Chen Ping gazed down at the wreckage of the scar-faced man.

Warm blood melted the snow beneath the corpse, pooling into a stark, widening crimson stain.

The nausea he expected never came.

Instead, a strange, electric heat surged from the base of his spine. It flooded his limbs, bringing with it a dark, terrifying euphoria.

He stared at the blood, his throat bobbing involuntarily. A primal thrill—the absolute authority of ending a life—shuddered through him.

Wait.

He… craved this?

The thought was like ice water down his back. It snapped him out of the trance instantly.

This wasn’t normal. This was dangerous.

He forcibly crushed the strange excitement, burying it deep, and refocused on the threat in front of him.

“You killed the Boss!”

The Weasel was the first to snap out of shock. His voice was a high-pitched shriek of fear and madness. He lunged, his poison-dipped daggers flashing with a sinister blue light.

Beside him, the Muscle roared, swinging his heavy iron ruler. The weapon tore through the air with a heavy whoosh, aiming to crush Chen Ping’s skull.

They were reckless. They had lost their minds to rage.

Chen Ping’s eyes went cold behind the mask.

Two cultivators at the 2nd Level of Qi Condensation. He didn’t need spatial tricks for this. Besides, they were watching for it now. Using the same move twice was lazy.

A straightforward kill would do.

A red glint flashed in Chen Ping’s eyes. He didn’t block.

He stepped sideways.

His movement was weightless, drifting like a willow leaf in a gale. The poisonous dagger slashed empty air. The heavy ruler smashed into the snow where he had been standing a heartbeat ago.

Qi surged through his meridians. Not the dregs of a novice, but the refined, potent energy of a peak 2nd Level cultivator. His speed was something they couldn’t comprehend.

“Careful! He’s fast! Watch his hands for Talismans!” the Weasel screamed, backing away.

The two bandits hesitated. The rage cooled into wary fear. They circled him, trying to flank, their eyes glued to his hands, terrified of another fireball volley.

Good. Fear made them predictable.

Chen Ping didn’t rush to burn his remaining Talismans. He danced between them, using his superior footwork to lead them around like puppets.

For six months, he had failed to master the Fireball Art. But the Art of Object Control? That, he had practiced until his mind bled.

He knew that one day, he would need to wield a flying sword.

The Green Wood Shield, a Tier 1 Low-grade Dharma Artifact, hovered at his side, blocking stray strikes with minimal effort.

Then, he moved his mind.

His flying sword became a streak of pale blue light. Guided by his precise Divine Sense, it hissed through the air like a viper, striking from impossible angles, forcing the two bandits into a desperate defense.

The Weasel was fast but fragile. The Muscle was strong but clumsy.

Chen Ping dissected their rhythm in seconds. They had cultivation, but no technique. They were brawlers, not warriors.

Time to end it.

Chen Ping feinted. He let his foot slip in the snow, his body lurching as if exhausted.

“Now!”

The Muscle saw the opening. His eyes lit up with savage joy. He raised the iron ruler high, putting every ounce of his strength into a skull-splitting overhead smash.

The weapon whistled down.

Chen Ping stopped acting.

The cold light in his eyes sharpened. He dropped the suppression on his aura.

BOOM.

The pressure of a peak 2nd Level cultivator erupted like a dam breaking.

Qi flooded his legs. He didn’t retreat. He slid forward, slipping inside the arc of the iron ruler.

He was inside the Muscle’s guard. Chest to chest.

“You?!”

The bandit’s grin froze. His eyes bulged. 2nd Level? He was hiding his strength?!

Chen Ping gave him no time to scream.

His left hand shot out, clamping onto the bandit’s wrist like a vice.

His right hand snapped a Talisman.

Ssshhk!

A Wind Blade, condensed into a solid razor of air, materialized inches from the bandit’s throat.

The weak protective Qi around the man’s neck shattered like glass.

Thump.

A pillar of blood sprayed hot and high into the cold air. A massive head spun away, the face still twisted in shock. The headless body stood for a second, then collapsed.

The iron ruler clattered onto the snow.

“Third Brother!”

The Weasel shrieked. His courage evaporated instantly.

Revenge? Loot? Forget it.

He turned and ran, scrabbling through the snow, desperate to escape the demon in the green mask.

Chen Ping didn’t even look at the corpse at his feet.

He raised a hand and flicked his wrist. Another Talisman ignited.

ROAR!

A fireball streaked through the twilight, howling like a beast.

The Weasel heard the sound and threw himself sideways in a panic.

The fireball missed him by inches, slamming into a tree trunk. The explosion showered him in burning splinters and sent a wave of heat that scorched his back.

He scrambled to get up, sobbing with pain.

Thwip.

A pale blue shadow caught up to him.

The flying sword punched through his back and burst out of his chest.

The Weasel froze. He looked down at the bloodied steel protruding from his ribs. He tried to speak, but only a wet gurgle escaped his throat.

He collapsed face-first into the snow.

Silence returned to the forest.

The wind moaned through the trees. Three bodies lay cooling in the snow, their blood painting violent strokes on the white canvas.

Chen Ping stood still, his breath misting in the air.

The fight was short, but the drain on his Divine Sense was heavy.

He felt that dark excitement stirring in his gut again—the residual thrill of the kill.

He frowned.

Not good.

He inhaled a lungful of freezing air, forcing the sensation down. He couldn’t afford to lose himself to the bloodlust.

Move.

He crouched by the bodies, his hands working quickly.

The loot was pathetic.

The scar-faced man’s saber was scrap metal. The Weasel’s daggers were poisoned but cheap. The iron ruler was heavy trash.

He found a handful of crumpled Talismans—Tier 1 Low-grade fire and shield types. A few bottles of low-quality Qi Recovery Pills that smelled like sulfur.

And two dull Spirit Stones.

Paupers.

Chen Ping sighed. He was about to stand when his fingers brushed something hard inside Scarface’s belt.

He pulled it out.

A gray, palm-sized leather pouch embroidered with faint runes.

A Storage Pouch.

Chen Ping’s eyebrows lifted. Even the smallest one cost ten Spirit Stones. It was a luxury for a bandit.

He probed it with his Divine Sense. Empty. Scarface hadn’t had time to stash his loot yet.

Still, it was a profit.

Chen Ping stuffed the bag and the rest of the junk into his robes. He scanned the forest. The snow was falling harder, masking the smell of blood. No one was coming.

He stepped behind a large oak tree.

With a thought.

He vanished into the Jade Pendant.

Inside the safe haven of the space, he dumped everything on the ground.

Then, he touched the Green Ghost Mask. He injected a stream of Qi.

The mask hummed, growing warm against his skin. The surface rippled like water.

A few seconds later, the ripples settled.

Chen Ping stepped out of the space.

When he emerged from behind the tree, he was a different man. His slender frame looked stockier, his posture heavier. The terrified face of the Green Ghost was gone, replaced by the honest, round features of a simple, middle-aged man.

One of the mask’s three preset disguises.

He checked his hands. No blood.

He turned and vanished into the trees, choosing a difficult, winding path that led away from the slaughter.

Behind him, the blizzard intensified, burying the red snow and the three frozen bodies in a shroud of white.