After a brief rest, the trio set off once more.

The mountain air was crisp, carrying the cool scent of pine and damp earth. Fang Lizhe, ever the chatterbox, led his horse by the reins, his luggage piled high on the beast’s back. He spoke incessantly of his “legendary” exploits since leaving home—robbing the rich, aiding the poor, and righting wrongs with youthful zeal. He boasted that once he attained immortality, he would spend his days vanquishing demons and protecting the weak, a true paragon of righteousness.

He also mentioned, quite proudly, that he had hand-copied dozens of versions of those “five supreme immortal techniques.” Zhou Kai, apparently, was his first “distinguished” customer—the only one lucky enough to receive the original manuscript.

Seeing that the lad truly lacked a single deceptive bone in his body, Zhou Kai finally took pity on him and revealed his real name.

Zhou Kai offered the youth intermittent nods and hums of agreement, but his mind was already miles away, submerged in the pages of the “Cicada Raiment Art.” Even as he listened to Fang Lizhe’s endless prattle, he was silently deciphering the cultivation mnemonics.

The essence of the Cicada Raiment Art lay in the absolute control and mimicry of one’s own presence.

The first stage was Convergence—learning to pull one’s Spirit Qi inward until the fluctuations were as faint as a dormant cicada pupa buried in the winter soil. The next was Simulation—tuning one’s aura to vibrate in harmony with the surroundings. Plants, rocks, mountains—it taught the practitioner to become a literal “ghost” in the environment, achieving a “cicada shedding” effect of perfect concealment.

As Zhou Kai began to circulate his Qi according to the manual, he realized the technique was far more profound than the youth’s description suggested. This wasn’t some backwater martial arts manual; it felt like a fragment of a high-level, ancient scripture.

In just five days of travel, Zhou Kai felt a new, subtle meridian pathway snap open within his body. With a flick of his will, the Spirit Qi leaking from his pores receded like a retreating tide, becoming faint and elusive.

Walking beside him, Chen Ziyi felt the shift immediately. She glanced at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. A moment ago, her husband’s aura had been as solid and recognizable as a mountain peak; now, he felt like a wisp of smoke, something she could barely track even while standing right next to him. If she weren’t looking at him, she’d have sworn the space beside her was empty.

“Husband, you…” she whispered.

Zhou Kai opened his eyes, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “I’ve just stepped through the threshold of the Cicada Raiment Art,” he transmitted directly into her mind.

The next half-month passed in a blur of travel and cultivation.

Zhou Kai’s progress with the new art was staggering. While he hadn’t mastered its ultimate forms, he could now effortlessly mask his cultivation. To any external observer, he no longer appeared as a Fourth Layer Qi Condensation cultivator; he looked like a mediocre Second Layer novice. His internal Vitality was clamped down so tightly he seemed as inconspicuous as a common river stone.

A standard Spiritual Sense sweep would reveal nothing out of the ordinary. Unless a cultivator possessed high-level Eye Techniques or specialized detection methods, his true depth was hidden. He suspected that once he mastered the art, even Foundation Establishment experts might struggle to see through his mask.

Chen Ziyi had only grasped the basics, her aura suppression still feeling clunky and forced. Zhou Kai didn’t hoard his knowledge; he spent the quiet evenings sharing his insights with her, guiding her Spirit Qi through the new pathways.

Finally, as the sun began to dip below the horizon on the fifteenth day, they arrived at Broken Wood Bay.

The “bay” was actually a low-lying basin bisected by a winding river. It was a chaotic sprawl of makeshift shacks and open-air stalls. Cultivators were packed together like sardines, their tents and rugs stretching from the valley entrance into the hazy distance.

The air was thick with the sounds of commerce and conflict. Low-level cultivators screamed at each other over the price of a single Spirit Stone, while hucksters peddled “ancestral treasures” with the desperate fervor of men who knew their wares were garbage. “Fake? I’ll pay you back ten times!” one man shouted, drawing a chorus of mocking laughter from the crowd.

The stalls were a junk-heap of variety: wilted low-grade herbs, raw ores, chipped magical tools, and crudely drawn basic talismans. Most of the people here were at the First or Second Layer of Qi Refining; a mid-stage cultivator was a rare sight.

Zhou Kai frowned. A master formation crafter like Master Su… living in this pigsty? It was loud, filthy, and smelled of desperation—hardly the secluded sanctuary of a high-level expert.

“Brother Zhou! Sister Chen! We made it!” Fang Lizhe shouted, his eyes wide with excitement. “I’m going to find a Master to apprentice under! And then, I’m going to sell these supreme techniques!”

As the boy moved to dive into the throng, Zhou Kai caught his shoulder and patted his luggage with a “warm” smile. “Young Brother Fang, there are many eyes here. Be cautious. I wish you luck in your endeavors.”

What the boy didn’t know was that the hand-copied versions of the Cicada Raiment Art in his bag were gone. Zhou Kai had surreptitiously transferred them into his own Storage Bag while the boy was distracted.

This idiot is going to get himself killed, Zhou Kai reasoned. Flaunting a high-level concealment art in a den of thieves? He’s practically begging for a knife in the dark.

I’m doing this for his own good, he told himself, his conscience remaining perfectly clear. I’m saving his life. It’s a virtuous act.

He watched the boy disappear into the crowd, hoping the lad’s luck was as strong as his stupidity.

“Husband… shall we look for Master Su?” Ziyi asked.

Zhou Kai took her hand, pulling her close. “Let’s take a walk first.”

He approached a nearby stall. “Fellow Daoist… I’m looking for a formation master named Su. Have you heard of him?”

The stall owner looked him up and down, his eyes lingering briefly on Ziyi’s beauty before scoffing. “Master Su? Never heard of him. And even if he were here, why would a couple of nobodies like you get to see him? Buy something or get lost.”

Zhou Kai didn’t rise to the bait. He asked a dozen more people, receiving only shrugs, insults, or blank stares. It seemed “Master Su” was either a myth or a ghost.

Formation arts are foundational, Zhou Kai mused. They aren’t consumables like pills. A good formation is a legacy. A Qi Refining master can create arrays that baffle even Foundation Establishment experts. Someone like that wouldn’t advertise.

“You two…” a clear, scholarly voice interrupted his thoughts. “Are you here for the Dragon Gate Assembly?”

Zhou Kai turned. A young cultivator in clean blue robes approached with a refined smile. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with a stable Second Layer Qi Refining cultivation.

“I’ve heard the name,” Zhou Kai said, adopting a polite, curious tone. “We came to see the spectacle. How does one participate?”

“The Dragon Gate Assembly is the recruitment event for the Calamity Abyss Valley,” the youth explained. “A chance for ‘the carp to leap the gate.’ It happens once a year, and it’s starting very soon. That’s why this place is so crowded.”

The youth, who introduced himself as Fu Sheng, lowered his voice. “The catch is the registration fee. It’s one hundred Low-grade Spirit Stones per person.”

One hundred stones? Zhou Kai’s inner accountant bristled.

“If you pass the test and get selected, they refund the hundred stones in full,” Fu Sheng continued. “But if you fail… the stones are gone. A ‘processing fee’ for the sect’s time.”

Clever, Zhou Kai thought. With hundreds of applicants, the sect makes a fortune on the losers. And since it’s a ‘recruitment’ event, the higher-ups look the other way.

“I am Han Cheng, and this is my sister, Han Lan,” Zhou Kai said, using the aliases they’d agreed upon. Ziyi gave a dutiful nod.

“Brother Han! Sister Han!” Fu Sheng saluted. He looked them over, noting their steady auras. “I see you both have solid foundations for the Second Layer. Are you interested in a… cooperative venture?”

Zhou Kai arched an eyebrow. “A team?”

“One hundred stones is a king’s ransom for loose cultivators like us,” Fu Sheng sighed. “So, a few of us have decided to pool our resources. We have three people now. If you two join, we can pool exactly one hundred stones and send our best candidate through the Gate.”

“We take turns every year,” he explained earnestly. “Within five years, everyone gets a shot. If the candidate passes, the stones are returned and everyone gets their money back. If they fail, we only lose twenty stones each—a sting, but not a death blow to our cultivation. What do you say?”