Chen Mo did not waste a single moment. The moment he left the city gates, his figure melted into the outskirts like a shadow unbound.

  He chose a secluded valley several li away from Jian City, a place where broken rocks and withered trees formed a natural barrier. There, far from prying eyes, he began his cultivation in earnest.

  The Volcanic Core Muscle Pill showed its fangs the instant it dissolved.

  It was nothing like orthodox medicine that seeped gently into the body. The moment the pill melted, it was as if molten metal had been poured directly into his veins. Heat exploded from his dantian, racing through his limbs, drilling into every muscle fiber with brutal insistence. His muscles convulsed violently, swelling and contracting in chaotic waves, skin stretched tight as if it might split apart.

  Chen Mo bit down hard, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  This was not refinement.

  This was forceful remodeling.

  Each movement became torture. He struck stone walls until they shattered, leapt and landed again and again, circulated the Primordial Body Art without pause. Muscle fibers tore, reknitted, then tore again under the pill’s tyrannical effect. Veins bulged grotesquely, burning like red-hot iron chains wrapped around his bones.

  By the second day, his body was already riddled with internal bruising. By the third, every breath felt like dragging air through fire. Several times, his vision dimmed and the world spun, yet he refused to stop. Whenever his body threatened to collapse, he swallowed recovery herbs and continued.

  On the fourth day, the pill was finally exhausted.

  Chen Mo staggered toward the medicinal bath he had prepared in advance. The moment his body sank into the dark liquid, pain erupted anew. The recovery medicine seeped into his skin, cold and bitter, clashing violently with the lingering heat in his muscles. Steam rose as his body trembled uncontrollably.

  Muscle fibers that had been torn apart were slowly mended. Bruised meridians relaxed. The chaotic energy left behind by the Volcanic Core Pill was gradually tamed, pressed into place by the steady circulation of his cultivation method.

  Chen Mo leaned back against the edge of the bath, chest rising and falling heavily.

  Every inch of his body ached.

  Every inch of it felt stronger.

  He closed his eyes, allowing the recovery medicine to do its work, knowing that in just four days, he had accomplished what would take others weeks or even months.

  Chen Mo summoned the panel, his breath still uneven, his skin faintly steaming from the medicinal bath. For a brief moment, a sliver of tension crossed his eyes.

  He hoped the suffering had not been in vain.

  The familiar translucent panel unfolded before him.

  Realm: Muscle Refining (Initial Stage) 75 / 600

  Skill: Threaded Movement (Minor Achievement) 580 / 600

  Chen Mo froze.

  Then his lips slowly curved upward.

  Forty points.

  A single pill had pushed him forward by forty whole points. The pain, the torn muscles, the near collapse—it had all been worth it. Compared to orthodox medicine, this was like carving a road straight through a mountain instead of walking around it.

  He clenched his fist lightly. The air around it rippled, muscles responding with frightening immediacy. Power flowed cleanly now, without the sluggish resistance he had felt before.

  His gaze sharpened.

  At this rate, the remaining pills would propel him forward at an absurd speed. Faster than any sect disciple without massive backing could ever dream of. The danger was real, yes—but so was the reward.

  Chen Mo exhaled slowly, calm returning to his expression.

  He had already chosen this path.

  “I won’t stop,” he murmured to himself, eyes steady. “Not until every last pill is refined.”

  Outside the valley, the world continued to churn with rumors, bounties, and pursuit.

  Inside, Chen Mo sank back into the medicinal bath, circulating the Primordial Body Art once more, preparing to squeeze every last drop of strength from the remaining pills—no matter the cost.

  Chen Mo slipped into a quiet, grinding rhythm.

  Days were spent in the wilderness, where muscles screamed and qi burned. Nights were for the city, listening, watching, weighing rumors like coins in his palm. He trained, healed, vanished, and returned. No drama. No wasted motion. Strength accumulated the way water carves stone.

  A full month passed like this.

  Today, Chen Mo sat alone in his hotel room, the shutters half-closed, sunlight cutting thin lines across the floor. He summoned the panel.

  Realm: Muscle Refining (Middle Stage) 320 / 600

  Skill: Threaded Movement (Major Achievement) 5 / 800

  He stared for a long breath.

  Another breakthrough.

  Not just advancement—but consolidation. His body felt dense, tightly woven, every muscle obeying thought without delay. Power no longer surged wildly; it coiled, patient and lethal.

  Chen Mo closed his hand slowly. The air seemed to compress, protesting the restraint.

  With his current strength, he was confident.

  A peak Muscle Refining expert would no longer be a wall—only an opponent. As for speed, his Threaded Movement had crossed into a higher realm entirely. Each step now followed invisible lines, slipping through terrain as if the world itself made way.

  He assessed the situation with calm precision.

  Anyone below Bone Forging posed no real threat. Even Bone Forging experts would struggle to catch him unless their movement techniques surpassed his own—and such people were rare, usually backed by powerful forces.

  Chen Mo leaned back slightly, eyes half-lidded.

  He had carved out breathing room at last.

  But he knew better than to grow complacent. Strength was currency, and the price of survival kept rising. The capital, the immortals, the widening net of pursuit—none of it would wait for him to feel ready.

  He stood up, already planning the next phase.

  The routine was over.

  It was time to move again.

  For an entire month, the name Sun Bo surfaced again and again in Chen Mo’s quiet listening.

  A famous merchant.

  The Sun family.

  A pillar of commerce from the capital itself.

  They dealt in everything—medicines, rare ores, spirit goods, even assets that brushed against cultivation forces. And now, one of their core members was settling in Jian City.

  Chen Mo understood what that meant.

  Deals.

  Large ones.

  The kind that required silver measured in crates, not pouches.

  His fingers tapped lightly against the table as he thought it through.

  Such a figure was dangerous to touch. The Sun family’s connections ran deep, threading through escort agencies, mercenary halls, even officials. Their protection would be tight, layered, professional. Targeting them meant stepping onto thin ice.

  Yet that was precisely why the idea gnawed at him.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  No one would expect it.

  A merchant of that stature was assumed untouchable, shielded by reputation as much as guards. And Chen Mo was not planning slaughter or chaos. He had no interest in blood debts.

  He only wanted to borrow some silver.

  Honestly.

  With his Threaded Movement now refined to a major achievement, confidence flowed through him like a steady current. Slipping past guards, choosing the right moment, leaving no trace—these were no longer fantasies. They were calculations.

  He weighed risk against reward one last time.

  Then his eyes hardened, resolve settling into place.

  Chen Mo exhaled slowly.

  He had made his decision.

  If the world insisted on raising the price of survival, then he would collect the capital himself.

  The next day, Chen Mo returned to the pharmacy without hesitation.

  The steward barely had time to put on a proper smile before recognizing him.

  Although the Volcanic Core Muscle Pill had begun to show diminishing returns—only thirty points after his breakthrough—that number was still frightening by orthodox standards. Thirty points was a month’s progress for many.

  Without bargaining, Chen Mo laid out another two thousand taels.

  Eight more pills.

  Steward Liu’s hands trembled as he accepted the silver, his smile stretching so wide it nearly split his face. A customer like this was a walking fortune. Just the commission alone was enough to make his month shine.

  “Rest assured, young master,” Liu said eagerly. “Everything will be prepared as before.”

  Chen Mo merely nodded.

  This time, however, he did not rush back into cultivation.

  His body needed recovery. Muscles refined too aggressively would eventually rebel, no matter how potent the medicine. He had already pushed the limits once; repeating that mistake would be foolish.

  Instead, he shifted his focus.

  Information.

  For the next stretch of days, Chen Mo became a quiet shadow moving through Jian City. Tea houses, escort agencies, servants’ markets, even idle mercenaries boasting over cheap wine—he listened to them all.

  He did not ask about Sun Bo the man.

  He asked about Sun Bo’s mansion.

  Its layout.

  The number of guards.

  Shift rotations.

  Which escort agency provided external protection.

  When goods arrived.

  When silver moved.

  Patterns slowly emerged, piece by piece, like threads woven into a clear picture.

  Chen Mo remained patient.

  He wasn’t hunting prey.

  He was choosing the perfect moment.

  Three days later, the final thread fell neatly into place.

  In a bustling wine shop near the city square, Chen Mo caught a piece of gossip spoken too casually to be false.

  Sun Bo had been invited by the Imperial Trade Hall to a private banquet, held in his honor.

  A night banquet.

  An event meant prestige, courtesy, and ceremony. It also meant absence.

  The mansion would be left behind with only routine guards, fewer escorts, and none of the truly heavy hitters. The kind of night where security relied on reputation rather than vigilance.

  Chen Mo returned to his room without lingering.

  He checked his gear.

  Lightened his clothing.

  Secured the recovery herbs.

  Tested the pull of his muscles, feeling the dense, coiled strength beneath his skin respond like a drawn bowstring.

  His breathing slowed.

  Tomorrow night, he would not clash with fate.

  He would step around it.

  No blood.

  No witnesses.

  Only a brief borrowing of silver from someone who had more than enough to spare.

  As the lantern light dimmed, Chen Mo sat cross?legged, eyes half?closed, mind calm and razor?clear.

  Tomorrow night—

  he would strike.

  Night wrapped Jian City in a veil of silence as Chen Mo moved. Dressed in tight black clothes and a simple mask, he flowed across the rooftops like a passing thought, his Threaded Movement erasing the sound of his steps. The mansion wall rose before him, but it might as well have been flat ground. He scaled it in a breath, rolled over, and vanished into the inner grounds before the lantern light could touch him.

  Inside the Sun mansion, patrols were sparse. Chen Mo slipped between shadows, timing his movements with practiced calm, bypassing guards and servants alike. Courtyards, corridors, and tiled roofs blurred together as he advanced, every turn chosen with care, every pause deliberate. Soon, he stood before the main study, its heavy door quietly yielding under his hand.

  The room was orderly and refined, shelves of books and ledgers lining the walls. Chen Mo did not linger. He searched with purpose until his fingers brushed cold metal hidden behind a shelf. A reinforced safe. With a sharp twist and a surge of controlled strength, the lock gave way.

  Inside lay stacks of silver notes and gleaming jewelry, piled without care, the kind of wealth meant to sit untouched. There were documents as well, neatly bound and sealed, but Chen Mo spared them not even a glance. He had no interest in schemes, contracts, or power games.

  He swept the valuables into his pack without counting, his movements swift and efficient.

  But as he tucked the last bundles away, a faint tingle ran across his senses. He froze, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. A subtle, almost imperceptible thread had been disturbed—the faint hum of a hidden alarm mechanism.

  Before he could react further, a deep, foreboding sense of impending danger gripped him. Chen Mo’s body moved on instinct, ducking toward the shadows. The moment he vanished from the floor, a violent explosion rocked the room. Wood splintered and shards flew in all directions, a heavy, concussive force ripping through the floor where he had been standing just seconds ago.

  Chen Mo pressed himself against the wall, heart steady but alert, every muscle coiled and ready. The mansion, quiet just moments ago, now vibrated with the echo of the trap he had narrowly avoided. The game had shifted; his extraction would require more than just speed and stealth.

  Chen Mo’s heart tightened, every instinct screaming danger. Mo Yan’s voice cut through the chaos, calm yet laced with lethal confidence, and Chen Mo knew he couldn’t face this Bone Forging expert head-on—any direct clash would be suicide.

  Without hesitation, he activated Threaded Movement, his body dissolving into a blur as he vanished into the shadows. The mansion around him became a maze of flickering lanterns and shattered wood, every corner a potential trap.

  Mo Yan’s roar echoed after him, a predator’s challenge. Chen Mo felt the shockwave of his foe’s speed—a movement almost as swift as his own, a terrifying reflection in the dark.

  Chen Mo’s mind raced, calculating angles, anticipating strikes, predicting trajectories. Each footstep was precise, silent, a ghost weaving through the debris. He wasn’t just running—he was maneuvering, forcing Mo Yan to follow blindly, buying himself precious seconds.

  But the mansion’s interior offered little cover, and Chen Mo knew this pursuit could not last long. One misstep, one misjudged corner, and it would be the end. His breaths were controlled, his muscles coiled, every motion a mix of desperation and precision as he searched for any path to escape this Bone Forging nightmare.