Beneath the dappled shadows of the trees, the air seemed to freeze solid.
Mo Fan clutched the [ Shadow Leopard Cloak ] tightly around himself—that garment still faintly smelling of herbs and blood—his entire body pressed flat against the pitch-black shadow of a tree trunk like a camouflaged gecko. Even his breathing had slowed to an absolute minimum.
Under his mental command, Summon No. 001 and No. 003 had already entered complete [ Silent Standby ] mode in the bushes a few meters away. The soul-fires in their eye sockets had been extinguished; unless someone parted the undergrowth for a close look, they were nothing more than two piles of long-weathered bones.
Less than ten meters from him, two inner sect disciples in blue-green robes leaned against a large boulder, resting their feet. They had no idea that right under their noses, a pair of watching eyes lay hidden.
"This budget invisibility cloak... works surprisingly well."
Mo Fan silently gave himself a mental thumbs-up. Though it lacked any formation enchantments, the Shadow Leopard's natural optical camouflage properties were practically divine in this dimly lit scrap forest.
The two inner disciples clearly didn't think much of this godforsaken place. After taking a few swigs of water, their conversation turned to their current mission.
"Senior Brother, is that [ Nether Mystic Grass ] the Elder wants really on the back mountain?"
The younger disciple complained, "We've been circling this outer area for three days now and haven't seen a trace of it."
"You think it's some common roadside weed?"
His senior brother snorted irritably. "They say the stuff is formless and intangible, only growing in places with extremely dense Yin energy that never see sunlight. The Elder has promised a generous reward for that batch of mid-grade Soul-Nurturing Pills he's refining."
"I know... if we really find it, we'd earn enough merit to pick a cultivation technique from the second floor of the Scripture Pavilion."
The junior's face was full of longing, but then he sighed. "Too bad. Within a hundred li of here, besides that cursed mass grave, where else has dense Yin energy? They can't really expect us to go down Abandoned Sword Cliff to look, can they?"
"Don't even think about it. Is that a place for humans? Let's keep searching. Maybe there are some dark corners deep in this scrap area."
After venting their frustrations, the two saw that their strength had mostly recovered. Without lingering further, they leaped up into the treetops and vanished into the dense forest with a few bounds.
Only after confirming that both had completely gone did Mo Fan slowly peel himself away from the tree trunk and pull back the fierce leopard-head hood.
"Nether Mystic Grass... extremely dense Yin energy... Soul-Nurturing Pills..."
Mo Fan chewed over these keywords, his gaze involuntarily drifting toward that bottomless cliff in the distance.
"Only grows in places with extremely dense Yin energy?"
A strange smile curved at the corner of Mo Fan's mouth.
For the living, that was an unreachable forbidden zone. But for a Necromancer who treated the bottom of Abandoned Sword Cliff like his own backyard, the one thing that place had in abundance was Yin energy.
If he remembered correctly, during his earlier [ Death Vision ] sweeps, he had indeed spotted several plants emitting an eerie blue glow at the misty edges of the cliff bottom. He'd been too busy fleeing for his life to examine them closely at the time.
Now that he thought about it, those were very likely the treasures these two inner disciples had been dreaming of.
"In his past life, Lu Xiaoqi only wanted to survive in the outer sect, muddling through each day."
Mo Fan clenched his fist, feeling the flow of LV. 3 Mana within his body. "But I'm different. The outer sect is just a stepping stone. Only by entering the inner sect can I access real resources—and have the chance to obtain bargaining chips like [ Nether Mystic Grass ]."
"This rebirth... the heavens didn't send me here to idle away as a woodcutter."
A seed called ambition quietly sprouted in that moment.
However, before he could scheme his way into the inner sect, he first had to resolve the trouble at hand—namely, how to bring this "exile" drama to its grand finale.
Two days later.
The five-day deadline had arrived.
Morning sunlight once again pierced into this remote Scrap Pile Area.
When Steward Wang came charging in with several brawny lackeys in tow, the expression on his face was ferocious and expectant.
He already clutched a ledger specifically for docking pay, and a disciplinary whip hung at his waist. On the way here, he had rehearsed countless lines to humiliate Mo Fan, ready to savor the pitiful sight of this clueless cripple kneeling and begging for mercy.
"Lu Xiaoqi! Time's up! If the task isn't finished, don't blame me for showing no mercy—"
Steward Wang kicked open the ramshackle fence of the scrap area, his voice shrill and piercing.
But the next second, his voice cut off abruptly—like a duck with its neck wrung.
The mountain of haphazardly piled Black Iron Wood branches that had been there before had vanished.
In its place, on the open ground, stood row upon row of finished spirit-charcoal materials, stacked as neatly and magnificently as a city wall.
Every piece of timber had been split to standard dimensions. The cuts were smooth as mirrors, the lengths so uniform they might as well have been measured with a ruler. The overwhelming sense of order and industrial beauty made this once filthy scrap area seem almost... sacred.
"This... how is this possible?!"
Steward Wang's tiny eyes, squeezed by fat, went wide. Disbelief was written all over his face.
He rushed forward, randomly pulled out a piece of wood, and turned it over and over, searching desperately for any rough spots or cracks.
There were none.
Flawless perfection.
Even two skilled veteran loggers working around the clock for ten days might not produce work this beautiful! Wasn't this kid a cripple with a broken leg? Did he grow eight arms?
"Steward, sir."
Just then, a weak voice drifted over from a nearby haystack.
Mo Fan emerged, sporting two enormous dark circles under his eyes (smeared on with coal ash), his hair disheveled, leaning on a crutch and trembling with every step. His hands were wrapped in bandages, even showing traces of blood seeping through (chicken blood).
"I am honored... to have fulfilled the mission... Disciple... cough cough... disciple worked day and night for five days, and finally... finished."
This wretched appearance was enough to move any listener to tears.
But in Steward Wang's eyes, it was nothing but silent mockery of his authority.
"Finished?"
Steward Wang hurled the piece of wood in his hand to the ground, his face flushing with rage and shame. "Even if the quantity is enough, the quality of this timber... may not pass inspection! These cuts are too smooth—who knows if you used some shortcut that damaged the wood's integrity?"
This was blatant nitpicking.
When you want to condemn someone, you can always find a pretext.
Steward Wang raised the whip in his hand, ready to seize on any excuse to deliver a beating first.
"Now, now, Old Wang, that's not fair of you."
A hearty laugh—cheerful on the surface, false underneath—suddenly rang out from beyond the forest, interrupting Steward Wang's motion.
Steward Wang's face stiffened. He turned to look.
A pot-bellied man with a ruddy, glowing face was strolling over with his hands clasped behind his back, taking his time. Behind him followed several equally haughty servants—his entourage even grander than Steward Wang's.
Steward Liu.
He hadn't come early, hadn't come late—but arrived at precisely the critical moment when Mo Fan had demonstrated his tremendous value by "exceeding the task requirements" and was about to be suppressed by Steward Wang.
"Old Liu? What are you doing here? This is my jurisdiction!" Steward Wang's face darkened.
"Listen to yourself. We're all working for the sect—why draw lines between us?"
Steward Liu smiled warmly as he approached. Without even glancing at Steward Wang, he walked straight up to Mo Fan.
He extended his plump hand and gave Mo Fan's shoulder a heavy, affectionate pat—as warm as if he were greeting his own nephew.
"I told you this kid had potential! I knew I wasn't wrong about him!"
Steward Liu pointed at the neatly stacked timber and announced loudly, "Five days to finish ten days' work, and top quality at that! Old Wang, if it were any other disciple, they'd have collapsed long ago. If you punish him now, word will get out—and that'll chill the hearts of tens of thousands of outer sect disciples."
This speech was a masterful combination of offense and defense.
It not only established Mo Fan's achievement as fact but also roasted Steward Wang over an open flame. The subtext was clear: This man is under my protection. He actually delivered. His success is now my credit. You can't touch him.
"You..."
Steward Wang was so furious that the fat on his face quivered. He looked at the impeccable pile of timber, then at his smirking rival, and finally shot a vicious glare at Mo Fan, who was still playing the pitiful wretch.
"Hmph! Since Steward Liu says so, then he passes!"
He spat the words out as if he'd swallowed a fly, let out a cold snort, and stormed off with a flick of his sleeves—so flustered he even forgot to take his ledger.
Watching Steward Wang's retreating figure slink away, Steward Liu's smile grew even wider.
He turned to look at Mo Fan. For the first time, the dismissive condescension faded from his eyes, replaced by genuine appraisal—and calculation of potential usefulness.
This kid was a useful tool.
"Well done. You didn't embarrass me."
Steward Liu casually unhooked a heavy little coin pouch from his waist and tossed it to Mo Fan.
"This is your reward. More than what that surnamed Wang was going to dock from you."
Mo Fan fumbled to catch the pouch, nearly falling over from "weak legs," and showed timely, tearful gratitude.
"Thank you, Steward Liu, for your cultivation! Disciple... disciple will repay you with his very life!"
"Enough, stop acting. Go back and heal up." Steward Liu waved his hand, his tone meaningful. "Prepare well for the Grand Ceremony. Don't disappoint me. The waters of the outer sect run murky—only the clever ones survive long."
With that, he too departed with his entourage, like a lord who had just finished inspecting his domain.
The scrap area returned to its deathly stillness.
Mo Fan straightened his back. The humility and gratitude drained from his face like a receding tide. He hefted the heavy coin pouch in his hand, listening to the crisp clink of Spirit Stones within, his gaze terrifyingly clear.
"Cultivation? Heh."
He knew perfectly well that Steward Liu hadn't stepped in out of kindness. It was because Mo Fan had demonstrated value—had become a bargaining chip in the game between him and Steward Wang.
In this place that devoured people, there were no permanent patrons. Only permanent interests.
"Looks like this kind of harassment will only increase from now on."
Mo Fan tucked the coin pouch into his robe, his gaze turning toward the inner sect's direction.
"Only by rapidly increasing my strength can I escape this meaningless dog-eat-dog world of the outer sect."
"The inner sect... that's the first threshold on the path of cultivation. And it's a hurdle I must cross."