Life in the menial quarters repeated itself day after day, like a precise and merciless gear grinding away at everyone’s time and hope. Yet within this monotonous framework, Yun Che quietly carved out a rhythm of his own.

  The void within the stone bead was the time chamber he had stolen. One night in the outside world meant nearly three days within. Over and over, he practiced the ability he had grasped by the stream that day—an ability he tentatively named Minor Pull. It was the act of gathering the strange power accumulated in his body, fused with the light motes of the void, into his fingertips, and attempting to influence tiny objects from a distance.

  Progress was painfully slow. At first, he could only make a speck of dust tremble. Later, he barely managed to shift a dead leaf by half an inch. The technique consumed an enormous amount of mental energy and was wildly unstable—out of ten attempts, not even one might succeed.

  But patience was something he had in abundance. Tenfold patience.

  He knew this was by no means a proper or It was far more primitive, far more dependent on his unique ability to see and perceive. It felt like a clumsy method born solely from the stone bead and his unusual constitution—one that belonged to him alone.

  That afternoon, after finishing his weeding duties in the herb garden, Yun Che planned to detour toward the quiet back hills to see if his sharpened perception might help him locate any useful wild plants. As he passed the narrow alley between the menial quarters and the storage hall, a hushed argument drifted from the cluttered utility room around the corner.

  The voices sounded familiar.

  “…Senior Brother Liu, we agreed that chopping twenty bundles of ironwood a day counted as completing the quota. I, Zhang Hu, have exceeded it every single day for the past three months. Why raise it to fifty all of a sudden? You’re trying to work me to death!”

  It was Zhang Hu. His voice trembled with restrained fury.

  A soft, slippery voice replied. It belonged to Liu, an outer disciple in charge of assigning labor in this area—known among the menials as Centipede Liu.

  “Zhang Hu, you shouldn’t put it that way. The sect is refining a batch of low-grade Cold-Dispelling Talismans, and Ironwood charcoal is in short supply. You’re good at chopping wood—those who can do more should do more.”

  “Those who can do more?” Zhang Hu snapped. “Yesterday, Zhao Fatty slipped you two low-grade spirit stones, and you immediately reassigned him to the ‘easy job’ of guarding spirit beast droppings. Don’t think I didn’t see it! What, is my ‘gratitude money’ this month too little? Or do you think I’ve seen too much and it’s gotten on your nerves?”

  The alley fell silent for a brief moment.

  Then Liu’s voice turned icy.

  “Zhang Hu, some things—once seen—should rot in your stomach. Some words—once spoken—require a price. Who do you think you are? A worthless menial who can’t even sense void qi, daring to question me?”

  “You—!” Zhang Hu’s breathing grew ragged.

  “Today, you’ll chop fifty bundles. Whether you like it or not. Fail to finish? Pack up and get off the mountain. Or…” Liu lowered his voice further, laced with menace. “…I report you for stealing from the storage hall. Evidence? That can always be arranged. And then, it won’t just be a matter of leaving the mountain.”

  Yun Che’s heart sank. Centipede Liu was infamous for his narrow-minded cruelty—Zhang Hu exposing him so openly would not end well. Yun Che held his breath and pressed himself against the wall.

  “Liu De! Don’t push this too far!” Zhang Hu shouted, his voice shaking.

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  “So what if I do?” Liu De sneered. “Be sensible and go chop wood. Half your pay is docked this month as punishment. If not…” He let out a cold chuckle. “This utility room is secluded. If you were to be ‘accidentally’ injured by collapsing lumber and fall unconscious… that wouldn’t be impossible.”

  Before the words had fully fallen, a dull thud sounded from inside, followed by Zhang Hu’s groan and the crash of a body slamming into wooden shelves.

  Yun Che didn’t hesitate. He rushed around the corner and kicked open the half-closed door.

  Dust filled the dim room. Zhang Hu was curled up in a corner beside a stack of burlap sacks, clutching his abdomen, face pale, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Liu De stood over him, gripping a wooden club torn from somewhere—iron nails jutting out—his face twisted and feral in the shadows.

  Hearing the door burst open, Liu De spun around. When he saw Yun Che, his eyes flashed with hostility.

  “You? The trash who jumped off a cliff? Get out! This has nothing to do with you!”

  Yun Che ignored him. After confirming Zhang Hu was still conscious, he stepped in front of him and faced Liu De.

  “Senior Brother Liu. Internal violence violates sect rules.”

  “Sect rules?” Liu De laughed as if hearing a joke. “Rules are for disciples, not for you menials who aren’t even registered! A piece of trash dares speak of rules? Perfect—I'll deal with both of you. I’ll say you tried to steal from the storage hall and resisted arrest. Accidental injuries, that’s all.”

  Murder gleamed in his eyes as he swung the club toward Yun Che’s head. If it landed, bloodshed would be the least of his worries.

  In that instant, Yun Che couldn’t dodge. His hair stood on end. Facing death, the power fused with the void’s light surged violently—flooding straight into his eyes.

  Time slowed.

  He saw it—the arc of the club, the minute twitch of Liu De’s arm muscles, and even the faint air spiral traced by the most protruding iron nail.

  No thought. Only instinct.

  Yun Che raised his right hand, fingers pressed together, gathering every shred of focus and power into a single point. He thrust toward a twisted, unnatural point along the club’s trajectory.

  His fingers never touched the weapon.

  But the instant they pierced that point in empty air, Liu De’s arm jerked violently—as if an invisible, perfectly precise force had disrupted his strike at the critical moment.

  The club veered off course and smashed into the ground beside Yun Che’s shoulder with a thunderous crack. Dust exploded outward as the iron nails bit deep into the earth. Liu De stumbled, his balance broken.

  Yun Che groaned. His shoulder burned with pain—the shockwave alone nearly shattered the bone. Worse still, his mental energy was almost completely drained. Darkness swam before his eyes.

  “You—what kind of demonic trick was that?!” Liu De shouted, staring at Yun Che in disbelief, then at his own numb arm.

  That moment of hesitation was all it took.

  From the corner, Zhang Hu’s eyes ignited with savage resolve. Somehow, he had grabbed a short-handled woodcutter’s axe.

  No shout. No hesitation.

  Like a starving wolf, he lunged forward and brought the axe down on the back of Liu De’s head with all his strength.

  Thud.

  The sound was sickeningly dull.

  Shock froze on Liu De’s face. His eyes widened as his body pitched forward, blood and viscera pouring from the wound and spreading across the floor. He twitched twice—then lay still.

  Yun Che stood frozen, pupils constricting as the iron stench flooded his nose. His stomach churned violently. He had killed animals before. He had bled before. But never had he watched a living person die so brutally, right before his eyes.

  Zhang Hu panted heavily, axe dripping with blood. Fear, ruthlessness, and numbness warred across his face. He turned to Yun Che.

  “Yun Che… you saw it. He was going to kill us. If I didn’t act, we’d both be dead.”

  Yun Che opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

  Zhang Hu wasted no time. He searched Liu De’s body, pulling out a finely made storage pouch and a thin, unmarked leather booklet. After a quick glance, his eyes flickered.

  Then he pried loose a hidden brick and retrieved a flat object wrapped in oilcloth. Inside was a dark yellow hide scroll, cold to the touch, marked with twisted routes and faded symbols in dark red.

  After a brief hesitation, he shoved the scroll into Yun Che’s hands.

  “Today, you saved my life. I won’t forget it. This bastard’s hidden stash isn’t simple. Take the scroll—you might need it. I’ll take the pouch and run.”

  “I—” Yun Che whispered.

  “I can’t stay in the Xuanshuang Sect anymore,” Zhang Hu cut in grimly. “The body is mine; the blame is mine. You’re clean. Take care of yourself.”

  With that, he vanished through a side window, disappearing into the night.

  The utility room fell silent once more—except for the thick smell of blood and the cooling corpse on the floor.

  Yun Che stood alone, gripping the mysterious hide scroll as moonlight reflected off the dark red pool at his feet.

  For the first time, the Immortal Path revealed its fangs—raw, brutal, and soaked in blood.

  The first death. The first karma. The first step with no turning back.

  Do you think Zhang Hu made the right choice?

  If you were Yun Che—would you have intervened?