While Chen Ping was deep in cultivation, an envoy from the Duty Hall arrived.

The timing was off. The agreed-upon inspection was supposed to happen at the three-year mark, but Chen Ping had already been in the sect for nearly four years.

He didn’t dare to be careless. He adjusted his Concealing Mask, suppressing his aura to simulate the third layer of Qi Condensation.

The envoy, a disciple from the Duty Hall, scanned him and nodded with satisfaction.

“Not slacking off, I see. Good. Make your preparations. In half a year, you will be promoted to the Outer Sect. It is time you contributed your share to the Sect.”

Chen Ping’s heart skipped a beat, though his face remained impassive.

“Dare I ask, Senior Brother… isn’t the Outer Sect Grand Competition required for promotion? I thought only the top-ranking Registered Disciples were selected.”

The envoy waved a dismissive hand, cutting him off.

“The Sect deemed that process too cumbersome. It restricted the development of disciples, so the step was eliminated. As of three years ago, the new rule stands: any Registered Disciple who reaches the third layer of Qi Condensation within five years is automatically inducted into the Outer Sect.”

Chen Ping’s hand drifted to his hair, a thoughtful gesture concealing his alarm.

If that was the logic, something had changed within the Qingyun Sect.

Drastically.

Whether the change was a blessing or a curse remained to be seen, but one thing was clear: the Sect was starving for manpower.

If they weren’t desperate, they wouldn’t be sweeping up every qualifying Registered Disciple like this. The stipend for an Outer Disciple was several times higher than that of a Registered Disciple, and it scaled with cultivation rank. For the Sect to absorb such a financial blow meant the cost of not having bodies was higher.

“Don’t overthink it,” the envoy said, patting Chen Ping’s shoulder. “Just like before, take your stipend and handle a few tasks for the Sect. Simple.”

He turned to leave, then paused.

“Oh, right. One more thing.”

The envoy pivoted back; his casual demeanor vanished.

“Manager Li Yingyong of Servant Peak. He’s been missing for several years. I heard he was quite close to you. Before he vanished, he personally oversaw your Spirit Root test and recommended you to Hundred Herb Valley. Do you know where he is?”

The envoy’s gaze sharpened, locking onto Chen Ping’s eyes like a hawk spotting prey.

Chen Ping’s internal alarm screamed, but his physical reaction was instant and practiced. He lowered his head, hiding his eyes, and clasped his fists respectfully.

“This disciple does not know. Manager Li and I were merely nodding acquaintances.”

He offered nothing else. He understood the golden rule: he who speaks more, dies faster.

The envoy stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“Hmm. With your cultivation, it’s impossible for you to have done anything to him anyway… Cultivate well. Don’t slack off. I will return in half a year to escort you to the Outer Sect.”

The envoy turned and walked away, disappearing down the winding mountain path.

Chen Ping lifted his head. The subservience vanished from his face, replaced by a glacial chill.

As expected. They are investigating.

But it didn’t matter.

Let them investigate. By the time they found anything—if they ever did—he would be a Foundation Establishment cultivator. By then, the death of a lowly Manager would be irrelevant.

Five months later.

Heavy snow fell in goose-feather flakes, blanketing the valley in silence.

Inside the stone hut, Chen Ping opened his eyes. A sharp, cold light flashed within his pupils before fading into a pool of calm.

He felt the power surging through his meridians—full, robust, and flowing without the slightest resistance.

Qi Condensation, Ninth Layer. Great Perfection.

All twenty-seven Spirit Nodes were unblocked, linking together to form a flawless, major Circulation Cycle.

Reaching the Great Perfection of Qi Condensation was a milestone, but to Chen Ping, it was merely a stepping stone.

His gaze was fixed on the true threshold: Foundation Establishment.

Only by building his Foundation could he truly claim to have stepped onto the Immortal Path. That was where the qualitative change in strength and lifespan lay.

Over the past five months, he hadn’t just been meditating.

He had been grinding.

His Puppetry Arts had advanced through the sheer brute force of wealth. After burning through piles of precious timber, low-tier beast souls, and Spirit Stones, his success rate for Tier 1 Low-grade puppets—like the Wood Dog and Wood Bird—had stabilized above forty percent.

For Tier 1 Mid-grade puppets, such as the Shield-Bearing Wooden Soldier and the Fire-Spitting Lizard, he had clawed his way to a ten percent success rate after countless failures.

Given enough time, Tier 1 High-grade, or even Peak-grade puppets, were within reach.

Then there was his wealth.

The accumulation of Spirit Stones had been his primary obsession. The Black Earth space churned out mature spirit herbs endlessly, particularly the main ingredients for Origin Nourishing Pills.

Chen Ping, wearing a rotation of disguises, had haunted the Black Market. He offloaded batches of Low and Mid-grade Origin Nourishing Pills, carefully controlling the volume and frequency to avoid drawing the eyes of predators.

Spirit Stones flowed into his pockets like water.

Combined with the loot from killing those who tried to rob him, his finances had exploded. As he tallied the latest profits inside the Jade Pendant space, the pile of Low-grade Spirit Stones in his Storage Pouch had crossed the thirty thousand mark.

He was only twenty thousand short of the market price for a standard Foundation Establishment Pill.

The speed of his accumulation was terrifying. Without the heaven-defying production capabilities of the Jade Pendant and his own alchemy, it would have taken a normal cultivator decades to save this much.

With wealth came power. He had completely overhauled his arsenal.

His spells—the Fireball Art and Object Control Art—were already at the Perfect Realm, instinctive and instant. But his gear needed to match his ruthlessness.

Offense:

He had retired his old Mid-grade swords. In their place hovered two Tier 1 Peak-grade flying swords: “Water-Splitter” and “Metal-Cleaver.” Thin as cicada wings and cold as ice, they sliced through the air with terrifying speed and minimal spiritual energy consumption.

Defense:

A palm-sized shield of dark metal rested on his table. The “Immovable Mountain.” A Tier 1 Peak-grade Mystic Gold shield. When activated, it expanded instantly into a fortress-like barrier capable of withstanding heavy bombardment.

Concealment:

This was his lifeline. He had upgraded to a Tier 1 Peak-grade “Formless Mask.” The material felt like cool, thin skin. The Black Market dealer had sworn a blood oath that this mask blocked all conventional detection—Divine Sense, aura, and bone structure—from any cultivator below the Violet Palace realm. Unless an enemy possessed a rare treasure or a specialized eye technique, Chen Ping was a ghost.

Consumables:

He had stocked up on Talismans with paranoid intensity.

He carried one hundred Tier 1 Peak-grade Talismans: Golden Armor for defense, Fire Snake for attack, Divine Travel for speed, and Breath Holding for stealth. Each cost fifty Spirit Stones.

And his trump cards.

He had gritted his teeth and spent five thousand Spirit Stones on ten Tier 2 Low-grade Talismans.

“Golden Blade.” “Explosive Flame.” “Palm Lightning.”

Each one was a localized disaster waiting to be unleashed.

Chen Ping checked his inventory one last time. He inspected the neural link with the new flying swords, verified the refined state of the shield and mask, and patted the thick stack of talismans arranged for instant access in his inner pockets.

Everything was ready.

He possessed the cultivation of Qi Condensation Great Perfection. He had thirty thousand Spirit Stones. He was armed to the teeth with Peak-grade equipment and enough firepower to level a small mountain.

This was the sum of his struggle. nearly five years of clawing his way up from the bottom of the Qingyun Sect, surviving the mines, the bandits, and the politics.

Chen Ping pushed open the door of the stone hut.

The morning sun hit his face, warm and lazy.

There was half a month left until the envoy returned.

Chen Ping narrowed his eyes against the glare.

It was time to move to a bigger stage.