The King's Road was a river of commerce and power. Arin walked amid the stream carriages laden with goods, caravans guarded by uniformed soldiers, and individual cultivators moving with purposeful strides. He kept his shoulders slumped, his gaze downcast, his demeanor the picture of an exhausted, low-caste laborer seeking work in the next town.
The air thrummed with activity, but also with constant, ambient spiritual scrutiny. Every time a caravan passed, or a mounted Kingdom Guard rode by, Arin felt the faint, casual brush of their spiritual senses a quick check of the surrounding area for highwaymen or magical disturbance.
He relied on his flawless low-Qi disguise. His Marrow-Sealed core kept his energy internal and stable, preventing the messy, unstable fluctuations that marked true low-level cultivators. The guards and merchants, sensing only a thin, cold current consistent with an uncultivated man, quickly dismissed him.
But the scrutiny was exhausting. It was a constant, low-level stress test. He was succeeding, but every close pass every time a spiritual sense lingered for a fraction of a second too long hammered home the sheer, overwhelming peril of his chosen path
This can't last, Arin thought, adjusting the strap of his small leather bag. His Blood-Engraved stage gave him bursts of reactive speed, and his Bone-Forged stage gave him resilience, but he was passive. He lacked the fundamental tools of a true cultivator.
He measured his stolen Basic Circulation Technique against the skills he saw in casual use around him—a merchant leaping a ten-foot ditch without breaking stride, a guard using a minor, focused Qi sense to check the contents of a suspicious barrel.
His current manual was merely foundational, designed only to strengthen his core's capacity to endure Seliora's power. It offered no mobility, no specialized offensive or defensive maneuvers, and no means of actively projecting or controlling his stable Qi. If he encountered a cultivator who pressed a sustained attack or used a targeted spiritual sense, his simple disguise would be instantly peeled away. He needed a technique a high-grade skill that could provide a tangible, practical advantage in evasion and detection
The nearest waypoint was the small, fortified trade town of Karthus's Crossing, a stopover popular with merchants making the long trek toward the coast.
Arin reached the town by nightfall. He found a secluded spot near the perimeter wall to camp, leaning against a large stone. The moment his heart rate slowed, he began his observation.
The tavern, the town's main social hub, spilt light and noise onto the street. Cultivators, identifiable by their cleaner robes and haughty demeanour, congregated there.
Arin's attention was caught by one man: a cultivator in his late twenties, dressed in gaudy green silks, who was loudly directing his porters to secure his wares in the inn's most expensive, magically warded storage. The man, whom Arin soon overheard was named Disciple Jorun, was an early Spirit-stage cultivator is powerful enough to be arrogant, but not discreet.
As Jorun oversaw the placement of a heavy iron box, he casually activated a technique: a field of pale green Qi flared briefly around the box, then solidified into an almost invisible Qi Web. That's it, Arin realised. Not a fight. A skill. The Qi Web a low-level sensing formation designed to alert the user to any physical contact was the perfect example of the practical knowledge he lacked.
Arin watched Jorun enter the inn, his face a mask of self-satisfied boredom. He was exactly the kind of mid-level cultivator who would possess a moderately valuable, yet common, manual a resource he would guard with spiritual energy, not with the deep formations of a sect.
I need a Spirit-Grade technique. Something focused on practical stealth or evasion, Arin resolved. The merchant's easy arrogance and publicly displayed skill made him the ideal target for the next necessary defiance a theft of a practical technique that would bridge the gap between his foundational base and the high-level world he now travelled through.
Arin settled back against the stone, melting into the shadows. He used his enhanced senses to map the inn's layout, the placement of Jorun's room, and the merchant's predictable consumption of expensive wine.
Arin coiled, ready to strike. The price of survival was not merely power; it was the ruthless acquisition of knowledge. The first test of the road would be a simple, clean, and silent robbery.