Dawn was still an hour away when Mo Chen slipped down the back stairs of the Moonlit Lotus. The kitchen was dark except for the dull red glow of banked coals under the stove. A scullery boy slept slumped against a sack of rice, snoring softly. Mo Chen stepped over him without a sound.

  Outside, the stable yard smelled of wet straw, horse piss, and the faint iron of old blood from the slaughter pens next door. The drizzle had left shallow puddles that reflected the fading moonlight. He moved through them carefully, boots silent on the packed earth.

  The gray robe Mei-Lan had given him was plain, loose, unremarkable, perfect. The three swords were wrapped in oilcloth and tied across his back like a traveler’s bundle. The throwing knives sat snug against his left forearm. Seventeen silver taels and change weighed down the small pouch at his belt.

  He followed the back lanes eastward, keeping the high walls of the inner districts to his left. The city was waking in stages: bakers firing ovens, night soil collectors finishing their rounds, stray dogs slinking home before the first patrols appeared. No one looked twice at another ragged figure moving in the gray light.

  Mo Chen’s destination was simple: the old municipal slaughter yards on the northeastern edge of the outer district. They’d been mostly abandoned five years ago when the city built newer facilities closer to the river, but a few butchers still used the site for overflow or for animals too sick to sell in the main market. The pens were crumbling, the drainage ditches clogged, the air permanently thick with old death.

  It was exactly the kind of place people went when they didn’t want to be found.

  And exactly the kind of place a few low-grade cultivators might go when they wanted to practice without eyes on them.

  He’d heard the rumors before, when he still had ears everywhere. Outer disciples from smaller sects sometimes used the yards for midnight sparring, breaking in new techniques on pigs or stray dogs, or just burning off frustration. The city guard didn’t bother patrolling there anymore, it was too far out and it was too much stinky. Also, too many places to hide a body if things went wrong.

  Mo Chen reached the perimeter fence just as the sky began to lighten to the color of wet slate. The wooden posts had rotted at the base; a few were missing entirely. He slipped through a gap and crouched behind a stack of cracked water troughs.

  The yard stretched out before him: rows of empty pens, rusted slaughter hooks dangling from crossbeams, a long open-sided shed where the butchering used to happen. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around broken barrels and scattered bones.

  He waited and listened.

  Nothing at first.

  Then, some movement.

  Two figures emerged from the far side of the shed. Dressed in the same dark-blue robes as the three he’d killed last night. Clear Stream Sect's outer disciples again. One carried a practice sword of unadorned wood; the other had a short spear with a blunt metal tip. They moved with the careless confidence of people who thought the world still belonged to them.

  Mo Chen stayed even.

  The two disciples stopped in the center of the open space.

  “Again,” the one with the sword said with a sharp and impatient voice, “You’re still dropping your guard on the left side. Senior Brother will skin you if you do that in the assessment.”

  The spear-wielder snorted. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got a sword. This thing is too long, feels like I’m swinging a broom.”

  “Then stop swinging like a farmer. Start again.”

  They began.

  The sword user moved first, basic Clear Stream forms, clean but not exceptional. Straight thrust, rising cut, retreating step with a parry. The spear user countered clumsily at first, then found rhythm: block, thrust, sidestep, sweep. Wood clacked against metal. Grunts. Footsteps scuffing wet dirt.

  Mo Chen watched.

  Not the fight itself.

  The way they moved.

  The way their qi was used around them, thin, unsteady, barely enough to make the air shimmer faintly when they pushed hard. Tempered Body Realm's fourth or fifth stage at best. The spear user was weaker; his stance kept collapsing when he tried to generate force.

  Good enough.

  He waited until they were breathing hard, sweat starting to bead on their foreheads despite the morning chill.

  Then he stood up slowly.

  The sword user noticed him first. His form faltered mid-cut.

  “Who the hell—” He turned, wooden blade coming up. “This area’s restricted. Get lost, beggar.”

  Mo Chen stepped out from behind the troughs. Hands loose at his sides. No weapons drawn.

  “I’m not here to beg,” he said quietly.

  The spear user laughed, “Then what? You looking to get skewered for fun?”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Mo Chen tilted his head. “I’m looking for a quiet place to cultivate. Seems you two had the same idea.”

  The sword user’s eyes narrowed. “Cultivate? You? You’ve got no qi. I can’t even feel a ripple off you.”

  Mo Chen smiled coldly, “That’s about to change.”

  He moved.

  Not fast but smooth and controlled. The eighth stage of Tempered Body gave him speed that looked almost lazy until it wasn’t.

  The spear user reacted first, instinct more than skill. He lunged, blunt tip aimed at Mo Chen’s chest.

  Mo Chen sidestepped left. The spear grazed past his ribs. He caught the shaft just behind the head with his left hand, twisted, and yanked.

  *Swish!*

  The disciple stumbled forward.

  Mo Chen drove his right elbow into the boy’s temple, hard and precise. Bone crunched instantly. The disciple dropped like a sack of grain.

  The sword user was already charging.

  Wooden blade came down in a vicious overhead chop.

  Mo Chen ducked under it, stepped inside the reach, and drove his palm up into the disciple’s solar plexus. The impact lifted the boy off his feet. Air exploded out of him in a choked wheeze. Mo Chen followed with a knee to the groin and hit him brutally, the brutality was unnecessary, but satisfying, then he hooked the back of the boy’s neck and slammed his face into the dirt.

  *Thud!*

  Once.

  *Thud!*

  Twice.

  The wooden sword clattered away.

  Silence returned, broken only by the wet rasp of the spear user trying to breathe through a shattered cheekbone.

  Mo Chen straightened his posture, pulling his robe together.

  He looked down at them.

  Then he knelt beside the unconscious sword user first.

  Pressed both palms to the center of the chest.

  The core slid free, small, silver, intact. It hovered for a heartbeat before melting into Mo Chen’s skin.

  Heat flooded through Mo Chen's body, cleaner, stronger than before.

  *Ding!*

  *Absorption complete.*

  *Current cultivation: Tempered Body Realm, 9th stage (Weak).*

  *Physical enhancements updated:*

  - Strength ×2.8

  - Speed ×2.6

  - Endurance ×3.1

  - Pain tolerance +55% (temporary)

  *Basic qi circulation stabilized. Minor impurities purged.*

  He exhaled slowly.

  Then moved to the spear user.

  Mo Chen then swiftly extracted his core too.

  This core was weaker, flickering, slightly cracked, but still useful.

  *Ding!*

  *Absorption complete.*

  *Current cultivation: Tempered Body Realm, 9th stage (peak).*

  *Breakthrough to Qi Awakening Realm imminent.*

  *Recommend finding a secluded location with sufficient ambient qi density for safe advancement.*

  Mo Chen stood.

  His body felt… fuller. Denser. The thin spider-silk thread of qi in his meridians had thickened into a steady current, slow, but undeniable. When he flexed his fingers, faint silver mist curled between them for just a second before dissipating.

  He looked at the two bodies.

  Still breathing.

  He considered finishing them off.

  Then decided against it.

  Let them wake up broken. Let them crawl back to their sect and whisper about the ghost in the slaughter yard who took their cultivation without a weapon. Let fear spread like rot.

  Fear was useful.

  He gathered their belongings: two identity tokens, a small pouch with twenty-three silver taels and some low-grade spirit stones, useless to him right now, but sellable later, a waterskin, a few ration bars wrapped in waxed paper.

  He left the practice weapons. No point in carrying dead weight.

  As he turned to leave, a new sound reached him, soft footsteps on wet earth.

  He froze.

  From the shadows of the long shed, another figure stepped out.

  Taller, older, late twenties maybe. Same dark-blue robe, but the crane embroidery was threaded with silver.

  *Inner disciple!* Mo Chen thought nervously.

  "Qi Awakening Realm—first stage at least" Mo Chen murmured.

  The qi around him was thicker, steadier, quite visible, like smoke instead of mist.

  The man stopped ten paces away.

  Looked at the two unconscious bodies.

  Then at Mo Chen.

  “You,” he said quietly. “You’re the one they’re whispering about. The pavilion ghost who suddenly grew teeth.”

  Mo Chen didn’t answer right away.

  He studied the newcomer instead.

  Sword at the hip, real steel, not practice wood. Posture relaxed but ready. Eyes calm and dangerous intent.

  Mo Chen smiled slow and friendly.

  “I’m just a man who got tired of being stepped on,” he said.

  The inner disciple tilted his head.

  “Three outer disciples in one night. Now two more before breakfast. You’re either very lucky… or something else entirely.”

  Mo Chen shrugged. “Call it ambition.”

  The man’s hand drifted toward his sword hilt.

  “I could end this here,” he said. “Take your head back to the sect. Collect a nice bounty. Or…”

  “Or?” Mo Chen prompted.

  “Or you give all the riches you have remaining and maybe we both walk away richer.”

  Mo Chen laughed.

  “You want in?”

  “I want to know if the rumors are true.” The disciple’s eyes gleamed. “People are saying that you still have a lot left.”

  Mo Chen acted like he considered it.

  For three heartbeats.

  Then he shook his head.

  “I don’t share my shit.”

  *Swish!*

  He moved.

  In reality, Mo Chen had nothing left, it was all just rumors but if needed he could bluff his way out.

  The inner disciple reacted, sword clearing sheath in a silver blur.

  But Mo Chen was already inside his guard.

  Palm strike to the chest—qi-reinforced now, carrying the full weight of ninth-stage Tempered Body.

  The disciple staggered.

  Mo Chen followed with a knife from his sleeve—fast, underhand, aimed at the throat.

  The disciple twisted at the last second. The blade sliced across his collarbone instead of through his windpipe. Blood sprayed.

  He roared—more rage than pain—and swung.

  Mo Chen ducked. Rolled. Came up behind him.

  Drove the throwing knife into the back of the disciple’s knee.

  The man dropped.

  Mo Chen kicked the sword away, straddled his back, wrapped one arm around the throat, and squeezed.

  The disciple thrashed.

  Qi flared—wild, desperate.

  Mo Chen held on.

  Felt the pulse slow.

  Slow.

  Stop.

  He released.

  The body slumped.

  Mo Chen stood.

  Breathing steady.

  He knelt again.

  Pressed palms to chest.

  This core was different—bigger, brighter, pulsing with faint blue light instead of silver.

  *Ding!*

  *Core detected: Qi Awakening Realm, 1st stage.*

  *Quality: Superior (inner disciple).*

  *Devour? [Y/N]*

  Mo Chen’s smile returned—slow, satisfied, almost tender.

  “Y.”

  The heat this time was different.

  Deeper.

  Richer.

  It poured through him like molten metal.

  Meridians stretched. Qi surged. Something inside him cracked open—like a dam giving way.

  Pain.

  Ecstasy.

  Both at once.

  When it cleared, he was on his knees in the mud.

  A louder chime this time...

  *Ding!*

  *Breakthrough achieved.*

  *Current cultivation: Qi Awakening Realm, 1st stage.*

  *First qi sea formed.*

  *New abilities unlocked: Minor qi burst (short duration), basic external qi projection (faint).*

  *Warning: Unstable foundation detected. Recommend consolidation before further advancement.*

  Mo Chen rose.

  The world looked… different.

  Colors sharper. Sounds crisper. The mist in the yard seemed to shimmer with faint silver threads—ambient qi, thin but present.

  He flexed his hand.

  A faint silver glow wrapped his fingers.

  He laughed victoriously.

  Then he looked at the bodies.

  And started walking.

  There were still hours until full daylight.

  He didn’t bother hiding the corpses.

  Let them be found.

  Let the sect panic.

  Let the city learn a new name to fear.

  Mo Chen.

  The Pavilion Ghost.

  He disappeared into the morning mist.

  Smiling.