The edge of the Miasma Forest still reeked of rot and danger.
Lin Mu didn't head straight back to his hidden cache.
Instead, he took a winding, circuitous route through the undergrowth, doubling back twice and waiting in absolute stillness for long stretches.
Only after confirming that no suspicious presence lingered in his wake did he finally approach the concealed rock crevice.
He cleared away the camouflage of dead branches and inspected the red mud seal. Intact. No claw marks from scavenging beasts, no signs of human tampering.
Deep beneath the earth, the massive hide of the Charcoal Stone Boar King and its two half-meter tusks lay waiting in the darkness.
Lin Mu pressed his palm against the cold ground but didn't retrieve them.
He'd just finished killing that gray-robed tracker. The stench of slaughter still clung to him like a second skin—the unmistakable aura of fresh blood and violence.
Walking into the black market carrying treasures that clearly exceeded what a Rank 1 Middle Stage Gu Master could obtain?
He might as well paint a target on his back and scream "rob me."
"First priority: return to the clan, complete the quota, stabilize my cover identity."
"Once things cool down, I'll establish a long-term partnership with Gelded Ma and slowly fence these goods."
He reinforced the camouflage over his cache, then opened his travel pack.
From the jumble of hunting spoils inside, he selected fifteen intact common boar hides and twenty tusks.
These were byproducts from his two days of "feeding moves" training—using live prey to practice combat techniques.
Nothing compared to the Boar King's materials, but more than enough to satisfy the clan's mandatory hunting quota.
As for the Wind-Treading Gu he'd stripped from the gray-robed corpse, that required more careful handling.
He wrapped it in multiple layers of oiled cloth and tucked it into his innermost pocket, pressed against his skin.
A Wind Path Gu like that couldn't see the light of day. He'd have to wait until he was back in his quarters, away from prying eyes, before attempting to refine and bond with it.
These preparations complete, Lin Mu knelt by a stream and scrubbed away the cracked, grotesque mask of red mud that had served as his disguise.
He changed back into his clan-issued gray cloth uniform, faded from countless washes until it was almost white.
His complexion remained pale from blood loss.
But his eyes—those pitch-black pupils—had grown deeper and colder than before he'd left.
The eyes of someone who had seen things. Done things.
Evening light painted the sky in shades of amber and blood.
The towering gates of Black Blood Stockade rose into view, their massive stone pillars casting long shadows across the road.
Beyond them, the settlement glowed with lantern-light and cooking smoke. Faintly, Lin Mu could hear children reciting lessons in the clan school, women calling their families home for dinner.
Compared to the Black Wind Ridge at his back—that hellscape of blood and bone where everything wanted to kill and eat you—this place looked almost peaceful. A pastoral sanctuary.
Lin Mu stood at the gate, and a mocking smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"I wonder whose 'family' this clan actually serves."
He adjusted his straw hat lower and merged with the stream of returning hunters passing through the entrance.
A crowd had gathered around a freshly-posted notice board in the clan's central square.
"All Gu Masters of Rank 1 Middle Stage or above must submit one unit of Rank 1 materials."
"Those below Middle Stage: half unit required."
"Those who fail to complete this month's hunting quota will be assigned to three months of hard labor in the Western Mountain Mines. During this period, the clan assumes no responsibility for death or injury..."
Lin Ping huddled in the shadow of the notice board, staring at those cold black characters. His face was the color of ash.
He'd spent three days in the wilderness, skulking like a rat. Forget hunting the fierce Wind Wolves—he hadn't even managed to catch a single Red-Eyed Rabbit.
His aptitude was rated D-grade. The lowest.
He was weak, timid, and had long since been written off by the clan as disposable. Being sent to the Western Mountain Mines in his condition was essentially a death sentence with extra steps.
"Hey, Lin Ping! Still haven't scraped together enough?"
A group of branch family disciples who'd already submitted their quotas strolled past, sneering.
"Why don't you go beg Supervisor Lin Qiang? Maybe if he's in a good mood, he'll let you wash his feet for three months instead! Hahahaha!"
The laughter cut like knives. Lin Ping hunched lower, fingers digging into the hem of his sleeve, too hopeless to even cry.
That's when a figure carrying the faint scent of blood walked past.
Lin Ping looked up instinctively—and met a pair of calm, expressionless eyes.
"Lin... Lin Mu?"
Lin Mu stopped. He glanced sideways, the way one might acknowledge a stranger in passing.
His gaze flicked to Lin Ping's empty pack. Without a word, he reached into his own bulging travel bag, pulled out five blood-stained boar hides, and tossed them into Lin Ping's arms.
The motion was casual. Thoughtless. Like throwing away garbage.
"Just had extra."
He dropped the words without inflection and walked away, as if what he'd just discarded wasn't task materials worth dozens of Primeval Stones, but a handful of worthless straw.
Lin Ping fumbled to catch the hides.
The rough, greasy texture—reeking of blood and animal musk—felt heavier in his hands than the finest silk.
This was a lifeline.
He stood frozen, watching Lin Mu's retreating back. His lips moved, trying to form words, but his throat had sealed shut. No sound came out.
Five hides. Exactly enough to meet quota. Enough to avoid being shipped to the mines to die.
The mocking laughter around him cut off abruptly.
The disciples who'd been waiting to watch the show now stood slack-jawed, their ridicule dying in their throats.
In the sudden silence, Lin Ping clutched the hides with trembling fingers, his eyes burning, two lines of tears sliding soundlessly down his cheeks.
The Mission Hall was packed.
Behind the registration desk sat a familiar face—Lin Qiang, flushed with self-satisfaction.
This former schoolyard bully had leveraged family connections and shameless bootlicking to land the cushy position of Mission Hall registrar.
Now he lounged with his legs crossed, sipping tea while nitpicking the submissions of various branch family disciples, savoring every drop of petty power his position afforded.
"Next!" Lin Qiang rapped his knuckles on the desk impatiently.
A figure stepped forward and placed a bundle of boar tusks and hides on the counter.
Lin Qiang glanced up. Recognition flickered in his eyes, followed immediately by a predatory grin.
"Well, well. If it isn't Lin Mu. I was starting to think you'd died out there."
He made no move to count the materials. Instead, he picked up one of the hides and made a theatrical show of examining it, turning it over and over in his hands.
Then he furrowed his brow in exaggerated displeasure, drawing out his words:
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Lin Mu, this quality just won't do. Look at these cuts—so rough, so sloppy."
"And what's this? A hole? According to clan regulations, defective goods get discounted. Ten hides count as five..."
He kept talking, sliding his gaze toward Lin Mu, waiting for the flash of anger, the desperate plea for mercy.
Back in their school days, this had always been his favorite part—watching background nobodies like Lin Mu bend and break before him.
But the words died in his throat.
Because Lin Mu raised his head.
Their eyes met.
Lin Qiang felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his skull. Every hair on his body stood on end simultaneously.
What kind of eyes were those?
No anger. No humiliation. No emotion at all.
They were still and flat as a pool of stagnant water—or perhaps like the gaze of someone examining a corpse that had already gone cold.
Those were the eyes of a man who had waded through mountains of corpses and rivers of blood in the Black Wind Ridge.
Who had danced along the razor-edge between life and death. Who had personally cut down a Beast King and killed a Demonic Cultivator with his own hands.
The weight of that accumulated violence had settled into something beyond mere killing intent. It had become indifference.
The calm of someone for whom death—dealing it or facing it—had become routine.
Under that gaze, Lin Qiang felt himself shrink.
He was suddenly aware of how pathetic he must look—a chicken puffing up its feathers and squawking at a tiger. Ridiculous. Fragile. Easily crushed.
Primal, biological terror seized his heart. Cold sweat soaked through his back.
The harassment he'd been about to deliver turned to meaningless sounds in his throat—"guh, guh"—and refused to form words.
Slap.
His hand spasmed. The boar hide dropped onto the desk.
Lin Mu didn't waste breath. Didn't acknowledge the other man's breakdown.
He simply extended one finger, pointed at the materials on the counter, and spoke in a voice as flat as still water:
"Ten complete hides. Twenty tusks. Log it."
"Ah—y-yes, yes..."
Lin Qiang snapped out of his stupor, grabbed the stamp with shaking hands, and brought it down on Lin Mu's task slip. His tremors were so severe that the seal came down crooked.
Lin Mu retrieved his identity token. He didn't spare Lin Qiang a single glance as he turned and walked away.
From start to finish, he hadn't bothered with so much as a dismissive remark.
You cannot discuss ice with a summer insect.
For the current Lin Mu, someone like Lin Qiang—still playing schoolyard bullying games, drunk on scraps of petty authority—existed on an entirely different level. They were no longer in the same world.
Stepping on someone like that wouldn't bring satisfaction. It would simply be a waste of time.
Lin Qiang didn't collapse into his chair until Lin Mu's figure had vanished through the doorway.
He sat there gasping, chest heaving, and discovered that his palm—the one that had been holding the brush—was drenched in cold sweat.
Returning to his familiar dormitory, Lin Mu closed the door and—out of habit—scattered a thin layer of warning powder at the threshold.
Only then did the lingering scent of blood finally seem to fade.
He sat on the edge of his bed, gazing around the crude little room. Yet what rose in his chest was an unprecedented sense of security.
This trip had lasted only a few days, but it had completed his true transformation from "student" to "Gu Master."
Lin Mu closed his eyes and began taking inventory.
On the surface, he had completed a mandatory assignment, earned a meager sum of clan contribution points, and secured his position as a branch disciple.
In the shadows, his gains were staggering:
An unrefined Rank 1 Wind-Treading Gu.
An already-refined Blood Scent Gu that had proven remarkably useful.
And the Red Mud Gu slumbering in the depths of his Aperture—his hidden trump card.
His cultivation had stabilized at Rank 1 Middle Stage, his Aperture brimming with high-grade Primeval Essence refined by the Liquor Worm.
The "Earth Ring Body" killer move had been honed through real combat and was approaching maturity.
And then there were the Boar King hide and premium tusks buried in the mountains—his future reserve fund.
"As I am now, even against a Rank 1 Peak, I can hold my own."
Lin Mu opened his eyes. His gaze passed through the window toward the western mountain range, slowly being swallowed by the encroaching night.
"Next comes digesting these resources and pushing my cultivation toward Rank 2. That's where the real world begins."