimed for the artistry of a clean kill. They reveled in the act itself.
After more than a dozen strikes, Gao Xiong had been reduced to an unrecognizable heap of ruined flesh.
The subtle, concealed traces of the Iron Leaf Gu—that cold, calculated lethality—had been completely buried beneath this crude, bloody carnage.
Anyone who saw this now would read it as a killing driven by personal grudge or pure sadistic release.
"Next: the props."
Lin Mu tossed the notched saber beside the corpse, letting the blade sink halfway into the mud.
It would look like it had slipped from someone's grip mid-fight, or been discarded after the kill.
Then he retrieved a badly damaged scrap of coarse hemp cloth from inside his shirt.
He'd picked it up two days after transmigrating, near a cluster of refugees at the foot of the mountain.
It was stained with unidentifiable grease and blackened blood, reeking of a sour, nauseating stench.
This was not something anyone from Black Blood Stockade—a clan member—would ever carry on their person.
He crouched down, forcing himself to endure the reek of the corpse, and pried open Gao Xiong's fingers.
Rigor mortis had already set in; the joints were locked in the spasm of his final agony.
Crack.
A faint snap of bone.
Lin Mu forced the cloth scrap between the stiffened fingers, then used the rigor to clamp them shut again.
A perfect crime scene.
Under the dim moonlight, the corpse now told a story all its own:
A ragged Demonic Path rogue had infiltrated the stockade to steal. He was discovered by Gao Xiong, the diligent patrol captain, who pursued him here.
In the cramped confines of the well, they fought to the death.
Gao Xiong was brave, but the demonic cultivator's methods were too savage. He was overwhelmed, then butchered in a frenzy of sadistic rage.
Yet in his final moments, he seized a scrap of his killer's clothing—leaving the clan one last clue.
"Captain Gao Xiong. You're a martyr now."
Lin Mu gazed at the scene, a mocking curve tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"The clan will honor you posthumously. Your family will receive compensation. And I walk away with the opportunity I need. Everyone gets what they're owed."
This was the world of Gu Masters. The dead existed to be harvested by the living.
"As for this identity token..."
He tossed it into the deeper sludge at the bottom of the well.
Taking it would be suicide. Leaving it here only reinforced the narrative of something lost in a desperate struggle.
With that done, Lin Mu didn't linger.
He scooped up a handful of cold, slimy muck from the well wall and smeared it over himself—his body, his face—layering it over the fresh bloodstains.
The icy sensation quickly cooled the heat that killing had stirred in his veins.
"Time to go."
He glanced up at the small square of night sky visible through the well's mouth.
The Iron Thread Miasma seemed thicker now. A natural ally.
Hands and feet working in concert, he scaled the slick, moss-covered wall like a gecko, silent and sure.
The moment he cleared the rim, a night breeze carrying traces of corrosive mist struck his face.
Lin Mu flattened himself in the tall grass, motionless, listening.
Only when he was certain there were no patrol footsteps nearby did he slip away like a ghost.
The return journey was even more nerve-wracking than the approach.
It was the hour of the Ox—the deepest stretch of night, when exhaustion weighed heaviest and patrols grew lax.
But Lin Mu allowed himself no carelessness.
He avoided every main road and paved stone path, sticking instead to the damp shadows along walls, the fetid drainage ditches, even the sewage tunnels.
His soles squelched faintly through rotting debris and mud.
In the stillness, each tiny sound felt like a hammer striking his heartbeat.
Another quarter-hour passed.
Lin Mu finally made it back beneath the dormitory window, undetected.
The small window he'd left ajar was exactly as he'd left it—half-open, like a drowsy eye awaiting its master's return.
He drew a deep breath, channeled Primeval Essence to his limbs, and moved light as a swallow.
His hands caught the sill. A soundless roll, and he was inside.
Silent landing.
The room was filled with the same chorus of snoring.
That familiar stench—adolescent sweat, foot odor, mildew—hung in the air.
His roommates slept like the dead, utterly oblivious that just beyond this wall, a life had been exchanged for death.
Lin Mu secured the window and slid the latch home.
He didn't go straight to bed.
Instead, by the faint moonlight filtering through the glass, he conducted a meticulous inspection of himself.
Mud on the soles—scraped clean. Grass clinging to his clothes—picked off.
Blood caked under his fingernails—wiped away with a small damp cloth he'd prepared in advance.
He worked slowly, methodically, like an artist refining his masterpiece.
Any oversight, any trace, could become a fatal flaw if the clan launched a search tomorrow.
Finally, he stuffed the soiled cloth into a rat hole beneath the bed and covered it with dust.
Only then did the adrenaline that had sustained him begin to ebb.
Exhaustion flooded in like a tide.
But he couldn't sleep. Something more important awaited.
Lin Mu crawled under his blanket and wrapped himself tight in the heavy cotton quilt.
In that sealed, airless darkness, it was almost like returning to the womb—a twisted kind of security.
He exhaled slowly, his hand trembling as it slipped into the leather pouch against his chest.
His fingertips touched something warm and soft.
The Liquor Worm—the creature that had nearly cost him his life at the bottom of that well, the reason he'd been forced to kill—now lay curled in his palm.
By the faint glow of Primeval Essence seeping from his Aperture, Lin Mu studied the little thing with hungry eyes.
It was snow-white, plump like a silkworm, with a milky luminescence flowing just beneath its skin.
A rich, intoxicating fragrance of fine wine emanated from its body. Even a single breath of it seemed to quicken the Primeval Essence within him.
"For you, I killed a Rank 1 Upper Stage Gu Master."
Lin Mu's finger traced the smooth surface of the Liquor Worm. A feverish light flickered in his gaze.
"But it was worth it."
In this world where strength reigned supreme, aptitude determined your ceiling. Resources determined your speed.
With his B-grade aptitude, Lin Mu was destined to lose to those A-grade geniuses before the race even began.
Without taking, without seizing, without killing and burning bridges—he'd spend his life as some elder's lapdog, or end up as cannon fodder in the next beast tide.
But this Liquor Worm was the key to shattering that hierarchy.
With it, he could refine his Primeval Essence. He could wield middle-stage Primeval Essence against peers still stuck at the initial stage—an overwhelming advantage.
This wasn't just about raw power. It was about making a stunning showing at the upcoming clan examination, securing a greater share of resources.
"Only meat in your belly truly belongs to you."
He had to refine it completely, brand it with his will, store it deep within his Aperture, and mask its aura with his own Primeval Essence. Only then would he be truly safe.
"Now is the time."
Lin Mu forced down his excitement and settled into a cross-legged position on the bed.
He closed his eyes. Regulated his breathing. Let his heartbeat slow to a steady rhythm.
The snoring around him, the wind outside—it all faded away.
In the cramped darkness beneath that quilt, there was only one person and one Gu.