“Open the door!”

A flat, authoritative voice shattered the silence of the morning.

Standing on the threshold was a stranger, a deacon from the Outer Sect. His face was a mask of indifference, his eyes sweeping over Chen Ping’s humble quarters with cold, bureaucratic scrutiny.

“Registered Disciple Chen Ping?”

The tone was detached, the voice of a man reading from a ledger.

“This disciple is here,” Chen Ping replied, bowing low. A prickle of unease crawled up his spine.

“Orders from the Deacon Hall,” the man said, producing a jade slip. “Three days from now, at the Chen Hour (7am-9am), report to the mountain gate plaza. You have been conscripted for a harvesting mission in the Spirit Medicine Valley. Do not be late.”

“Spirit Medicine Valley?” Chen Ping’s brow furrowed slightly.

He knew the place. It was a restricted resource zone, a guarded secret realm reserved for Inner Disciples or elite veterans. It was dangerous, profitable, and far above the pay grade of a glorified gardener.

“Senior Brother, may I ask why? My duties are strictly confined to the Hundred Herb Garden.”

The deacon shot him a glance, a flicker of amusement breaking his stoic mask.

“Someone recommended you. They claimed you were diligent, meticulous, and reliable. The sect is short on hands, so we’re pulling from the bottom to fill the deficit. Do you have an objection?”

His gaze sharpened, pressing down on Chen Ping like a lead weight.

Recommended?

Chen Ping’s heart dropped. He was a nobody. The only people who knew his name were either dead or wanted something from him.

Fatty Wang? The man hated him, but he was too cowardly to pull a string this big.

No. There was only one other person.

The Manager of Servant Peak. Li Yingyong.

Chen Ping’s eyes narrowed, masking a sudden, violent spike of killing intent.

Did Li Yingyong suspect him? Or had the man finally confirmed that the “lucky servant” was sitting on a mountain of secrets?

This mission wasn’t an opportunity. It was a kill box. The Spirit Medicine Valley was the perfect place for a lowly disciple to have an unfortunate “accident.”

“This disciple dares not object,” Chen Ping said, his voice steady. He lowered his head to hide the glacial coldness in his eyes. “I will comply.”

The deacon dropped a wooden mission token at Chen Ping’s feet and turned to leave. He didn’t look back. To him, Chen Ping was already a corpse.

Chen Ping closed the door and leaned his back against the wood. The silence of the room felt heavy, suffocating.

“You want to kill me? You want my treasure?”

He whispered the words to the empty air. His hands clenched into fists, the knuckles turning white. The rage he had suppressed for months bubbled up, mixing with the lingering bloodlust from his last kill.

He wasn’t the prey anymore.

“Let’s see who dies first.”

A cold, ruthless resolve settled over him. If Li Yingyong wanted a war, he would get one. But Chen Ping wouldn’t walk into the trap blind. He needed weapons. He needed to be invincible.

The next day, under the cover of a biting snowstorm, Chen Ping entered the sect’s Black Market.

This wasn’t the small, shabby gathering he used to frequent. This was the deep end, a shadowy network for serious cultivators.

He walked straight into “Hundred Herb Hall,” bypassing the clerks and heading for the appraiser in the back room.

“Qi Gathering Pills. Buying?”

Chen Ping placed a plain jade box on the counter. Inside, fifty emerald-green pills sat in perfect rows, glowing softly.

The appraiser’s bored expression vanished. He picked one up, scraping a tiny amount of dust onto his tongue. His eyes widened.

“High purity. Potent. Market price is eleven Low-grade Spirit Stones. I’ll give you ten. We need our cut. Fifty pills, five hundred stones. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Chen Ping didn’t haggle. He swept the five hundred glowing stones into his Jade Pendant space and walked out.

He had the money. Now he needed firepower.

He moved to the Talisman district.

“Tier 1 High-grade Explosive Fireball Talismans. Ten stones a piece,” a sharp-eyed vendor barked.

“Twenty Explosive Fireball Talismans. Ten Tier 1 High-grade Vajra Talismans. Bundle them.”

The vendor blinked, smelling a whale. “Three hundred and twenty stones.”

Chen Ping paid without flinching. The stack of paper charms felt light in his hand, but they represented a massive spike in lethality. A High-grade talisman could cripple a careless opponent instantly.

Next stop: “Thousand Forge Pavilion.”

He slammed his old Tier 1 Low-grade Black Iron Sword onto the counter.

“Trade-in. I need a Tier 1 Mid-grade flying sword. Prioritize speed and sharpness.”

The clerk eyed the old sword with disdain, then looked at the heavy bag of Spirit Stones on Chen Ping’s hip.

“Trade-in is five stones. The ‘Green Edge Sword’ is eighty. Mid-grade, Green Pattern Steel. Fast as lightning. You owe me seventy-five.”

“Seventy.”

The clerk hesitated, saw the cold look in Chen Ping’s eyes, and nodded. “Sold.”

Chen Ping took the new blade. It was heavier, the steel shimmering with a cold cyan light. He pushed a wisp of Qi into it, and the metal hummed—a hungry, eager sound.

Finally, he drifted toward the miscellaneous stalls, his eyes scanning for knowledge.

He stopped at a pile of dusty jade slips and picked one up. The edges were worn white.

“Puppetry Primer.”

He scanned the contents. It was basic, outlining the construction of simple constructs using wood and bone.

“Yellow-rank Low-grade,” the old stall keeper croaked. “Trash magic. Makes scarecrows to frighten Mortals. Thirty stones. No bargaining.”

“Twenty.”

The old man grunted but didn’t argue.

Chen Ping paid and stored the slip. Talismans and swords were for survival. Puppetry… that was for the future. Why risk his own life when he could send a machine to do the dying?

His pockets were empty again, but he felt prepared.

He merged into the crowd, the Green Ghost Mask shifting his features into the face of a stranger. No one followed him. No one knew who he was.

And in three days, Li Yingyong wouldn’t know what hit him.