Chen Gensheng found himself struck by a peculiar realization as he listened to the two youths.

  When he was but a mortal insect, he knew nothing of language; he lived only by the primal drive to seek warmth and shun death. But since his awakening, he had learned the weight of thought and the structure of speech.

  Yet, he could not fathom it. Born as humans, blessed with the chance to tread the Immortal Path, why did these two spend their breath in such pathetic self-pity?

  They cursed the unfairness of the supervisor. They cursed the cruelty of the Sect. They cursed their own lives, as frail as autumn grass.

  Their words were thick with despondency, lacking even a shred of the sharp, desperate will to survive.

  To Gensheng, this was utterly laughable. Even as a lowly cockroach, he had the sense to scrounge for dust around a pill dreg to snatch a sliver of life. He had risked being crushed underfoot to steal spirit grain, to compete with swine for slop, and to feast upon discarded rags.

  These two had limbs and strength. They suffered mere flesh wounds, yet they lay here sighing, casting the blame for their misery upon the world.

  They were content in their weakness, yet incessant in their whining.

  Humans are the most wretched, most filthy of creatures, Gensheng thought.

  Hunger clawed at his abdomen, matched only by an indescribable disdain.

  You sit upon a mountain of treasure—your human forms—yet you only know how to wail, ignorant of how to mine it. This body, this blood, this meager cultivation... on you, it is a total waste.

  Better to aid me, Chen Gensheng, as I crawl one step further upon the Great Path of Longevity.

  The thought was clear; the killing intent followed.

  Inside the hut, Li Gou and Zhang San finished their grumbling and lay down. Soon, the heavy, rhythmic sound of snoring filled the room.

  The shadows stirred.

  Chen Gensheng crept silently from the corner. He first approached Li Gou’s bed. The youth was in a deep sleep, his mouth slightly agape, mumbling incoherently.

  Gensheng locked his gaze on the exposed neck. The skin there was thin, the pulse of the vessel beneath thrumming with the vibrant scent of life.

  Puchi.

  His mandibles pierced Li Gou’s throat with surgical precision. Li Gou’s eyes snapped wide, his limbs twitching for a few brief seconds before falling still. The sweetness of fresh blood surged into Gensheng’s body, transforming into waves of warm, potent energy.

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  On the neighboring bed, Zhang San was jolted awake by the slight disturbance. He blinked blearily, and by the flickering light of the dying oil lamp, he saw a pitch-black silhouette perched atop Li Gou.

  Terror struck him like a drenching of ice water.

  The monster lifted its head from the corpse, its two long, slender antennae swiveling toward him. In the gloom, Zhang San couldn't discern its features, but he felt an abyssal pair of eyes boring into his soul.

  In the next heartbeat, the creature lunged like an arrow released from a bow.

  The oil lamp consumed its final drop. The flame sputtered and died. Only the faint, wet sound of scuttling and gnawing echoed in the darkness.

  Those who resent Heaven and Earth are eventually forsaken by Heaven and eaten by Man. This is the Heavenly Dao, and it is the Dao of Gensheng.

  It is well known that a cockroach has ten distinct segments on its abdomen—its softest and most vulnerable part.

  At this moment, the first segment closest to his chest began to burn. It grew hot, then hard. The supple fold of skin was rapidly keratinizing, transforming into a shell as tough as the armor on his back—no, tougher.

  When the transformation settled, the first segment had become a dull, metallic plate, seamlessly integrated into his form.

  Ten segments. Ten levels of Qi Condensation.

  He had reached the First Level of Qi Condensation.

  Suddenly, the world changed. Though he remained motionless in the dark, his surroundings were imprinted into his mind in a three-dimensional, transparent map.

  This was Divine Sense. It had no color, yet it had layers. He could feel the packed structure of the mud walls. He could sense the minute writhing of woodworms in the ceiling beams. Everything within several yards was under his absolute control.

  Just then, a new presence entered his perception.

  Someone was holding their breath, approaching the hut.

  Chen Gensheng remained rooted. He flattened himself against Zhang San’s corpse, stilling his antennae and merging with the void. He didn't care who it was. As long as they stepped into this room, they were nothing more than a Human Pill.

  The dilapidated wooden door creaked open. A tall, thin figure slipped inside and immediately bolted the door. It was the Laborer Supervisor, Zhao Ping.

  Zhao Ping did not light a lamp. Using the sliver of moonlight filtering through the window, he scanned the room. His goal was simple: Li Gou and Zhang San were too injured to work, and their resentment made them a liability. Better to end them now and report their deaths as "failing to recover from injuries."

  The moonlight, like a thin veil, illuminated a few inches of the floor. Zhao Ping moved toward the beds, a poisoned iron needle gripped between his fingers.

  But he stopped.

  The scent of blood in the air was too rich—unnaturally so.

  Under the dim light, he saw Li Gou’s bed.

  Dead? Zhao Ping’s heart skipped a beat, followed by a wave of relief. It saved him the effort. Likely their wounds had burst. A laborer's life was truly that fragile.

  He turned to the second bed. Zhang San was also motionless. But there was a lump on the bed that shouldn't be there. A large, black, irregular shadow was crouched upon Zhang San’s chest.

  Zhao Ping’s breath hitched.

  He wasn't an ignorant laborer like Li Gou. As a supervisor, though he had little talent for cultivation, he was well-versed in the lore of the world. He stared at the black mass, his body trembling with a sudden, feverish excitement.

  "What... what luck!"

  "A Spirit Insect! A variant Feilian that feeds on human blood to awaken its soul!"

  He wasn't afraid. Instead, he took a step forward, his eyes gleaming with fanaticism.

  "Common cockroaches eat rot, but this thing eats humans—and the bodies of cultivators at that! No wonder its quality is so high!"

  He whispered to himself as if appraising a priceless treasure. "Those six legs... if I harvest them, I can use the Soul-Binding Silk Method to graft new limbs for my Junior Sister!"

  Zhao Ping’s left hand blurred into a mudra, and a Fireball Technique roared into existence.