he sky over the Back Mountain was far darker than the sky above the Outer Sect.
Up here, the forest canopy was a dense, suffocating weave of ancient branches, slicing the fading sunlight into cold, shattered fragments. By the time the light reached the forest floor, it had lost all warmth. As Qianye stepped deeper into the untamed woods, the soil beneath his boots grew soft and spongy, saturated with a foul mixture of fresh blood and rotting leaves.
The meaning was clear— Something had died here recently. Perhaps a beast. Perhaps a man.
Qianye did not speed up his pace. On the contrary, he deliberately slowed down, making his footsteps rhythmic and light. The most common mistake made by new Labor Disciples was the desperate urge to "finish the task quickly." In a place like this, such a thought was a siren call for death.
Hiss—
A low, heavy sound of breathing drifted from a thicket to his front right.
It wasn't the frantic, ragged panting of a wild beast. It was the sound of a lung—deliberate, suppressed, and calculating.
Qianye froze. His body instinctively melded into the shadow of a gnarled oak, his presence vanishing as he became one with the tree. His rusted Tang blade remained in its scabbard, but his right hand had already settled onto the hilt, his knuckles whitening as he prepared to draw.
A moment later, three shadows emerged from the gloom.
They weren't beasts. They were men. Three Labor Disciples.
The leader was a tall, powerfully built youth with a jagged scar running across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were dark and predatory, and his aura hummed with the strength of the Eighth Stage of Body Tempering. Behind him stood two others—one stout and one lean—both slightly lower in cultivation but wearing the vicious grins of seasoned predators.
The scarred man looked down at the carcass of the Fang-Hound Qianye had killed earlier. A cold, mocking smirk curled his lip.
"You took this thing down alone?"
He looked up, staring directly at the tree where Qianye was hidden. "Come out. There's no use hiding."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried the absolute weight of a command.
Qianye didn't bother hiding further. He stepped slowly out of the shadows, his face a mask of stone-cold calm.
"During a mission, we do not interfere with one another." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
The scarred man laughed, a dry, rasping sound that echoed through the trees.
"The rules say that, yes. But you... you've wandered too deep, little Trash Root."
He took a step forward, the snap of a dry twig sounding like a gunshot.
"Back Mountain Maintenance is supposed to be a three-man job. By what right does a piece of trash like you get to monopolize an entire route and all the rewards?"
Qianye understood immediately. This wasn't a chance encounter. They had been stalking him since he left the square.
In the Outer Sect, this was the daily reality. The weak were stripped of their spoils, and those without a background were used as "scapegoats" or human shields.
"What do you want?" Qianye asked.
The scarred man pointed at the beast carcass and then at Qianye's waist where his token hung.
"The route. And every single task point you earn from this day forward."
The tone was as casual as if he were asking for the time. The stout disciple let out a greasy chuckle. "Be smart, kid. Give it up, and maybe we'll let you keep your life."
Qianye remained silent for a heartbeat. Then, he slowly shook his head.
"No."
The air instantly plummeted in temperature.
The scarred man's eyes turned murderous, his voice dropping an octave. "Are you sure about that?"
In the next instant, he exploded forward! The ground shattered under his feet as he lunged like a pouncing beast. His fist, wreathed in surging Qi, aimed straight for Qianye's chest. It was the most common, yet most lethal style of the Outer Sect—no feints, no probing, just a single killing blow.
Qianye didn't meet the force head-on.
He retreated half a step, dropping his center of gravity. As the fist whistled past his ribs, he twisted his torso with a fluidity he had mastered under the waterfall.
At the same time—the rusted blade sang.
There was no blinding flash of light or grand technique. Just a short, surgical horizontal cut.
Squelch!
The blade's edge bit into the scarred man's forearm, drawing a fine line of crimson.
The man let out a muffled grunt and scrambled back, his face flashing with a mixture of shock and fury. "You—!"
He hadn't expected a "trash" laborer to have such a lightning-fast draw.
The stout and lean disciples exchanged a look and charged simultaneously, flanking him. One swung a fist like a heavy mallet while the other drew a jagged short-blade. They were a pack, and they fought like one.
Qianye didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped forward into the gap between them.
This was the lesson of the waterfall: in a narrow, deadly space, retreat is a death sentence.
As he closed the distance with the stout disciple, he lowered his shoulder and slammed into the man's chest, neutralizing the power of the punch. Simultaneously, the pommel of his rusted blade hammered upward into the man's jaw.
Crack!
The sound of splintering bone was sickeningly clear. The stout man collapsed like a sack of stones, unconscious before he hit the dirt.
The lean disciple's eyes widened in terror. He lunged with his short-blade, but Qianye dropped low. His rusted blade swept out in a reverse arc—not aiming for the throat, but for the Achilles tendon.
"AGHHH!"
The lean disciple fell, clutching his leg and howling in agony as he rolled in the mud.
In less than three breaths, only the scarred leader remained standing.
His face had turned a sickly shade of grey. "You... you aren't just a laborer..."
Qianye stood his ground, his breathing as steady as the mountain. "Now. It's your turn to choose."
The scarred man grit his teeth, his bravado shattered. He took one look at his fallen comrades and realized he had severely miscalculated the strength of the "prey."
"This isn't over!" he spat, before turning and bolting into the thicket, disappearing into the woods without looking back.
Qianye didn't pursue him. In the Outer Sect, over-extending a chase only led to more traps. He looked down at the two moaning men on the ground. His gaze was cold and detached. He didn't deliver a finishing blow.
It wasn't out of mercy. It was because he knew that after today, the Outer Sect would no longer see him as an "easy target." But he also knew that the trouble headed his way would only become more dangerous.
As evening fell, Qianye returned to the Task Stone with the tokens of his completed assignment.
Chen Yue, the Deacon Disciple, was busy recording the day's tallies. When he saw Qianye return alone—his clothes torn and blood-spattered, yet standing as straight as a spear—his hand froze over the jade scroll.
"You... alone?" Chen Yue stammered.
Qianye nodded simply.
The Deacon was silent for several seconds. He took the tokens and muttered coldly, "Points recorded." He didn't say another word, but the surrounding Labor Disciples had already begun to look at Qianye differently.
Some avoided his eyes. Others watched him from the shadows of the square with hidden intensity. And a few... held a look of genuine fear.
Qianye collected his meager points and turned to leave.
By the time he reached his dilapidated wooden shack, the night had fully descended. He sat cross-legged on the floor, closing his eyes to replay every second of the day's fight in his mind.
He could feel it. He was no longer part of the "bottom tier" of the Outer Sect.
But that didn't mean he was safe. On the contrary, the true target on his back had just grown larger.
Outside the shack, the distant lanterns of the sect flickered in the wind. Whispers began to circulate among the shadows.
"That new laborer... he's not simple." "I heard some people didn't come back from the back mountain today." "His name is Qianye, right?"
Qianye opened his eyes. They were deep and fathomless.
He knew that from this day forward, the Outer Sect would remember that name. And he wouldn't try to hide it.
To survive in a place like this, he didn't need to be invisible. He needed to be deadly.