Chen Ping withdrew the Green Edge Sword, flicking the beads of warm blood from the steel.

He didn’t spare a glance at the three corpses cooling on the ground. Moving with practiced efficiency, he stripped Li Yingyong and the two lackeys of their personal storage bags, looting every Spirit Stone and scrap of material inside.

The sect-issued storage bags, however, he left untouched.

Task complete, Chen Ping didn’t linger. He oriented himself and shot forward like a gray shadow, speeding toward the gourd-shaped valley Li Yingyong had betrayed with his dying breath.

…

Meanwhile, to the west of the Spirit Medicine Valley.

At the bottom of a deep depression shaped like a gourd, hidden behind a curtain of vines and dense shrubs, lay the entrance to a small stone cave.

The interior was cramped, damp, and dimly lit.

Fatty Wang—Wang Fu—sat cross-legged on a dry rock, idly toying with a low-grade Spirit Stone.

An irrepressible, smug smile spread across his face, his small eyes narrowing to slits. His obese frame trembled with silent, gleeful chuckles.

“Heh… Li Yingyong should have finished it by now, right?”

He muttered to himself, his voice echoing in the cramped space, thick with malice and greed.

“Chen Ping… you little bastard. You thought just because you stumbled onto some ‘Immortal Fate,’ you could rise above your station? Become an Immortal? Pah!”

He spat on the ground.

“A little scheme was all it took. Borrowing Li Yingyong’s blade to chop you up! That’s what you get for defying me! For not knowing your place!”

In his mind, he could already see Li Yingyong returning with Chen Ping’s head—or better yet, with the “Immortal Fate” looted from the corpse. He would sit back, claim the lion’s share, and ascend.

The thought of avenging the humiliation he suffered on Servant Peak, combined with the promise of unearned power, made Fatty Wang shudder with pleasure. It was like drinking a bowl of iced sour plum soup in the dog days of summer—pure, refreshing satisfaction.

“Immortal Fate… tsk tsk. Once I use it, I’ll definitely become an Immortal. And when I do… I’ll have my turn to be the tyrant.”

The more he fantasized, the more the fat on his face bunched up in delight. He was so immersed in his dream of power that he failed to notice the shadow of death descending upon the cave.

Time crawled by.

The light outside the cave dimmed, signaling the arrival of dusk.

Fatty Wang grew anxious. He shifted restlessly, craning his neck to peer at the entrance.

“Why isn’t he back? Did that fool run into trouble? Impossible… he was just dealing with a whelp at the 1st Level of Qi Condensation.”

An inexplicable thread of unease wound itself around his heart.

Just as he debated going out to check, the vines hanging over the entrance were gently pushed aside.

A figure, silhouetted against the dying light, stooped and entered.

The backlight obscured his features, but the familiar gray robe made Fatty Wang’s heart lurch.

“Manager Li? Did you succeed?”

Fatty Wang stood up instinctively, his voice thick with expectation and a trace of tension.

The figure didn’t answer. He simply walked deeper into the cave.

As he stepped out of the glare, Fatty Wang finally saw his face.

Plain. Unremarkable.

And terrifying.

It was Chen Ping.

Fatty Wang’s smile froze instantly, as if he’d been doused in freezing water. A chill shot from his soles to his scalp. His layered fat began to tremble violently.

“Ch… Chen Ping?! You… how…”

Shock short-circuited his brain. His mind went blank.

If Chen Ping was here… where was Li Yingyong?

His gaze fell to Chen Ping’s right hand.

His pupils constricted to pinpoints.

In the dim light, he saw the Green Edge Sword. At its tip, a drop of thick, dark red blood gathered. It grew heavy, then detached, hitting the rock floor.

Plip.

The soft sound exploded in the dead silence of the cave like a thunderclap.

Thud!

Fatty Wang’s knees gave way. He slammed onto the cold, damp stone floor, his body too heavy to support itself.

Fear choked him. Dizziness spun the world. He shook like a leaf in a gale.

Smugness, greed, calculation—all vanished, replaced by absolute despair.

“Spare me! Immortal Chen! Grandfather Chen! Spare me!”

Fatty Wang wept and wailed, kowtowing frantically. His forehead struck the rough rock—thump, thump—drawing blood within seconds.

“It’s my fault! I’m worse than a pig! I shouldn’t have listened to that dog Li Yingyong! I shouldn’t have plotted against you! Please! Remember how I… on Servant Peak… I treated you… somewhat…”

He racked his brain for a memory of kindness but found only abuse. His voice caught in his throat, dissolving into wretched howls.

He crawled forward, his obese body squirming on the ground like a maggot, trying to clutch Chen Ping’s leg.

Chen Ping looked down at the sobbing pile of flesh.

There was no pity in his eyes. Only a glacial, unmoving coldness.

This beast. This clinging parasite. His greed and bile had repeatedly pushed Chen Ping toward the abyss.

The starvation on Servant Peak. The death trap in the mines. Li Yingyong’s ambush.

All of it started here.

“Spare you?”

Chen Ping’s voice was terrifyingly calm.

“Fatty Wang. From the moment you coveted what is mine… your life was no longer your own.”

Fatty Wang froze. Then, he collapsed completely, the stench of released bowels filling the small cave.

He knew. Begging was useless.

Fear mutated into a final, desperate madness. He jerked his head up, his face a twisted mask of snot, blood, and hate.

“Chen Ping! You little bastard! You’ll die screaming! If you kill me, the Sect won’t let you go! I’ll haunt you! I’ll—”

Chen Ping didn’t let him finish.

With a flip of his left hand, several hair-thin, dark blue needles appeared between his fingers—artifacts looted from Sun Qian.

He flicked his wrist.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The needles vanished, embedding themselves accurately into Fatty Wang’s major acupoints.

The cursing cut off abruptly.

Fatty Wang’s body stiffened, paralyzed instantly. Only his eyes could move, rolling in terrified despair.

The needles were coated in a paralytic toxin. Non-lethal, but they stripped the victim of all motor control.

Chen Ping stepped forward. He used tough hemp rope to bind Fatty Wang to a protruding, sharp rock, trussing him up like a pig awaiting slaughter.

Then, from his storage bag, he produced a small knife.

It was thin as a cicada’s wing, its edge gleaming with a cold, cruel light.

He had prepared this knife a long time ago. Just for this day.

The cave fell into a dead silence, broken only by Fatty Wang’s ragged, fearful breathing.

The blade fell.

The knife was surgical. Each cut removed only the thinnest slice of flesh, precisely avoiding major arteries and meridians.

Pain broke through the paralysis. Fatty Wang screamed, his voice hoarse and broken.

“You little bastard… I just withheld your food!”

His eyes bulged, filled with a venomous, pathetic jealousy.

“You vile beasts, you aren’t even human! Why do I have no Spirit Root?! Why can’t I cultivate while you trash can?! Heaven is blind!”

Chen Ping paused. A chill ran down his spine.

So that was it.

He finally understood why he had starved as a laborer. It wasn’t the Sect’s cruelty. A Cultivation Sect wouldn’t bother withholding rice from servants.

It was this beast.

It was pure, petty jealousy.

Chen Ping gritted his teeth until they creaked.

He used his Qi to seal Fatty Wang’s mouth, silencing the screams.

Now, only the wet shhh of the blade slicing skin remained.

Fatty Wang’s body convulsed uncontrollably. The ropes bit deep into his bloating flesh. His bloodshot eyes rolled wildly, conveying agony beyond language.

He couldn’t speak. He could only endure.

Under the extreme torture, capillaries in his eyes burst, streaming bloody tears down his cheeks.

Chen Ping’s hand was steady. His eyes were cold.

Slice after slice.

He didn’t know how much time passed.

Finally, Chen Ping sheathed the knife.

Two thousand cuts. Not one more. Not one less.

When the final cut ended, the light in Fatty Wang’s dilated pupils extinguished.

The mass of bone and pulped flesh remained bound to the rock.

Chen Ping wiped the knife. It was still pristine, the blood unable to cling to the fine steel.

He didn’t look back at the corpse.

He walked to the cave entrance and took a deep breath. The cold, plant-scented night air filled his lungs.

The heavy, tumor-like hatred that had festered in his chest for so long finally dissipated.

He exhaled the turbid air. A profound sense of lightness rose from his soul.

He could feel it—his cultivation, stagnant for so long, was beginning to stir.

Vengeance was taken. The loose ends were tied.

Chen Ping did not linger. His figure blurred into smoke, vanishing swiftly into the night.