Chen Mo chose a teahouse and took a seat. He ordered tea and a few pastries, but his mind was elsewhere.

  The silver he had left was pitiful. Less than four hundred taels, barely enough for a single set of ordinary medicine. He intended to ask Steward Liu about more potent medicinal formulas, yet he knew the truth well. To push his cultivation forward, thousands of taels would be required.

  As he sank deeper into thought, the surrounding noise slowly seeped into his ears. The teahouse was lively, filled with idle chatter and gossip. One topic in particular caught his attention.

  Business, it seemed, was booming. Escort agencies were thriving, and merchants were increasingly hiring them to protect both goods and people on the road to the capital.

  Chen Mo knew that the journey to the capital would take roughly two months when traveling with a caravan. The roads were far from safe. Several provinces along the route were plagued by rebels, while desperate martial artists roamed freely, preying on the weak and the careless.

  Chen Mo briefly entertained the thought of robbing a caravan. The idea was tempting, but the danger was far too great. Large caravans often hid Bone Forging masters among their escorts, and one misstep would mean certain death.

  He quickly dismissed the notion.

  Then his eyes glimmered.

  What about the smaller merchants… and the minor escort agencies within the city?

  Stalking them would be far easier. With his Threaded Movement, tracking targets inside Jian City would pose little difficulty. He could pick out a few well-fed sheep, approach them politely, and ask them to “support” him with a contribution of silver.

  Night draped itself over Jian City like a damp cloak.

  Chen Mo moved.

  The lantern-lit streets were still lively, vendors shouting and guards patrolling in lazy pairs, but above them, on the beams and tiled roofs, another world existed. His figure slipped from shadow to shadow, Threaded Movement flowing silently, his breath shallow, his presence thin as mist.

  He watched.

  Not the big escort halls with iron plaques and watchful eyes. Not the wealthy merchants guarded by hardened men with visible killing intent. He waited for cracks. For carelessness.

  Soon, he found it.

  A small merchant convoy, no more than three carts, parked behind a modest wine shop. Only four escorts stood guard, their postures loose, their weapons worn. No aura of Bone Forging. Not even Muscle Refining.

  Chen Mo observed them for a long while, counting their breaths, memorizing their habits. One guard drank too much. Another wandered off regularly to relieve himself. The night itself seemed to yawn.

  When the time came, he dropped soundlessly behind the drunkard.

  A single chop to the neck. The man slumped without a cry.

  Before the others could react, a thin thread of force brushed past their throats. Not enough to kill. Enough to make them freeze, eyes wide, sweat bursting from their pores.

  Chen Mo stepped into the lantern light.

  “Quiet,” he said calmly. “I’m only borrowing.”

  The escorts swallowed hard. They had felt it. The difference in strength was absolute.

  Minutes later, Chen Mo vanished into the darkness once more.

  Behind the wine shop, the escorts remained kneeling, pale and trembling, silver chests opened but their lives intact. They would remember this night far longer than the loss of coin.

  On a distant rooftop, Chen Mo counted the taels in silence.

  Not enough.

  But now, the road had revealed itself.

  The nights that followed were quiet. Too quiet for Jian City to notice the pattern.

  Chen Mo never struck twice in the same district. He never targeted the same escort agency. He avoided blood unless forced, and even then, he crippled rather than killed. Fear spread faster than corpses, and it lingered longer.

  He learned quickly.

  Small merchants hired escorts out of obligation, not trust. Their guards were often hired by the day, their cultivation shallow, their discipline thin. Chen Mo studied their schedules from teahouses and gambling dens, listening more than speaking, letting gossip do the scouting for him.

  He chose only those who could afford to lose silver without raising alarms.

  A silk trader returning late with two carts and six exhausted escorts.

  A medicinal herb dealer who boasted too loudly after drinking.

  A grain merchant who believed numbers alone were protection.

  Each time, Chen Mo struck like a precise incision.

  Threaded Movement carried him through blind angles. A tap to pressure points. A burst of force to numb limbs. A whisper in the dark, calm and inevitable.

  “Leave the silver. Keep your lives.”

  No pursuit followed him. No descriptions matched. Some swore it was a rogue Bone Forging expert. Others whispered of a city ghost. Jian City’s patrols increased, yet they chased smoke.

  Within half a month, Chen Mo’s pouch grew heavy.

  Eight hundred taels.

  Then one thousand.

  Then more.

  Yet he never grew careless.

  Whenever he sensed the faint pressure of a stronger aura, he withdrew immediately, even abandoning perfect opportunities. Survival mattered more than greed. He knew too well that one hidden Bone Forging master was enough to end him.

  At dawn, he returned to the city like any ordinary youth.

  By day, he drank tea, listened to rumors, and browsed shops.

  By night, he harvested silver from those who underestimated the dark.

  Still, unease crept into his thoughts.

  Calculated robberies left traces. Patterns were invisible only until someone smart enough decided to look.

  And Jian City was not lacking in such people.

  Chen Mo stared at the growing silver before him, fingers tightening.

  In the half-month that followed, rumors of the mysterious robberies spread like wildfire throughout Jian City. Merchants whispered of a shadow slipping through the night, of silver disappearing without a trace, and even the city patrols were compelled to dispatch more experts to hunt the elusive culprit.

  Chen Mo paid them little mind. He had counted the fruits of his careful, calculated raids: eight thousand taels of silver. Enough to fund a serious leap in his cultivation.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  His Threaded Movement had improved dramatically over the past weeks. He could now slip past multiple guards, weave through patrols unnoticed, and vanish into the city’s night like a wisp of smoke. Each successful escapade had honed not only his skill in stealth but also his patience and precision, turning him into a living shadow of efficiency.

  For now, Chen Mo chose to lay low, blending into the bustling streets of Jian City by day and resting in his hotel by night. The city’s experts would continue their futile search, but he had already secured the silver he needed.

  It was time to turn coin into power. With his goal clear, he made his way to the pharmacy once more, seeking out Steward Liu. The medicinal powders and pills he could buy with his hard-earned silver would be the key to transforming wealth into raw strength—and bridging the gap from Muscle Refining early stage to something far more formidable.

  Chen Mo sat opposite Steward Liu, who could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of the next transaction—and the generous commission it promised.

  Liu: “I hope, young master, that you were satisfied with the goods from last time.”

  Chen Mo: “Not bad… but I was hoping for something far more effective.”

  Steward Liu’s eyes widened slightly. “I assure you, young master, our medicines are the best available…”

  Chen Mo interrupted, leaning slightly forward. “I know, I know. I just meant… something more radical, if you understand what I mean.”

  Liu: “You mean…?”

  Chen Mo: “Yes. Unorthodox medicines.”

  Steward Liu leaned closer, lowering his voice as if the walls themselves had ears. “Young master… there is one option, though it is not for the faint-hearted. It comes from the black market, extremely rare, and far more potent than anything orthodox. We call it the Volcanic Core Muscle Pill.”

  Chen Mo raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  Liu continued cautiously, “This pill forces rapid alignment and thickening of muscle fibers. Its effect far surpasses the Iron Tendon Pills. One dose can push your raw strength to levels that normally take months—or even years—to reach. But it is no gentle refinement… the pain is intense, like molten iron coursing through your limbs. Micro-tears, bruising, even ruptured blood vessels are inevitable if used carelessly. Your skin must be fully hardened, Stage 3 or above, or your body could fail completely. Usually, one pill is taken per week, with strict moderation—ice baths, recovery herbs, and careful cultivation.”

  Chen Mo leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Steward Liu. “State your price.”

  Liu raised five fingers slowly. “Five hundred taels per pill, young master.”

  Chen Mo didn’t flinch. “Five hundred taels each… very well. I’ll take eight.”

  Liu nodded, impressed but hiding his excitement. “Yes, my lord. I’ll also include the necessary recovery herbs in the deal to ensure safe refinement.”

  Without hesitation, Chen Mo produced a stack of silver notes totaling 2,000 taels. “Eight pills,” he said simply, handing them over.

  “Consider it done, my lord,” Liu said, bowing slightly. “You may collect the medicine tomorrow.

  Chen Mo inclined his head, tucking away his thoughts. He left the hall with the same calm composure he always carried and returned to his usual hotel room to rest, already planning how he would turn this costly investment into raw strength.

  Lian City, City Lord’s Mansion

  Xu Haoran’s fingers tapped lightly against the armrest, each sound echoing in the silent hall. “Are you certain the cave was empty?”

  Qi lowered his head. “Yes, my lord. It was extremely well hidden. It took us ten days to locate the correct spot. That bandit we captured was unreliable at best.”

  Xu Haoran’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you reported signs of recent human activity inside.”

  He paused. “Do you believe it was that boy?”

  Qi hesitated only a breath. “Yes, my lord. Most likely him. That boy is… not simple.”

  Xu Haoran rose slowly. “Are you suggesting he stumbled upon a treasure within the cave?” A cold smile formed. “Absurd. We searched that place for years. How could such fortune fall into the hands of a nameless youth?”

  Qi spoke carefully. “It may not be a treasure, my lord. But we are certain the bandits were searching for the same location. That alone makes the boy worth finding.”

  Silence stretched, heavy and oppressive.

  Xu Haoran finally turned. “Send his portrait and description to the capital. Distribute it throughout the entire kingdom.”

  His voice hardened. “Declare him an important member of the rebel forces. Wanted alive. Double the bounty.”

  Qi’s eyes widened. “Two thousand taels?”

  Xu Haoran nodded. “Yes. Let the world hunt him.”

  A faint, cruel smile curved his lips. “I want to see just how far he thinks he can run.”

  Elsewhere, on the long road stretching between Jian City and the capital, a massive caravan advanced steadily. Hundreds of carts rolled in ordered lines, horses snorting under heavy loads of goods. Luxurious carriages were interspersed among them, guarded by seasoned martial artists. This was no ordinary convoy, but a major caravan led by a Bone Forging expert.

  At the rear, within a plain-looking cart, Zhang Qiang sat opposite Li Yuxue. They had successfully joined the caravan two days earlier, slipping into its protection without incident.

  Li Yuxue broke the silence. “Master Zhang… why do you think they are so determined to hunt that boy?”

  Zhang Qiang shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.” His voice was calm, detached. “But he deserves it. That is the fate of traitors.”

  Li Yuxue clenched her hands. “I wish I had caught him myself.”

  Her voice trembled despite her effort to steady it. “Ever since he appeared, everything went wrong. The martial hall collapsed… and now even my father—”

  Her words faltered. Her eyes reddened, grief and resentment twisting together like poison.

  Zhang Qiang looked away toward the swaying curtain of the cart. “The world of martial artists is cruel, Young Miss. Once fate turns its blade, no one is spared.”

  Outside, the caravan continued forward, wheels creaking softly, unaware that far behind them, and far ahead, invisible threads of cause and consequence were tightening around every name spoken in hushed tones.