Chen Mo was oblivious to the schemes the higher-ups were weaving, entirely absorbed in his training and his new “project.” Zhou proved remarkably efficient, selling the grade 1 medicinal powder packets and using the proceeds to buy grade 2 powder from a random pharmacy. Chen Mo wasted no time, plunging back into his skin refinement, enduring the familiar sting and burning sensation of the more potent concoction. Though Zhou assured him that the grade 2 powder rivaled the school’s own resources, Chen Mo cared little for comparisons; what mattered was results. Within a week, he gained another 15 points, an acceptable pace. With only silver left as a limiting factor, his focus sharpened. Meanwhile, his Threaded Movement skill advanced steadily. Opening his panel, he studied the numbers:

  Name: Chen Mo

  Age: 14

  Realm: Skin Refining (Middle Stage) 123/300

  Skills: Threaded Movement 1/400 (Proficient)

  A deepening mastery over the technique filled him with quiet confidence, a certainty that his control over movement was reaching a new height.

  As dusk crept in and the facility gradually settled into its nightly rhythm, Chen Mo did not train blindly as before. This time, every movement carried intent. In the narrow side room, he traced short paths between pillars, shelves, and shadows, imagining the warehouse at night. The Threaded Movement was no longer just about speed; it was about silence, angles, and restraint. He practiced placing his feet so lightly that even his own breathing seemed louder, adjusting his steps to flow around obstacles rather than confront them head-on.

  He rehearsed sudden halts mid-motion, dispersing momentum through his muscles to avoid the telltale scrape of skin or cloth. Sharp turns were smoothed into arcs, his body threading through imagined patrol routes like water slipping between stones. Every breath was regulated, every shift of weight calculated, until movement became instinct rather than effort.

  Chen Mo understood clearly now: escape techniques were not merely for fleeing. Used correctly, they were tools of infiltration, concealment, and control. Tonight, the warehouse would become his proving ground. If the Threaded Movement could carry him unseen through shadows and silence, then this “project” would no longer be a gamble, but a calculated operation.

  With that thought, his eyes hardened slightly. The night was coming, and so was his first real test.

  Late at night, when the facility was wrapped in a heavy stillness and only the occasional lantern flickered in the distance, Chen Mo quietly rose from his seat. He did not rush. He listened first, letting the silence speak. The faint breathing of guards on rotation, the soft creak of wood settling in the cold night air, the distant echo of footsteps far from his route, all of it flowed into his awareness.

  He slipped out of his office and closed the door with practiced care, guiding the latch with his fingers until it settled without a sound. His figure merged with the shadows of the administrative corridor, moving not in straight lines but along the edges, where darkness gathered thickest. Each step followed the rhythm he had drilled into his bones, light, controlled, leaving no trace behind.

  When a patrol lantern swept across the courtyard ahead, Chen Mo paused instantly, his body pressed into the shadow of a column. His breathing slowed, qi and blood circulating in a calm, even loop. The light passed, unaware, and he flowed forward again, his silhouette briefly stretching and then vanishing between buildings.

  Within moments, he reached the narrow alley behind the administrative structures. The space was damp and stale, hemmed in by tall walls that blocked even the moonlight. Filth and debris littered the ground, and the air carried an unpleasant stench, but to Chen Mo it felt like shelter. He stepped into the deepest part of the darkness and halted, untouched, unseen.

  A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. The first stage was complete. The access point lay just ahead, and not a single soul had noticed his departure.

  Chen Mo slipped back into the shadows of the warehouse, his presence barely more than a whisper. The crates for tomorrow’s shipment stood neatly aligned, each one labeled and sealed. He let his eyes drift to the half-filled crate tucked in the corner—this week’s leftover. His mind ran the numbers almost absentmindedly: Master Lian’s document recorded only nineteen crates, they were sending out twenty-three, meaning four crates would quietly vanish along the way. Snagging half a crate for himself would go unnoticed.

  He moved like a feather riding a breeze, every step deliberate, every breath measured. The guards outside were still on duty, alert and capable, and Chen Mo’s Threaded Movement carried him through the shadows without a single creak or scuff. He crouched briefly, slipped the herbs into a sack he had brought, and felt the smooth, practiced alignment of his body as he retraced his path.

  By the time he reached his room, his chest rose and fell in a quiet sigh of relief. The sack rested at his side, full of potential and unobserved by anyone. Chen Mo allowed himself a small, inward smile—this first step had gone perfectly.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  By morning, Zhou stood across from Chen Mo, his posture respectful yet tense, as if he were balancing on the edge of a blade.

  Chen Mo spoke first, his tone calm. “Which pharmacy do you suggest we deal with?”

  Zhou hesitated. “My lord, this kind of transaction must be handled carefully. Those people aren’t easy to deal with. They all have backing in the black market.”

  “So?” Chen Mo asked, unmoved.

  “I’ve already contacted a cousin,” Zhou continued cautiously. “He has dealings with several pharmacies. But… they are businessmen first and foremost.”

  Chen Mo understood immediately. “What’s the deal?”

  Zhou swallowed. “They’re willing to take the goods, but they want sixty percent. Ten percent goes to the middleman. The remainder would be yours, my lord.”

  Chen Mo’s brow creased, a chill entering his eyes. “Sixty percent? Do they think we picked these herbs off the roadside?”

  Zhou’s lips twitched. He wisely kept his thoughts to himself.

  “No,” Chen Mo said flatly. “Sixty percent for us. The rest can be split between the pharmacy and the middleman. That’s our final offer.”

  Zhou froze. “My lord… if we talk in terms of volume—”

  “We will,” Chen Mo interrupted. “Two full crates a month. High-grade materials. Even at black-market prices, that’s a thousand taels monthly, at minimum. More if they’re greedy enough to push prices.”

  Zhou’s eyes widened, his face draining of color. Two crates a month was madness.

  “Exactly,” Chen Mo said coolly, as if reading his thoughts. “I already secured half a crate last night. It’s sealed and repackaged for preservation, but it needs to move fast. Tell them this is a long-term arrangement. If they insist, you may concede to a fifty-fifty split. Not a fraction more.”

  Zhou could only nod, stunned. “Yes… yes, my lord.”

  After a deep breath, he added, “The attendants in charge of waste management are ready. I used the silver you gave me as incentive and made sure they understood the consequences.”

  “Good,” Chen Mo replied. “Begin transport tomorrow. Everything that leaves the facility goes to the new courtyard first.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  As Zhou withdrew, Chen Mo leaned back slightly, his gaze steady and calculating. The first night had gone smoothly. The routes were opening, the gears beginning to turn.

  The project had finally begun.

  Five days slipped by like water through his fingers. Chen Mo kept to his routine with monk-like discipline. Lacking proper medicinal resources, he shifted his focus inward, grinding his Threaded Movement again and again, polishing control rather than raw speed. Each step grew quieter, each turn smoother, as if his body were learning how to apologize to the ground for touching it.

  The next weekly tally loomed close. Chen Mo was already preparing for his next robbery, his mind calm, his plans layered.

  When he finally returned to the office that afternoon, Zhou was waiting. The accountant bowed deeply.

  “Greetings, Lord Chen.”

  “Any good news?” Chen Mo asked, taking his seat.

  Zhou hesitated, then spoke carefully. “My cousin agreed… on a fifty-fifty split.”

  Chen Mo frowned slightly, but Zhou hurried on. “We couldn’t push further, my lord. Too many hands must be fed. Manpower, transport, silence. We also avoided involving martial artists to keep things covert. The cost is… unavoidable.”

  Chen Mo waved it off after a brief pause. “Acceptable. What about waste management?”

  “All arranged,” Zhou replied quickly. “By tomorrow, the goods will be fully transported to the rented courtyard.”

  “And payment?”

  Zhou’s eyes lit up. “For a full crate, we receive two hundred and fifty taels upfront.”

  Chen Mo nodded. “We only have half a crate for now.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “No matter,” Chen Mo said calmly. “Give me two days. I’ll secure the rest. Possibly more. You focus on transport and collecting the silver.”

  Zhou straightened, reassured. “Yes, my lord.”

  As the conversation ended, Chen Mo’s expression remained steady, but his thoughts were already moving ahead. The first theft had been a test. The second would be confirmation. And once the flow began, it would not stop easily.

  Opportunity, after all, favored those who moved without sound.

  By the end of the week, Chen Mo moved again.

  Under the veil of night, he slipped from the administrative quarters and flowed toward the warehouse, his Threaded Movement carrying him like a shadow stitched to the darkness. No footsteps echoed. No breath betrayed him. Guards remained alert outside, yet none sensed the presence gliding just beyond the edge of their perception.

  The operation went smoothly. Too smoothly.

  Within moments, another half crate vanished into his possession, reduced to neatly packed bundles and swallowed by the night. Chen Mo paused only briefly, his gaze lingering on the rows of sealed crates. Taking more was possible. Even easy. But experience told him restraint mattered. For now.

  If everything continued without ripples, he could afford to grow bolder later. A full crate next time, perhaps. Maybe more.

  As the thought crossed his mind, he felt no guilt. Not even a flicker.

  He had already taken lives before. He would likely take more in the future. Compared to that, what was theft? In this world, strength dictated truth, and morality bent beneath power like grass under a storm.

  Chen Mo turned away without hesitation, retreating along his hidden path, his heart steady and his mind cold.

  To grow stronger, he would use any means necessary.