A lone beggar, hood drawn low, fell in step behind him. Yúhuī paused on a cracked stone and let a single quote echo in his mind:
Strength guards secrets, and secrets foment power.
He moved again, not knowing an eye in the shadows now watched him, and Gěng Yúhuī was unaware of the watchful eyes.
That was exactly how he liked it.
Night pressed heavy over the lower quarter, where unregistered cultivators eked out a living after being driven from clan districts, tolerated only because corrupt elders used them as muscle. Gěng Yúhuī slipped through twisting alleys until he reached the ruined granary. A pair of battered lanterns marked its hidden entrance. He descended a rickety ladder into a cavern of whispering lamps and damp straw.
Three tiers of wooden pits ringed the floor. Each held dueling insects: scarlet-spotted beetles ramming horned centipedes, barbed centipedes lashing at glow-backed tarantulas. Copper and silver coins clattered as gamblers shouted odds. Turf wars here weren't just about money-they determined protection fees, bribes to crooked guards, and which gang's thugs would enforce "order." Without real cultivator strength, no one lasted more than a season.
Yúhuī slipped two jade essence stones into his sash and approached the black-silk stall. Vials of venom stood beside bundles of dried roots and fermented mushrooms. The seller-fox-eyed and scarred-lifted his chin at Yúhuī's badge.
That's an elder seal, the man thought. Either he's someone's reckless child… or he's killed whoever owned it. I don't sense qi on him. We just fought off a rival gang yesterday-if he tries to set up shop, he won't last a week.
"Fees are high after dusk," the seller said, voice flat. "Why buy live insect brood in bulk? I normally refuse-selling future champions to a would-be rival is poor form."
Yúhuī nodded. "I'm refining gu-worm elixirs. Live hosts yield purer venom." He caught the seller's gaze. "And besides, I know that a fisherman sells fish, not the ponds he owns, but if the ponds sell like fish, no one complains."
The seller's lips quirked. "Heh. Fair point."
Up near the pits, two lean figures in tattered robes muttered:
"Unofficial cultivators. Lower than commoners."
"But the clans need disposable muscle. Elders turn blind eyes."
"Still, let's not do anything hasty. Best to keep distance."
Yúhuī leaned forward. "Twenty vials of your strongest plus 5 pots of live brood fed on those mushrooms." He indicated the jars and roots.
The seller hesitated, then relented. "You'd break my usual limits… But gu-refinement, you say? All right. But know this: if you stir trouble, my men will deal with you."
"I understand," Yúhuī replied softly. He watched as the seller filled vials from a thick black reserve, then carefully loaded three insect pots-each humming with larvae-into Yúhuī's satchel.
As he turned to leave, the seller offered a final word: "Don't mistake my courtesy for weakness." Below the clan, we survive by wits-don't burn yours."
Yúhuī dipped his head. "Thank you for the advice."
---
He climbed back into the night. A beggar-face half-hidden under a tattered hood sidled alongside him, matching his pace. Yúhuī slowed, their eyes meeting.
Let them follow for now-information ferments power, he thought-and let the beggar trail him into the mist.
A sudden flicker of movement drew his gaze: a familiar silhouette beneath the archway-a cousin from the clan's outskirts, no doubt sent to watch. Yúhuī's lips curved. So this belongs to him, huh?
He pressed deeper into the alley, every sense alert. Tomorrow, the first batch of venom will be tested. In two nights, the rat repellent would turn the streets to his advantage. And soon, he would decide whether to claim the main artifact before or after his training.
Rain spattered his scarf as he vanished into shadow, the den's lantern glow fading behind him-and with it, the safe rhythms of the lower quarter.
It was nearest the forest, which meant danger to farm or cultivate any kind of edible or any desirable plants. It had a cave; it looked gorgeous but was almost worthless due to not being able to change the field. He pulled out some herbs and rubbed them all over his body, particularly the exposed parts.
Moonlight filtered through the narrow entrance of the cave, painting its walls in muted silver. Gěng Yúhuī knelt by his five sealed pots, each lined with fermented mushroom mash and writhing with dozens of insects. He pressed a gloved finger to the lid of the first pot. In two months, the vermin would turn on one another, leaving a lone survivor whose poison ran potent and pure-his own miniature gu-worm crucible. He tapped each pot in turn: five experiments, five chances to refine the deadliest elixir he could brew.
Behind him, his father watched in proud silence. The old man's eyes reflected the flickering torchlight as Yúhuī rose to his feet. The breeze stirred the edge of his padded robe, but he barely felt it. He needed strength-not just in body, but in mind.
He drew a length of rope from his satchel. Nearby, a stout tree trunk bore the marks of previous drills. Setting two stout stakes in the ground, he tied the rope taut between them, no more than knee-high-his first obstacle.
"Walk it," he murmured to himself. Arms outstretched, he stepped onto the rope. His boots wobbled. He fell twice, the coarse stone beneath bruising his palms. Each time he rose, he tasted frustration, but he did not relent. By the fifth try, he moved in silent, deliberate steps.
No commoner practices this, let alone an unregistered cultivator. Only those circus show people were going to people one hell of a circus in the trails, he laughed. He reached the end and leapt down, chest heaving.
Next, he planted qi-absorbent herbs in neat, circular beds around the cave's mouth-golden petals that his father had taught him to cultivate for skin-hardening salves. As he pressed each root into the earth, as his father helped him
He retrieved a stout branch and a bundle of thin cords. Stripping off some bark, he carved the branch into a primitive bow stave. His father stood back, shadowed by the torchlight, his face unreadable but his eyes bright.
"Faster," Yúhuī whispered, tying a simple half-hitch knot around the branch. He flipped it, tightened another, and then fashioned a crude bowstring. He nocked an arrow made from splintered wood and pulled back-his arms trembled. He let the string fly, the arrow thudding into the cave wall with a dull crack.
His training seemed simple: tying a knot from one tree to another and then removing it as soon as possible. Even though it was dumb, his father realized his son's intentions because he had a pattern of tying a rope as soon as possible, walking, falling, running to untie it, making a bow, or climbing a tree. This was going to be done on repeat for days of boring, tedious work. The only way he changed things was by passing silently, running, etc. Of course, this wasn't going to be the first iteration; he was going to make some equipment and bring some, and then things were going to change drastically yet the core principle will remain the same.
"in the place full of generalist become a specialist, in the place full of specialist become a generalist" what he was doing now was simple trying to jog his memories with training he would incorporate new things as he starts to digest all the new information in his mind.
"I can't match common fighters in strength," he thought, lowering his bow. But I can outwit them.
He sprinted toward a sandstone boulder, slipping into a silent-step drill. Barely making a sound, he circled the rock, each footfall measured against the soft rustle of his father's robe.
Night deepened. Yúhuī wrapped his father's medicinal bandages around his knuckles and began the punching-the-rock-face skin-hardening technique. His hands split and bled, but a thin callus already formed where the wounds touched.
At last, he paused, sweat and grime streaking his face. He crouched beside his pots, listening to the insects stirring within.
"Pa! Will those people in "Outpost" help us if our farm attracts a beast?" He asked quietly, glancing at his father.
The old man shook his head. "They're there to note anomalies, never to intervene. A dream job for hunters or low-rank Gu Masters. Even if boars charge the cave, they watch through telescopes-they won't help."
Yúhuī exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders. If only my body were whole… He pressed a hand to his dantian and imagined the artifact's glow-its promise of power and peril. His father's gaze softened, but he said nothing-a silent benediction.
Yúhuī rose and tucked the bow and arrows away. He surveyed the herb beds, the rope, and the pots. Above, stars peeked through the cave mouth-witnesses to his resolve. He drew a slow, steady breath.
This is only the beginning, he thought, voice hollow with determination. Five pots, poison cultivation. And soon, I will decide when to claim my destiny.
In the stillness, father and son shared a wordless understanding. Then Yúhuī turned to home with his father carrying the pots of insects.