The cool morning air carried the sharp, medicinal scent of the local pines and the faint, pervasive mineral tang of spiritual Qi rising from the Market Mountain. Zhou Feng was alone in the small courtyard, his focus absolute. He moved with a deceptive fluidity, practicing the advanced evasion footwork his mother had drilled into him. It was a sequence of rapid shifts and low centers, a mortal dancer's effort to sidestep the power of a cultivator's brute force.
He wasn't attempting to block or parry; he was training to not be there when the attack landed. His muscles, though young and lacking the spiritual refinement of Qi, were lean and quick, responding with the ingrained obedience of years of disciplined training. Each pivot was a reminder that his true foundation lay not in his Spirit Roots, but in the pragmatism of survival.
He felt the familiar, low pressure of his Qi circulating, still in its gaseous, embryonic phase. It was a slow, glacial process that would take months to condense into the liquid mid-stage. Months he knew he might not have.
A heavy, sudden noise shattered the quiet. The courtyard gate was shoved inward, slamming against the stone wall with aggressive force.
"Look at the ninth son, still playing with his feet like a common street acrobat!"
The voice was a booming, arrogant sneer, instantly identifiable as Zhou Lie. He was the third son, older than Zhou Feng by five years, a broad-shouldered brute whose ambition was only outmatched by his lack of subtlety. Lie was already comfortably in the Stage Three Qi Tempering Realm, his Qi condensed into a restless, swirling liquid essence that made him confident and cruel.
Zhou Lie swaggered into the courtyard, flanked by two minor retainers who cultivated but held no family prestige. Lie wore robes of bright blue—a deliberate, costly display of his mother's favor, setting him apart from the more muted colors of the lower-ranked children.
Zhou Feng immediately halted his movement, his face settling into a neutral, unreadable mask he'd perfected for years. He hated Lie, not just for the bullying, but for the sheer arrogance of his wasted talent. Lie had superior resources and a more potent Spirit Root, yet he treated the cultivation path like a playground for his petty cruelties.
"Brother Lie," Zhou Feng acknowledged him with a restrained nod, ensuring his tone carried no subservience, only correct protocol.
Lie scoffed, gesturing to the retainer to block the doorway. "You still haven't moved out of this little post, seventh son? I thought your mortal mother had enough shame to take you back to her ruined village by now. You know, since your mother is… well, mortal."
The insult, delivered with malicious emphasis, was aimed squarely at Lady Mei, but its true target was Zhou Feng's remaining legitimacy within the clan.
"This post was assigned by the Patriarch," Zhou Feng replied calmly, his heart rate steady. He let the training guide his breathing, keeping his Qi circulation even. "If Brother Lie has business with the Market Mountain overseers, I will not detain him."
"Business?" Lie laughed, a short, unpleasant bark. "My business is seeing the filth cleared from the clan's sight. I heard you're preparing for the autumn competition. You actually believe that weak gas in your core will allow you to hold a single match against a true cultivator?"
Lie took a heavy step toward him, his liquid Qi essence leaking outward, pressing the air around Zhou Feng. The pressure was a palpable, spiritual weight meant to force compliance.
"Perhaps you need a small demonstration of your place, little acrobat." Lie raised his hand, gathering a small, visible spiral of Qi. It wasn't an attack—it was an aggressive gesture, aimed only to bruise and humiliate.
It was exactly what Lady Mei had prepared him for.
As the Qi surged toward him, Zhou Feng moved. He didn't raise his hands. He simply used the mortal evasion footwork, dropping his center of gravity and shifting rapidly to the side, allowing the worst of the peripheral pressure to whip past his shoulder.
At the very instant of the evasion, Zhou Feng allowed his spiritual sense to touch the Strange Fog.
The Fog responded instantly. It didn't empower him. Instead, it subtly mimicked the feeling of exhaustion and confusion. This projected sensation wrapped around Zhou Feng, making him feel, to an outside observer, like he was barely holding his balance, his Qi circulation erratic and unstable.
But Lie, the attacker, felt something else. As his Qi passed the spot where Zhou Feng had been, a bizarre, momentary sensation of profound dullness entered his own consciousness. It wasn't pain, but a sudden, fleeting feeling of spiritual dissonance, as if his liquid Qi had hit a patch of stagnant, impure water.
Lie froze, his hand hovering mid-air. He frowned, shaking his head slightly, trying to clear the unexpected sensation.
"What was that?" Lie muttered, his arrogance faltering for a single, crucial moment. He looked at Zhou Feng, who was standing still now, outwardly pale, breathing hard as if he had barely survived the interaction. Lie couldn't tell if the strange feeling was his own Qi instability or something the weak seventh son had done.
"I am but in the gas stage, Brother Lie," Zhou Feng said, his voice clipped and strained, selling the illusion of exhaustion. "Your power is overwhelming. I was lucky to evade your attack."
Lie's frown deepened. He hated that he couldn't simply dismiss the strange moment. He was a cultivator; Zhou Feng was barely one. He shouldn't have felt anything at all. The seed of doubt, however small, had been planted.
Before Lie could gather himself for a second, more serious attack, the air grew instantly cold, carrying the sharp scent of musk and old silk.
"Third Son, I believe you have forgotten your manners."
Lady Mei appeared at the entrance to the courtyard, her face devoid of anger, but radiating a silent, terrible dignity that commanded attention. She did not raise her voice. She did not have to. She was mortal, but she was the wife of the Divine Executioner, and the unspoken threat of her husband's bloody reputation still hung heavily in the air.
Zhou Lie's face went instantly from irritation to a mottled, angry red. He despised Lady Mei, but confronting her directly was a political mistake he couldn't afford, not while his father's status was ambiguous.
"Lady Mei," Lie ground out the words, forcing a respectful bow. "I was merely testing the seventh brother's readiness for the competition. He lacks discipline."
"Discipline is taught, not beaten into a child," Lady Mei countered, stepping deliberately between them. Her presence was a silent barrier, absolute and unyielding. "I will inform the steward that you felt the need to personally check on my son's progress. Now, if you would leave us, Third Son, we have important instruction to complete."
Lie knew the implication: the steward, a long-time retainer of the Patriarch, would file a report, however minor, on his aggression. He would lose face, and potentially favor.
With a look of venomous hatred aimed over Lady Mei's shoulder at Zhou Feng, Lie snapped, "The competition will not be as forgiving, Seventh Brother. I look forward to seeing you break." He spun on his heel and strode out, his retainers scurrying to keep pace, the aggressive confidence draining out of his shoulders.
Silence returned to the courtyard.
Lady Mei turned to Zhou Feng, her expression softening. She touched his shoulder, her hand cool. "Well done, Feng'er. Your evasion improves. But you sold your exhaustion too well. Your heart rate was too controlled."
Zhou Feng managed a weak smile. He knew she only saw the evasion, not the hidden move of the Strange Fog. He had to keep that secret locked away, even from her.
"Mother, why does he risk angering the steward? It's only a small satisfaction."
Lady Mei sighed, leading him back to the stone bench. "It is not satisfaction, Feng'er. It is a weeding process. The concubines are positioning their sons. They are pushing boundaries, establishing dominance. If you show weakness now, they will pressure the clan to strip your resources before the competition even begins."
She looked down at the rough tunic he wore, then reached out and tapped the hidden bulge on his ribs where the beast hide was secured.
"Your Qi will not save you from Zhou Lie, not for months. We must accelerate your path. We must turn to your true inheritance."
Her eyes held a fierce light. "The Beast Hide. The Body Refining Technique."
Zhou Feng's breath hitched. He had spent years studying the pattern, tracing the complex, swirling matrix of lines that seemed to devour light. The technique was an enigma, requiring materials far beyond the clan's standard provision.
Lady Mei reached into her sleeve and produced a small, leather-bound scroll—a simple, elegant notebook.
"I may be mortal, but I come from a line that understood essence and blood." She opened the book, revealing meticulous, elegant script. "The technique is called the Mystic Bone Disguise Art. It is not merely a method to strengthen your flesh. It changes the core essence of your body, making you harder to categorize, harder to track, and yes, stronger."
She explained that the technique didn't rely on spiritual Qi alone, but on the meticulous refinement and consumption of demonic beast blood and spiritual meat. The essence of the beasts would be infused into the cultivator's bones and muscles, gradually altering their constitution and spiritual aura to something profoundly alien.
"The technique is difficult, dangerous, and requires a steady supply of high-grade demonic beast cores and freshly drawn blood. Materials that the Zhou Clan does not openly distribute to a seventh son," she stated plainly. "Your father's standard materials are only enough for basic Qi cultivation."
She traced a complex diagram in the notebook. "The first phase, the Bone Tempering Phase, requires you to consume the refined essence of at least three specific second-tier demonic beasts. Their blood must be consumed within a single lunar cycle to fuse properly."
Zhou Feng absorbed the information, his mind calculating. Second-tier demonic beasts were equivalent to a mid-to-late stage Qi Tempering cultivator. Their cores and flesh were expensive, traded only at the highest tiers of the Market Mountain.
This was why the technique was too hard for him before. He had no wealth, and the clan would never fund such a risky, resource-intensive path for him.
He looked at his mother. Her eyes confirmed his thoughts: they had to find a way to acquire these materials in secret.
"I have kept detailed notes on the specific herbs required for the initial refinement process," Lady Mei continued, her voice gaining an urgent edge. "I have some basic resources here, but you will need more. Specifically, you will need Silverleaf Ginseng and Stoneheart Fungus. They are available, but expensive, at the Market Mountain below."
The pieces were falling into place. The path was not through the clan's standard route, but through his own secretive efforts. He needed to acquire wealth, disguise his efforts, and evade the lethal scrutiny of his siblings.
Zhou Feng spent the rest of the day absorbing the details of the Body Refining Technique and the required materials. The Mystic Bone Disguise Art was powerful, terrifyingly ambitious, and fundamentally secretive. It was the perfect complement to his Strange Fog, a technique that would physically mask the very nature of his being.
He understood now why his path had to deviate so sharply. The clan's standard Qi techniques would leave him vulnerable for too long. Only a radical, hidden transformation could ensure his survival.
That evening, as the shadows lengthened across the Market Mountain, Zhou Feng opened his small wooden chest. He took out the few minor spirit herbs his mother had accumulated over the years—small tokens gifted by his father before his departure, ignored by the more powerful siblings.
It was barely enough to purchase the required herbs.
He also retrieved the Face Mask—the smooth, unassuming cloth. He practiced the ritual his mother taught him, using his weak spiritual sense to impress a vague, non-threatening aura onto the mask. He needed to become someone else to enter the bustling market. He needed to be invisible.
The Market Mountain castle, a beacon of light in the distance, suddenly took on the appearance of a dangerous mine. It was the source of his potential salvation, and the likely place of his exposure.
He looked down at the dagger resting on the table—the simple, dark Shadow Dagger. He was no assassin, but he was prepared to be one if the greed of his siblings followed him into the public space.
Tomorrow, he would risk the market. He would begin the first true step on his new, bizarre Dao, ensuring that when the family finally broke, he would have the power to live life to its fullest.
The weight of the Essence Refining Patriarch's absent name still protected him, but he knew its shadow was fading. He had to exchange that shadow for true, tangible strength.