The lesson had ended, but Shi Yao's steps lingered with the weight of something unfinished—something unseen.
He hadn't sought it.
He hadn't refused it.
The technique had come to him on the edge of death, passed from the trembling hands of a dying man whose name he never learned. Ancient. Forbidden. A technique so deeply sealed in history that its very existence warranted death.
Now it lived within him. Coiled. Waiting.
I cannot reveal this to anyone… not under any circumstance.
The thought sank through him like lead—not out of guilt, but consequence. Exposure wouldn't only mark him. It would stain anyone near him.
If they find out, it won't end with me. The sect has buried whole bloodlines for less.
His fists clenched inside his sleeves. The tremor wasn't fear—it was urgency.
I need strength. Fast. Quietly. Before anyone starts asking questions.
The path down the Sixth Peak twisted through crooked pines and wind-swept stone. Few climbed here anymore. The peak had been sealed for a century—buried in silence and blood.
That silence followed him. But as the slope leveled, the air shifted. Voices stirred.
"...thirty contribution points, and that was just for outer ring patrol."
"Heh, easy points. You just need to avoid the beasts and not fall asleep."
Shi Yao slowed. Just ahead, a trio of grey-robed disciples stood near a rest post. Their words were low but not hidden.
Contribution points…?
A new thread tightened in his thoughts.
As he reached the courtyard at the base of the path, more movement stirred. A few disciples turned, speaking just low enough to pretend they weren't.
"Isn't that the one who joined the Sixth Peak?"
"Tch… that place is still active?"
Another leaned in, voice tight.
"I heard one of their disciples went mad a hundred years ago. Slaughtered half the sect before they brought him down."
A brittle laugh. "They say the mountain still reeks of blood if you walk too deep."
Shi Yao didn't react. His pace remained steady. His face, unreadable.
But the words clung to the air.
If even a rumor could silence a peak for a hundred years… then what would they do to someone who inherited its legacy?
The wind curled behind him, dry and cold. No one dared speak to him directly. But the whispers had already drawn their lines.
As Shi Yao continued through the sect's lower grounds, eyes quietly scanning unfamiliar surroundings, his curiosity deepened with each step.
Compared to the stillness of the Sixth Peak, this place breathed with quiet activity—disciples moving with purpose, murmurs drifting like unfinished thoughts.
Then he saw it.
A large, square structure at the courtyard's edge—its dark-tiled roof sloped low, the walls plain, the stone steps polished smooth by countless feet. Above the entrance hung a plaque with three weather-worn characters: Resource Hall.
Simple. Direct.
Disciples walked in empty-handed and left with scrolls, pouches, or sealed cases. No coins changed hands. Only paper.
So this… is where strength changes hands.
He stepped forward.
The creak of the wooden threshold greeted him with quiet resistance.
The moment he entered, the atmosphere shifted.
The hall was vast, dimly lit by hanging lanterns whose flames barely stirred behind their glass covers. Their gold light washed over carved pillars and polished black stone, reflecting just enough to mirror the movement of the room.
Rows of disciples filled the space—silent lines leading to long counters behind which clerks in ochre robes recorded each transaction with thin brushstrokes and abacuses that clicked softly like falling rain.
The pillars, massive and aged, bore etchings of faded scripture—worn symbols too old to read, yet still faintly pulsing under lanternlight. The air was tinged with ink, dust, dried herbs… and something older. Like burnt blood buried beneath polished formality.
This isn't a place for disciples, Shi Yao thought. It's a mechanism—quiet, faceless.
His gaze was drawn to movement on the hall's eastern side.
A group of disciples stood in loose clusters around a large, lacquered board fixed to the wall. They moved with focused intent—eyes scanning, hands reaching, trading worn slips of paper clipped beneath jade fasteners.
Shi Yao approached.
The board was scarred, discolored from constant use. Papers in black, red, and deep blue ink filled its surface—some creased, others freshly posted.
He plucked a red slip near the middle.
[Mission ID #4172]
— Task: Patrol the western boundary forest during evening hours.
— Requirements: Qi Refinement Level 4 or higher; spirit beast familiarity preferred.
— Reward: 30 contribution points; +5 for confirmed beast deterrence.
— Deadline: Seven days
— Status: Available
Below it, others read:
#4103 — "Herb gathering on Mistwind Trail. Reward: 15 points."
#3987 — "Deliver sealed item to inner court elder. Reward: 12 points. Silence required."
No one took more than one. No one lingered after choosing.
Shi Yao stepped back slightly, scanning the system with a sharpened gaze.
Points earned through labor… risk… maybe favor. No coin. No haggling. Just merit measured in obedience and utility.
And the quiet understanding settled in:
If I want to grow without suspicion… this is the path I'll have to walk.
Contribution points formed the quiet spine of the sect's inner workings.
To the untrained eye, they were a mere alternative to coin—a currency bound in slips and missions. But to those who understood the system, they were something far more refined.
They could not be bought. Only earned.
Through service, submission, risk. Every task recorded. Every transaction precise.
With points, a disciple could purchase pills, manuals, tools—or access.
Access to sealed training grounds, guarded techniques… or the ear of someone far beyond their station.
But points were also weight. They marked a disciple.
Earn too few, and one disappeared. Earn too many, too fast—and someone would take notice.
And in the world of cultivation… being noticed was often more dangerous than being ignored.
The board never changed.
Its surface was silent. Its paper, temporary.
But behind it pulsed a living system—one that sorted the desperate from the capable, the reckless from the cunning.
And every slip of parchment offered more than just reward.
It offered a wager.
Shi Yao's gaze caught on a fresh slip of parchment pinned near the edge of the mission board—its corners still curling slightly, as if the ink hadn't fully dried.
[Mission ID #4291]
— Task: Escort injured outer disciple from Mistwind Trail to sect infirmary.
— Incident: Subject wounded during a beast encounter. Immediate assistance required.
— Reward: 50 Contribution Points
— Status: Urgent
His eyes narrowed.
Fifty points for an escort?
Missions like that didn't pay high unless something was hidden in the fine print—or left out entirely.
He plucked the slip off the board and turned toward a small booth nestled beneath a stone arch at the side of the hall. A flickering formation shimmered faintly across its wide opening, guarding the ledge where all mission registration passed through.
Behind the window sat a man in sharp red robes, his black hair slicked back, his brush held delicately between stained fingers. He didn't look up.
"Mission slip."
Shi Yao slid the parchment across. The formation pulsed as it passed through.
The clerk finally glanced up, eyes briefly scanning Shi Yao before returning to the paper.
"Mistwind Trail… urgent-class escort."
His voice was dry, efficient.
"Risk's not printed, but it's there. You sure you want this?"
Shi Yao said nothing. Just waited.
The man gave a half-shrug, then reached beneath the counter and slid forward a folded map, tied with a strand of red thread.
"Head west. Cross Broken Ridge. Past the Listening Pines. Mistwind Trail starts there."
He paused, tapping the map lightly.
"Don't wander north of the trail. That territory isn't cleared. And don't die—it's a pain to log."
He stamped the slip with a sharp click.
"Next."
Shi Yao stepped out of the Resource Hall, the folded map tucked under his arm.
The courtyard was quieter now, lit by the faint glow of cloud-filtered sun. He stopped beneath a crooked pine, unsealed the red thread, and opened the map with a faint rustle.
The parchment crackled in his hands—yellowed, creased, and cluttered with lines, symbols, and handwritten notes that looked like they hadn't been updated in years.
"So this is what a map looks like…" he muttered, half amused. "No markers, no zoom, no glowing blue dot. Just guesswork and prayer."
He studied the hand-drawn routes, eyes narrowing.
Broken Ridge. Listening Pines. Mistwind Trail.
His finger traced a jagged line westward, committing it to memory.
A slow breath left his chest.
Then, with no sound but the shift of fabric and wind, Shi Yao bent his knees—and leapt.
His figure blurred against the sky as he vaulted over a tiled rooftop, then another. Like a shadow drawn across the sect's ancient walls, he passed over disciples, dorms, and courtyards—one step at a time, toward the unknown.
The rooftops gave way to open terrain as the sect's outer walls faded behind him. Rocky paths wound between sparse trees and sun-dried grass, leading toward the distant rise of the western ridge.
Shi Yao landed lightly on a boulder and pulled out the map again, eyes scanning the lines. He tilted it… then frowned.
"Wait."
He slowly turned it. Then again.
"...Don't tell me I've been holding this upside down the whole time."
The wind didn't answer.
A bird chirped somewhere in the trees. Mockingly.
He sighed. "In my world, the map follows you. Here, you chase it and still get lost."
With a resigned breath, he traced his finger along the corrected path and took off again—this time, hopefully toward Mistwind Trail.
> A faint green aura shimmered around Shi Yao's frame as he moved — not blazing or showy, but tight and controlled, wrapping his limbs like a second skin. Each step across the terrain came with smooth bursts of power, his movement fluid as he bounded from ridge to branch and across shallow crests of rock.
Twenty minutes passed like wind through trees.
Before him rose the edge of Mistwind Trail — not a clear path, but a forest thick with ironbark trees and creeping vines, their leaves broad and heavy like hanging paper fans. Mist clung to the roots and coiled low along the ground, rolling between the trunks as if guided by something unseen.
The air grew damp. Cooler. And quiet.
Shi Yao slowed his pace. He stepped lightly, boots landing without sound, his eyes adjusting to the low green light that filtered through the canopy above.
As he moved deeper, the trail twisted. The mist thickened.
Then, after a final bend past a gnarled cedar, the trees opened—and there it stood.
A courtyard.
Nestled right in the middle of the forest clearing, framed by stone walls half-covered in moss, its tiled roof cracked in places, yet still holding shape. Weeds sprouted along its corners, and old formation patterns traced the flagstones beneath.
Shi Yao exhaled, easing his posture.
"That was easier than I thought," he muttered.
His footsteps echoed lightly as he stepped toward the gate.
But something about it felt… too still.
Shi Yao stepped through the half-open gate, his boots brushing over cracked stone tiles half-swallowed by moss. The courtyard was still—unnaturally still. No wind. No rustling leaves. Just the faint scent of blood hidden beneath the damp mist.
His eyes scanned the shadows. Then he saw him.
A man slumped against the far wall, clad in dented silver armor stained with blood and mud. Deep cracks split across his chestplate, and one gauntlet hung loose, barely clinging to his arm.
His crimson hair clung to his sweat-slicked face, and his breathing was shallow, uneven.
Shi Yao stepped closer, voice low but steady.
"Are you okay?"
The man's eyelids twitched. He slowly opened them, revealing dull, tired eyes. For a moment, he just stared—then his voice rasped out.
"Did the sect send you?"
"Yes," Shi Yao said.
Relief washed over the man's face, but it was brief.
"Good… Help me up," he said, forcing himself to sit straighter. "We need to leave. Now."
Shi Yao moved forward, crouching beside him as his gaze drifted to the tree line beyond the courtyard.
The mist there was thicker than before.
And something… shifted behind it.