Deacon Zhao Ning turned back to look at Chen Ping. The look of approval that had previously graced his face vanished, replaced by a heavy, warning solemnity.

He lowered his voice, his speech accelerating slightly.

“Junior Brother Chen, what leaves my mouth today must enter your ears and go no further. The Sect… is not at peace.”

His sharp gaze swept the surroundings, ensuring their isolation.

“The Xuanyi Sect. You are aware of them? The sect bordering our Qingyun Sect to the northwest.”

Chen Ping’s heart skipped a beat, but his face remained a mask of polite tranquility.

“I have heard rumors.”

In truth, he knew nothing. But ignorance was a weakness he could not afford to display.

“Hmph!”

A flash of savage severity cut through Zhao Ning’s eyes.

“Wolves with wild, insatiable ambition! All for the sake of a medium-sized Spirit Stone vein discovered on the border, they brazenly tore up the century-old peace treaty between our sects. Three years ago, they began harassing our mining outposts and border strongholds, slaughtering our disciples. Such a blood feud… how could it go unavenged?”

His tone vibrated with suppressed rage.

“A year ago, the High Sect Command, in their fury, issued an official edict declaring war on the Xuanyi Sect. The border region is now a landscape of fire and blood, with conflicts escalating daily. The Sect has deployed a massive number of elite disciples to the front lines, leaving the Outer Sect critically short-handed. That is the true reason for the lowered standards and the mass recruitment of Registered Disciples.”

Zhao Ning locked eyes with Chen Ping, his voice dropping to an earnest whisper.

“I tell you this so you understand the reality of your position. In the Mission Hall, those tasks offering rich rewards—especially those requiring travel far from the Sect—nine out of ten are connected to the meat grinder at the front lines. The risk is catastrophic.”

“Your foundation is shallow. Remember this: if you can avoid leaving the Sect’s immediate vicinity, do not leave. Honestly accept the menial tasks within the sect—guard duty, mountain patrols, planting. The Contribution Points are meager, yes, but the profit is your life. Endure this period. Wait until your cultivation rises before making other plans. Do not let a moment of greed send you to an early grave.”

Having delivered his warning, Zhao Ning did not linger. He gave Chen Ping a curt nod, turned, and strode away, his green deacon’s robes quickly disappearing around the bend of the winding mountain path.

Chen Ping stood alone in the wind.

“Sect war…”

He murmured the words, his eyes narrowing into dark, calculating slits.

No wonder. No wonder the Sect was devouring new recruits with such desperate hunger.

The front line was a massive millstone of flesh and blood, grinding down the Sect’s reserves. Outer Disciples in a true sect war wouldn’t even qualify as cannon fodder; they were merely consumables used to fill gaps in the trench lines.

He looked around at the desolate corner of the mountain he had chosen. Scattered rocks, wild weeds, thin Qi.

It was perfect.

Distance from the core meant distance from the whirlpool of politics and war.

Zhao Ning’s warning solidified his strategy—dormancy. He would lie low, a viper in the grass, until he grew into a dragon capable of overturning the heavens.

“Father, Mother, Yuan Jingtian. Let’s go in.”

Chen Ping composed himself and signaled the three waiting behind him.

He produced his Identity Token and flicked it toward the dark maw of the cave. A subtle ripple of light distorted the air as the invisible restriction dissolved.

The interior was damp and chill. The floors and walls were rough-hewn, primitive rock. Aside from a hollow main chamber and a smaller inner room, it was barren. The air smelled of wet earth and stone dust, the Qi thin and sluggish.

Yet, even this thin Qi was a paradise compared to the stifling mortality of the mortal world or the Hundred Herb Garden.

Chen Ping’s parents looked around the crude environment. It was a far cry from the immortal paradise they had envisioned, and disappointment etched lines into their weary faces.

But they were survivors. Despite the disappointment, their hands did not idle. They immediately unpacked cleaning tools and began to sweep the dust.

Yuan Jingtian said nothing. He dropped his simple pack and immediately began channeling his Arts, pulverizing the larger, obstructing boulders in the main chamber with efficient, silent strikes.

“The remoteness is exactly what I wanted,” Chen Ping said, his voice softening as he addressed his parents. “The Qi is weak, but we buy peace with that weakness. No one will disturb us here. As for the wasteland outside… once I divert some spiritual spring water and mix in some Spirit Soil, we can cultivate it. It will be safe.”

He assigned the living quarters with quick precision.

His parents would take the smaller, warmer inner chamber. He and Yuan Jingtian would meditate in the outer hall. It was austere, but there was ample space to excavate further later.

Once they were settled, Chen Ping walked out of the cave alone, standing on the barren slope overlooking the valley.

The wind tugged at his robes.

He needed to understand the ecosystem of the Outer Sect. Specifically, he needed to calculate the vector to a Foundation Establishment Pill.

Zhao Ning had mentioned “Contribution Points” and the “Mission Hall.” Those were his first targets.

In the days that followed, Chen Ping became a ghost.

He merged into the ocean of the Outer Sect like a drop of water, unassuming and invisible. Aside from his rigid schedule of visiting the Contribution Pavilion on the first of every month to collect his two Spirit Stones and Marrow Cleansing Pill, he rarely surfaced.

He spent his time in deep cultivation or expanding the cave dwelling, carving out a fortress from the rock.

But his eyes were always open.

The Mission Hall was a chaotic hive of noise and desperation. On the massive jade wall, lines of text scrolled and refreshed, broadcasting the Sect’s needs.

Chen Ping’s gaze dissected the high-value missions with cold detachment.

[Escort Merchant Caravan to Border Market (Transits War Zone). Reward: 300 Contribution Points.]

[Acquire Identity Token of Xuanyi Sect Mid-Stage Qi Condensation Disciple. Reward: 500 Contribution Points, 100 Low-grade Spirit Stones.]

[Garrison ‘Green Origin Mine’ Periphery for Three Months (High Attack Frequency). Reward: 400 Contribution Points.]

Every high-paying line dripped with the stench of blood.

Chen Ping dismissed them instantly. Even with his cultivation at the Great Perfection of Qi Condensation, he refused to be a gambler. The house always won in war.

His eyes drifted to the bottom of the list, to the tasks others scorned.

[Clear Waste Residue at Alchemy Pavilion (10 Days). Reward: 3 Contribution Points.]

[Tend Iron-Feathered Pheasants in Spirit Beast Garden (1 Month). Reward: 3 Contribution Points.]

[Weed Back Mountain Medicinal Fields (15 Days). Reward: 2 Contribution Points.]

These were safe. They counted toward the mandatory annual quota. Completing one meant freedom from bureaucracy for a year.

But Chen Ping did the math, and the numbers were grim.

A safe task took 10 to 15 days and yielded roughly 3 points.

A Foundation Establishment Pill cost 30,000 Contribution Points.

He would need to complete ten thousand such tasks. Even if he worked without sleep, food, or cultivation, it would take nearly three hundred years.

The path of safety was a dead end.

The path of war was a cliff.

He needed a third option.

Chen Ping began to haunt the Sect Marketplace and the fringes of disciple gatherings. He listened, filtered, and analyzed. He became a shadow in the corner of teahouses, nursing a single cup while absorbing intelligence.

Effort does not betray the calculating mind.

Half a month later, he found the vector.

A Senior Brother, loud with drink, mentioned a specific opportunity. He was signing up for the “Distant Spirit Realm,” a Secret Realm opening the following month. His goal: to harvest the core ingredients for the Foundation Establishment Pill and trade them directly with the Sect.

Chen Ping cross-referenced the information and confirmed the mechanics.

There were only two realistic ways for a common disciple to obtain the pill:

The Grind: Accumulate 30,000 Contribution Points. (Impossible).

The Hunt: Enter specific Secret Realms—like the Distant Spirit Realm or the Black Sky Cave—and harvest the specific Spirit Herbs required for the pill’s alchemy.

The Sect offered an exchange rate. The more herbs you brought back, and the higher their quality, the more pills you could redeem.

Chen Ping’s eyes gleamed in the dim light of the teahouse.

This was it.

The Distant Spirit Realm.

It was dangerous, yes, but it was a danger he could navigate with preparation and skill, unlike the chaotic randomness of a battlefield.

He stood up, leaving a few coins on the table.

He would sign up for the Distant Spirit Realm.