Outside the great arena, disciples gathered in restless clusters, their robes fluttering like restless crows as rumors flew faster than the evening wind. The once-orderly trial had dissolved into chaos the moment the masked man appeared, and even now, the name ‘Buddha Mask Disciple’ rippled through the sect like wildfire.

  “Did you see how he caught that sword barehanded?” one disciple whispered, eyes wide with awe.

  “Nonsense. It was a parry—an advanced deflection technique!” another argued.

  “I swear I saw dark lightning flash around him! He must be cultivating some demonic art!”

  “Demonic? More like divine. Maybe he’s the secret disciple of an elder from another sect.”

  “No, no, my senior brother swears he’s a rogue genius from the Western Province, banished for his power!”

  The speculations grew wilder with each retelling. To the outer sect disciples, especially to the oppressed, he was a hero; to the inner sect elites, he was a mystery, a potential competition. Some whispered that even the visiting Patriarch Shigo Tianyu had taken interest in him, while others claimed the masked man was nothing but a character conjured by the sect to save face.

  No one knew the truth—that the hero they worshiped was, at that very moment, a servant making his way through the crowd, his tray tucked under one arm.

  Meanwhile, Zhao Feng stood at the edge of his courtyard, his jaw tight, his face pale with fury. The humiliation in his heart burned hotter than the midday sun.

  “Buddha Mask Disciple…” he hissed through his teeth, the name like poison on his tongue.

  His fists clenched so hard that his nails drew blood. All around him, his followers lingered at a cautious distance, too afraid to speak.

  “That masked rat dared interrupt a sect trial and even accuse me,” Zhao Feng said softly, his voice trembling with rage. “And the elders, those cowards, let him walk away. Do they think I’ll let this pass?”

  He turned, his eyes flashing with the cold gleam of killing intent. “We have to find him,” he ordered. “I don’t care how long it takes. Whoever hides behind that mask, whether servant or disciple, I’ll unmask him with my own hands… and grind him into dust!”

  A low wind stirred the courtyard, scattering fallen petals across the tiles. His shadow stretched long and sharp on the ground.

  In another part of the sect, Li Wei finally reached the servants’ quarters. He pushed open the door, stepped inside, and let out a sound that was half groan, half sigh.

  Then he simply collapsed face-first onto the thin bedding.

  The scent of clean linen and faint incense filled the small room. For a long moment, he didn’t move. His limbs ached, his spirit energy was frayed (not from exhaustion but tension) and his heart still pounded faintly from the duel.

  Finally, muffled into the pillow, he muttered, “I’m getting too good at nearly being caught…”

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  A weak laugh escaped him, and then he fell still again, his thoughts drifting.

  Every time he wore the mask, he risked everything. The punishment for impersonating a sect disciple, let alone disrupting a trial, was exile at best, execution at worst.

  And yet, when he saw injustice, when he saw his best friend suffering, something inside him simply refused to stay silent.

  He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling beams.

  “Double lives are for fools,” he murmured. “And I’m apparently the biggest fool alive.”

  The words were tired, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  Then, as his mind drifted, another image surfaced—calm eyes, cool as moonlight, watching him with knowing gentleness.

  Su Qingyue.

  He exhaled softly, covering his face with an arm.

  “She definitely knows,” he muttered. “I’m doomed.”

  He replayed the moment in his head. The calm look she’d given him before offering him the Moonlight Dew Nectar-excuse to leave, the understanding in her tone, the faint blush that had colored her cheeks when he’d returned and, like an idiot, winked at her.

  “Ugh… why did I have to wink?” he groaned aloud, dragging the pillow over his face. “That was stupid. So stupid. I just gave it away!”

  He kicked weakly at the blanket, half in embarrassment, half in resignation. “Smooth, Li Wei. Truly smooth. The Buddha Mask of All Things Dumb.”

  But even as he scolded himself, the memory of her brief blush, her quick glance away, slipped back into his mind, and his chest warmed despite himself.

  It was a dangerous warmth.

  He turned on his side, staring at the faint moonlight spilling through the window lattice. “She’s from the Heavenly Sword Pavilion,” he murmured. “She’s leagues above me. If she knows… and tells anyone…”

  The thought trailed off, leaving behind a hollow ache.

  But instead of fear, what lingered most was something gentler. Gratitude. She could have exposed him then and there. But she hadn’t.

  He closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered softly, to the air, to the memory of her voice.

  When night came and the sect quieted, Li Wei sat up, brushing his hair from his face. The exhaustion remained, but beneath it pulsed a steady rhythm; his qi, faint and turbulent, seeking order.

  He grabbed a spirit stone and crossed his legs on the mat. He drew a slow breath, and placed his palms together before his chest.

  The world fell away.

  Only breath remained.

  He began the ancient breathing technique, the rhythm slow, circular, like the movement of clouds around a mountain peak.

  Inhale—feel the breath flow through every limb.

  Exhale—let go of everything heavy.

  Each cycle of breath drew threads of qi from the spirit stone into his dantian, purifying and refining it. His body trembled faintly as the pressure mounted, the boundaries of his current cultivation pushing, creaking, then…

  CRACK!

  A surge of heat shot through his veins. His meridians burned with light.

  His breathing steadied as the wave passed, and then… silence.

  Within him, a faint barrier finally dissolved.

  Flesh-Tempering Realm, Fourth Stage!

  His dantian pulsed brighter, clearer, and the lotus within it was almost entirely aglow. Eleven petals were as bright as leaf-shaped suns. Only one remained dim, yet to alight.

  Li Wei exhaled slowly, a thin smile spreading across his face. His hands shook faintly, not from weakness, but from the sheer relief of advancement.

  He opened his eyes. The dim glow of moonlight seemed sharper now, the night air richer. Every sound, the rustle of trees outside, the faint drip of water from the eaves, was vivid and alive.

  He sat for a long while, letting the energy settle, the joy sinking deep into calm focus.

  Then, just as he was about to close his eyes again, a knock came at the door.

  KNOCK! KNOCK!

  The sound was soft but distinct, echoing through his quiet quarter.

  Li Wei froze.

  Another knock followed, this time slower.

  He glanced toward the door. At this hour, no one visited the servants’ quarters unless something serious had happened. His first thought was that Zhao Feng’s lackeys had come to give him a hard time.

  He rose quietly, stepping across the room, his feet barely making a sound against the floorboards.

  “Who is it?” he asked, his voice calm. He quickly blew away the dust in his hand. It was the remnant of the spirit stone he had just refined. He couldn’t have dusty hands. Only cultivators had dusty hands. He was supposed to be crippled. He spat in his hand to get rid of the dust and approached the door.