The sun bled into the western horizon, casting a sickly yellow twilight over the Marketplace. The wind howled, whipping the snow into a blinding frenzy.

Chen Ping slipped into a blind spot.

With a thought, the bronze Alchemy Furnace and the bundles of herbs vanished, swallowed instantly by the dimension within the Jade Pendant.

He tucked the Green Wood Shield and his flying sword close to his chest. The stack of Talismans went into the storage space as well.

This was the true power of the Jade Pendant.

Since breaking through to the 1st Level of Qi Condensation, he no longer needed to physically enter the space to move items. He was a mobile arsenal.

He adjusted the Green Ghost Mask, ensuring it sat straight. Through the eye slits, his gaze was flat and calm. He merged into the thinning crowd and headed for the exit.

The moment he left the safety of the market lights and stepped onto the mountain path leading back to the Qingyun Sect, his demeanor didn’t change. He kept his head down, trudging through the snow like a tired laborer.

But his Divine Sense unfurled like an invisible net.

At the 2nd Level of Qi Condensation, his perception range had expanded to thirty meters.

Behind him, the wind carried the crunch of footsteps. They hit his senses like stones dropped in a still pond.

Three people.

Two were heavy and chaotic. One was light and stealthy.

The blizzard obscured their cultivation levels, but the intent was unmistakable. It was a sticky, greasy malice that clung to his back.

Fortune was not smiling on him today. He was being hunted.

Chen Ping’s heart sank, but his pulse remained steady. No panic. Just calculation.

His Divine Sense brushed over them, sketching their outlines in the gray static of his mind.

Burly. Mismatched beast hides. Coarse cloth. Their faces bore the distinct, ugly greed of career criminals.

These weren’t disciples. They were vultures—bandits who camped near the Marketplace to pick off lone, weak cultivators.

One at the 3rd Level of Qi Condensation. Two at the 2nd Level.

Chen Ping analyzed them instantly.

Their Qi was garbage—impure, unstable, and wildly fluctuating. Compared to his own refined energy, they were dregs.

Where did they find such confidence?

He didn’t speed up. He didn’t look back.

He maintained the sluggish, weary pace of a 1st Level weakling, acting oblivious to the predators closing in.

But his feet drifted.

Subtly, he veered off the main road to the sect. He led his tail into a side path—a narrow, snow-choked trail that wound deep into the forest.

The trees closed in, their branches interlocking like skeletal fingers. The wind moaned through the canopy.

Behind him, the footsteps grew louder. The pretense of stealth was dropped.

“Hey! You in the mask! Stop!”

A rough voice barked through the wind.

Chen Ping froze. He turned around slowly, his movements stiff with feigned terror.

Three men emerged from the whiteout, fanning out into a triangle to cut off his escape.

The leader had a jagged scar across his face and the unstable aura of a 3rd Level cultivator. His eyes were wolves’ eyes.

Flanking him were a weasel-faced man with shifty eyes and a brute with a face full of twitching muscle. Both 2nd Level.

Scarface frowned, scanning Chen Ping’s waist.

No storage pouch. Where was the loot?

“Kid, be smart,” Scarface growled, stepping closer. “Hand over the goods and your pouch. Don’t make us bleed it out of you.”

“Don’t try anything stupid,” the Weasel sneered, toying with his daggers. “We’ve been watching you since the market.”

Chen Ping’s shoulders hunched. He trembled visibly, his voice cracking as it filtered through the demon mask.

“B-big brothers… please, have mercy! This… this little one’s stuff is just errands… for the Young Master… If I lose it, I… I can’t explain it!”

He stumbled back half a step, hands raised in a pathetic gesture of surrender.

“Young Master?” The Weasel spat on the snow. “Cut the crap! What ‘Young Master’ sends a 1st Level piece of trash on errands? And wearing a ghost mask? Boss, he’s bluffing!”

Scarface’s eyes narrowed, but his stance relaxed slightly.

He scanned Chen Ping again. Definitely 1st Level. Definitely terrified. The suspicion evaporated. Just a loose cultivator with a cheap mask and delusions of grandeur. Killing him here would leave no trace.

“Enough talk!”

Scarface stomped his foot. A layer of yellow light—a basic Earth Shield spell—shimmered into existence around him.

“Last chance. Hand it over and crawl away. Or die.”

He grinned, pulling a heavy ghost-head saber from his belt. The steel glinted cold and sharp.

The Weasel drew two poison-dipped daggers. The Muscle gripped a heavy iron ruler. They closed the net.

Chen Ping shook violently now. He sounded on the verge of tears.

“Don’t! Don’t kill me! I’ll give it! I’ll give it all!”

He reached over his shoulder, fumbling with his pack, his fingers clumsy with panic.

Scarface laughed. The last shred of caution vanished.

He strode forward, shielded by his earth light, reaching out with a massive hand to snatch the pack and slap the kid around for fun.

“That’s it. Hurry up! Stop wasting my ti—”

Blink.

Chen Ping vanished.

One second he was there, trembling in the snow. The next, the space was empty.

“Huh?”

Scarface froze, his hand grasping at thin air. He blinked stupidly. “Where’d he go?”

He took a confused step forward.

Blink.

Chen Ping reappeared.

He was right in front of Scarface. Chest to chest. Face to face.

“Surprise.”

The trembling was gone. A cold, mocking sneer curled beneath the mask.

No Qi leaked. No warning given. He had simply… existed.

Scarface’s brain short-circuited. The distance was zero. The logic was impossible. He forgot to swing his sword.

Chen Ping’s hand came up.

Five Talismans ignited.

BOOM!

HISSS!

ROAR!

Light blinded them.

Three fireballs the size of human heads erupted at point-blank range, screaming toward Scarface’s chest.

Two Wind Blades, condensed into solid cyan razors, shrieked in their wake.

It was an execution.

Scarface’s grin didn’t even have time to fade before the horror took over.

CRACK!

The three fireballs hammered into the Earth Shield. The explosion shook the snow from the trees. The yellow light flickered wildly, spiderwebbing with cracks as the heat chewed through it.

The blast wave threw Scarface backward, his shield shattering into sparks.

THWIP! THWIP!

The moment the shield broke—when the old strength was gone and the new breath hadn’t been drawn—the Wind Blades arrived.

Like the scythes of a god, they slipped through the gaps in the explosion.

“AAAAHHH!!!”

A scream tore through the forest, high and wet.

Blood sprayed in a mist.

Scarface’s left arm spun away, severed cleanly at the shoulder.

A deep, horrific gash opened across his chest, exposing white ribs and pulsing organs.

He hit a tree trunk with a sickening crunch and slid down, leaving a smear of red on the bark. He twitched once in the snow and went still.

One breath.

From the moment Chen Ping reappeared to the moment the leader was butchered—one single breath.

“Boss!”

“Big Brother!”

The Weasel and the Muscle stood frozen. Their cruel smiles were still plastered on their faces, grotesque masks of a joy that no longer existed.

They looked at the ruin of their leader.

Then, slowly, terrified, they turned their heads.

The figure in the Green Ghost Mask stood tall and straight. The fear was gone. The clumsiness was gone.

Beneath the mask, eyes as cold and deep as a frozen lake locked onto them.

There was no mercy in those eyes. Only the calm, dead stare of a predator looking at food.