The next morning brought rain cold, gray sheets that turned the battlefield into a sucking mire. Squad 7 worked in miserable silence, dragging sodden corpses toward the burning pits. Smoke rose in greasy columns, mixing with the stench of wet rot.
Lin Hao moved among them like a ghost.
His body felt alien now. Strength 148. Agility 117. Every step was effortless; the mud barely clung to his boots. He had to consciously drag his feet, slump his shoulders, fake the occasional cough to match the others' wheezing.
But eyes were starting to linger.
Old Man Guo—squad's unofficial gossip, missing three fingers from a curse backlash years ago—watched him first.
During the morning haul, Guo sidled up while they both lifted a bloated spearman.
"You're quiet today, kid," Guo rasped, voice low. "And... stronger. Yesterday you could barely lift a leg. Now you're tossing 'em like firewood."
Lin Hao kept his expression blank, eyes down.
"Must be the fresh air, Uncle Guo. Or maybe I'm just getting used to it."
Guo snorted, but his gaze didn't leave. "Fresh air? In this hellhole? Last newbie who 'got used to it' lasted three weeks before the miasma ate his lungs."
Lin Hao said nothing, just heaved the body onto the cart with exaggerated effort. Inside, his mind turned.
They're noticing. Of course they are.
He'd been too efficient. Too steady. In a squad where everyone was half-dead from exhaustion and poison, perfect health stood out like a bonfire at midnight.
By midday, the whispers had spread.
Little Fatty—round-faced, always complaining—nudged another harvester while they rested under a tarp.
"See how the new kid's skin looks? Not gray anymore. And he's not coughing blood like the rest of us."
The other man glanced over. "Maybe he found some spirit herb in the mud. Or... he's hiding something."
Little Fatty's eyes narrowed. "Hiding? Like what? Divine remnant qi? If he absorbed any without permission, the legion would skin him alive. That's contraband."
Lin Hao pretended not to hear. He sat apart, "eating" his ration of hard bread and thin soup, chewing slowly. His Vitality made hunger a minor annoyance now; he could go days without real food if needed.
Captain Wei arrived then, limping through the rain with a squad ledger.
"Listen up," he barked. "Command wants Sector 5 fully cleared by dusk. That immortal corpse from yesterday? The glow faded overnight—someone must've stripped the best remnants already. But there's word of another skirmish tonight. Bigger. Void beasts involved. More bodies incoming."
Murmurs rippled. Void beasts meant higher casualties. Higher casualties meant richer pickings—if you survived the cleanup.
Wei's gaze swept the squad, landing on Lin Hao longer than the others.
"You. New blood. You've been quiet. Too quiet. And you volunteered for Sector 5 yesterday. Come here."
Lin Hao stood slowly, keeping his posture weak. He approached, head bowed.
"Sir?"
Wei studied him. Rain dripped from the brim of his helmet.
"You look... different. Healthier. Explain."
Lin Hao swallowed—acted nervous, which wasn't entirely fake under scrutiny.
"I... I don't know, Captain. Maybe the work's building me up. Or maybe the minor resistance pill the quartermaster gave out last week finally kicked in."
Wei frowned. "Resistance pill? Those are for veterans. You got one?"
"Scraps from a broken batch," Lin Hao lied smoothly. "Shared it with the squad water. Thought it might help everyone."
A few squadmates perked up at that—hopeful, greedy. Guo nodded slowly.
"Could be. Kid did look worse than us at first."
Wei grunted, unconvinced but distracted by the ledger.
"Fine. But if I hear rumors of remnant theft or unauthorized absorption, I'll report you myself. Legion doesn't tolerate hoarders."
"Yes, sir."
Wei waved him off.
As Lin Hao returned to work, he felt the stares like needles. Suspicion was a seed now—small, but growing.
Need to be more careful. Mix in some weakness. Fake a stumble. Cough more.
But opportunity knocked anyway.
Late afternoon, while clearing the edge of Sector 5 again, he spotted it: a half-buried cultivator corpse, low-mid tier, probably caught in the immortal's dying blast yesterday. Armor cracked, but a faint purple glow lingered around the dantian—sign of a preserved core.
No one else nearby. Rain masked sounds.
Lin Hao glanced around once, then knelt as if checking for valuables. Hand slipped under the mud, touched the cold abdomen.
[Harvested low-mid cultivator remnant (Core Formation Early)]
[+65 Strength]
[+52 Agility]
[+78 Vitality]
[+45 Soul Power]
[+480 Lifespan]
[Bonus: Core remnant detected – +5% cultivation speed for 72 hours (passive absorption started)]
[Miasma Resistance Lv.2 → Lv.3 (30% reduction)]
The rush was subtler this time—his body already adapting—but still intoxicating. Lifespan ticked over 1,400 years.
[Lifespan: 1,442 years, 7 days]
He quickly covered the body with mud and a few loose limbs, making it look untouched. Then dragged a nearby mortal corpse over it for camouflage.
When he stood, Little Fatty was watching from twenty paces away, eyes narrowed.
Lin Hao met his gaze for a split second—then immediately looked away, faking a stumble in the mud and falling to one knee with a groan.
"Damn... legs cramping again."
Little Fatty hesitated, then turned back to his work. But the seed of doubt had sprouted further.
As dusk fell and the first distant roars of void beasts echoed, Lin Hao rejoined the squad. He let himself shiver in the cold, wrapped his arms around himself like the others.
But inside, he was calm.
Suspicion was dangerous.
But so was stagnation.
Tonight's battle would bring fresh corpses—dozens, maybe hundreds.
He'd wait until the fighting peaked, slip away in the chaos, and harvest under cover of night.
Let them whisper.
Let them watch.
The numbers kept climbing.
And in this endless war, numbers were everything.