The news of Rowan Miles's return—and his savage beating of Anson Miles—spread quickly. However, within the vast Miles family, this news was confined to his small circle: the lowly servants.
The Stables Yard, a distinct enclosure within the Miles compound, sat tucked away in a corner. This modest space was where the family managed their mounts and exotic beasts, a bustling hub of activity despite its size.
After brutally thrashing Anson, Rowan felt some of the resentment that had built up over years begin to ebb, lifting his spirits slightly.
He strolled leisurely toward the Stables Yard, ignoring the pointing fingers and whispers of the servants he passed along the way. Such scrutiny was old news to him, and he brushed it off.
Whoosh!
The moment Rowan stepped through the Stables Yard gate, a sharp gust of wind laced with lethal intent rushed toward him. In the past, he wouldn't have sensed it, let alone defended against it.
But now, as a martial artist, his spiritual awareness was keen.
With a deft sidestep, Rowan swayed and retreated a pace.
Crack!
A sharp snap rang out as a black whip lashed the ground where he'd stood. The force exploded, sending nearby snow flying in all directions.
A cold glint flashed in Rowan's eyes as he recognized the weapon.
"Hm?"
Seeing Rowan dodge his strike, Harold Miles let out a surprised grunt. Then, a figure emerged before him.
This was a gaunt middle-aged man with narrow, sinister eyes that gleamed with malice. His nose was sunken, his face pockmarked, and a jagged scar ran diagonally from his right forehead to his left jawline—as if cleaved by a single brutal stroke—lending him a menacing air.
Harold, the overseer of the Stables Yard, held sway over the enclosure with a petty authority. Yet his cruel nature earned him no favor among the workers.
His only joy was tormenting Rowan.
A flicker of icy rage passed through Rowan's eyes. Since joining the Stables Yard, he'd endured constant abuse from Harold—starvation, sleepless nights, and even the meager copper coins of his monthly wage being docked by this tyrant.
"You mongrel, gone for three days! And now you dare dodge my whip? I'll flay you alive!" Harold's surprise turned to fury. With a flick of his wrist, the black whip coiled like a venomous snake, slashing toward Rowan with renewed vigor.
"Seeking death!"
A chilling killing intent surged in Rowan's gaze. This time, he didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped forward, his hand shooting out to seize the whip.
Harold's eyes narrowed with malice. Channeling his power, he whipped the lash even faster, the air cracking under its force.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
The speeding whip, brimming with strength, tore through the air with explosive pops.
In Rowan's eyes, the killing intent deepened. In the past, a strike like this from Harold would've shattered his arm—or worse—leaving him crippled. Harold clearly intended to break him, knowing Rowan was "just a waste"—a death worth little more than a reprimand from above.
Thud!
To Harold's shock, the whip that should've crushed Rowan's arm was caught firmly in his grasp.
Harold yanked, trying to reclaim it, but the whip didn't budge.
This stunned him further. In just three days, Rowan had not only gained the courage to resist but also possessed such strength!
"Rowan, that waste, is back? Three days gone, and he dares fight back!" The Stables Yard was small, and Harold's earlier roar had drawn the few servants present.
"This waste must be begging for death, defying him! He'll be lucky to survive with his skin intact," one servant sneered with glee.
"Let's see the overseer beat him to a pulp," another said, edging closer with excitement.
"Hmph! A waste is still a waste. Today, I'll end you!" Harold's rage boiled over. His body trembled, and two faint lesser dragon phantoms materialized above his head.
Two dragons' force—Acquired second level!
Harold unleashed his martial power, grinning savagely as he prepared to strike Rowan down. But then, to his horror, he noticed two black lesser dragons hovering above Rowan's head—vivid, almost solid, far more potent than his own ethereal pair.
"What? Two dragons' force! That waste Rowan reached Acquired second level? Impossible!" The eight or so servants gasped, staring at Rowan's cold, resolute face in disbelief.
This sight sent a chill through Harold. Anyone could see that, despite both wielding two dragons' force, Rowan's was vastly superior.
"Dragon Elephant Prajna Merit!"
Rowan roared inwardly. At that moment, something terrifying unfolded for Harold. Beyond the two dragons above Rowan, a phantom of a dragon and an elephant emerged behind him.
With a shake of his hand, Rowan struck. Harold, as if hit by a sledgehammer, lurched forward involuntarily. Rowan's other hand, wreathed in the dragon-elephant phantom, smashed into Harold's chest.
Crack!
Under the overwhelming force—and Harold's stunned immobility—Rowan's fist caved in Harold's chest. A crisp bone-breaking sound rang out, followed by a gush of blood pouring from Harold's mouth like a spring.
Shock and agony twisted Harold's face into a grotesque mask. Yet his eyes burned with venomous hatred toward Rowan.
Fury ignited in Rowan. This bastard, half-dead from his beating, still glared with such malice! Rage flared, and with a cold snort, he stepped forward and stomped on Harold's face.
Harold let out a pig-like scream, the sound mingling with the crack of breaking bone—likely half his face shattered under Rowan's heel.
Rowan huffed coldly, turning away without a glance as he entered the Stables Yard.
Seeing Rowan, like a reaper incarnate, step inside, the servants recoiled in terror. They'd often bullied him in the past.
If Harold, an Acquired second-level martial artist, couldn't stand against Rowan, what hope did they—mere first-level wastes—have?
Their faces pale, they backed away, avoiding his gaze.
At that moment, Rowan paused.
The servants' hearts skipped, nearly stopping from fright, fearing he'd turn and beat them to a pulp.
"Drag that waste to the wood shed. Don't let him die," Rowan said icily, then headed toward the largest room in the yard.
That room had been Harold's. Now, it was clearly Rowan's, while Harold was relegated to the wood shed—Rowan's former quarters.
Relieved Rowan didn't target them, the servants sighed in secret, though their expressions remained grim.
"Sir."
Shortly after Rowan entered, a knock came from outside.
Rowan's brow furrowed, displeasure crossing his face. After beating Harold to that state, were these people still planning to challenge him?
With a dark expression, he opened the door. There stood all eight remaining servants of the Stables Yard—the original ten included Rowan and the crippled Anson.
"What do you want?" Rowan asked, his voice low and menacing.
The servants were already nervous, and his tone made them shift uneasily.
As Rowan grew impatient, ready to dismiss them, a servant named Quentin spoke up.
"Sir, you're magnanimous. We were blind fools, offending you in the past. Please forgive us. From now on, we'll serve you with all our hearts."
"Yes, we were shortsighted and wronged you. Spare us, sir," Quentin's words opened the floodgates, and the others chimed in.
Rowan smirked inwardly. These same servants had tormented him before, now groveling the moment he showed strength.
"The overseer's role isn't mine to decide. If there's nothing else, leave. Oh, and this room is mine now—any objections?"
"No objections at all! If you need anything, sir, we'll do our utmost," Quentin replied hastily, leading the others to retreat.
Rowan's inner laughter persisted as he shut the door, sitting cross-legged on the bed to reflect on recent events.
Even now, it all felt like a dream.
From waste to martial artist, crippling Anson and Harold, cowing the Stables Yard servants—all tied to the Star Codex.
"Wait, I cultivated for six days inside the Star Codex, but they say only three passed? I'll ask the Codex." Puzzled, Rowan focused his mind and entered the Star Codex's world.