The

  night blurred into one bottle after another.

  They laughed louder than either of

  them meant to. They cheered at nothing, insulted each other with the easy

  comfort of men trying to pretend they weren’t calculating. By the time Damian

  set his cup down for the last time, the edge between him and Kevin had softened

  into something almost genuine.

  Almost.

  For Damian, there was intent behind

  every smile. Kevin wasn’t just company—he was an Elder disciple. A direct line

  to protection, rumor, and opportunity. Damian didn’t officially belong to any

  Elder, which meant fewer resources, fewer shields, fewer eyes watching his back.

  Kevin was a connection worth

  keeping.

  When they finally left the

  cafeteria, the sect was quiet in the way only artificial nights could be.

  Lanterns washed the stone paths in warm light. Above them, the false moon hung

  bright enough that even the fake stars looked sharp.

  They split at a crossroads. Kevin

  headed toward the privileged dorms reserved for direct disciples. Damian waved

  him off, turned the other way—

  —and took a sharp right into a

  narrow alley.

  He bent forward and retched.

  It took a couple of tries, but

  eventually his body gave up every drop of liquor he’d forced down. He spat,

  wiped his mouth, and steadied his breathing until his stomach stopped twisting.

  He couldn’t afford to be hungover.

  Training didn’t wait. Weaknesses

  didn’t wait.

  His grandfather’s voice echoed in

  his skull like a rule carved into bone:

  It didn’t matter that this was a

  sect. It didn’t matter that there were protections and patrols and elders who

  pretended to care about discipline.

  His family had enemies.

  They might be cities away from the

  ruins of their old home, but distance didn’t mean safety. Hub Cities gathered

  power, and power gathered ambition—and where ambition gathered, knives followed.

  When he reached his dorm, he

  inspected his door before unlocking it. No disturbed dust. No scratches. No

  lingering qi. No unfamiliar presence.

  Only then did he step inside.

  He showered, changed into night

  clothes, and collapsed onto his bed. Even exhausted, he opened and read until the words blurred. He’d taken the

  first step—only the first—and already it felt like standing at the bottom of a

  cliff with no visible summit.

  Eventually, sleep took him.

  The next morning, he was back at

  the warehouse.

  Lee had made “improvements.” A

  blackboard leaned against the wall. Two chairs sat in the center, as if this

  was going to be a real lesson instead of a controlled beating.

  Damian stared at them for a second,

  amused.

  He sat across from his master. Lee

  stood with his hands behind his back, silent long enough that Damian started to

  wonder if he’d fallen asleep standing.

  Then a sphere of dark purple qi

  formed in Lee’s palm.

  It rotated slowly, dense and heavy,

  as if the air itself had to move out of its way.

  “Focus,” Lee said. “Look for the

  roots. Look for the connections. And look for the errors.”

  Damian frowned but obeyed.

  At first, it was just a spinning

  orb—beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful when you weren’t the one

  drowning in it. He watched, calm and patient, letting his consciousness

  technique steady his thoughts.

  Around the twenty-minute mark,

  details began to emerge.

  Lines. Threads. Structures like

  invisible wiring hold the qi together. Not randomly organized. Connected. Feeding

  each other.

  Damian tapped his chin

  unconsciously.

  If Heaven and Earth were the

  source, then this wasn’t just energy. It was a system. A network that pulled,

  circulated, and reinforced. Something built on rules.

  He wasn’t fully right.

  But he was closer than yesterday.

  Lee dispelled the orb as it had

  never existed.

  “I guess we need more basics,” Lee

  said, dropping into a chair. He grabbed a bottle and had a long drink, as if

  lecturing was exhausting.

  “There are five Hub Cities,” he

  said casually. “Legacy of the Immortals, they call them. Each one about the

  size of an old-world country.”

  He gestured with the bottle. “We’re

  in Hub City Three. Southern region. Compared to the others, Magic cultivators

  are rare here. Maybe fifty in total. Other cities have hundreds. Thousands.”

  Damian leaned back, listening. “So

  how do you function here?”

  Lee smiled like the answer was

  obvious. “Three high-realm Elders. If kidnapping or theft becomes a problem, we

  gather a group and handle it.”

  He chuckled. “Me? I’m… not on great

  terms with one of them. But if I come back with a great student…”

  His gaze flicked to Damian.

  “Maybe I can get forgiven. Maybe I

  get a raise.”

  Damian smirked. “You afraid of that

  Elder?”

  Lee paused.

  Then his grin sharpened into

  something ugly. “Fear? No. I don’t fear any of them.”

  He adjusted his glasses. “But the

  current leader? That’s different. That’s a headache.”

  Damian’s curiosity flared. “How

  strong are they?”

  Lee took another drink. “Not

  something you need to worry about yet. Just know I fear them more than the

  so-called top cultivators around here.”

  He stood. “Enough talking. Back to

  the grind.”

  Damian sighed and rose with him.

  “What now, old man?”

  Lee answered by tapping him lightly

  on the shoulder.

  Pain detonated through Damian’s

  body like every nerve had been lit on fire at the same time. He crashed to his

  knees, arms wrapping instinctively around himself, muscles locking as if they

  were trying to tear free from his bones.

  His vision swam.

  His teeth clenched hard enough that

  his jaw ached.

  Lee loomed above him, smiling.

  “That,” Lee said cheerfully, “is

  how magic qi feels when the body can’t handle it.”

  Damian tried to speak. Instead, he

  vomited—dark purple liquid splashing onto the warehouse floor as he fought to

  keep his consciousness from blacking out.

  “Depending on where and how it

  hits,” Lee continued, conversational as ever, “some cultivators react more

  weakly. Some lose technique control entirely.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  A gentle pat landed on Damian’s

  head.

  The pain vanished instantly.

  Damian collapsed forward, gasping

  like he’d been pulled out of deep water.

  “Remember that feeling,” Lee said,

  returning to his chair. “Next time, try to find the root.”

  He crossed his legs. “Take your

  time. We’re not done yet.”

  Damian lay there shaking, heart

  hammering.

  Slowly, he forced himself upright.

  One hand pressed against his chest, his breathing shallow as he tried to chase

  that sensation— thing he’d almost grasped inside the pain.

  It slipped away like smoke.

  When he finally straightened, his

  legs unsteady, Lee was standing there with that same unsettling grin.

  Damian hated it.

  Not because it was mocking. Because

  the power behind it was real.

  He limped back to the chair and

  dropped into it, coughing until his lungs burned. When the fit passed, he

  looked up at Lee, frustration bleeding into his voice.

  “Even after that… I’m still

  struggling to understand this ‘root’ you keep talking about. I could perceive

  the threads. The structure. But that’s all.”

  Lee nodded slowly. “You’re not

  wrong.”

  He stepped closer and tapped Damian

  lightly under the chin. “But you’re thinking too simply. You’re staring at the

  threads and forgetting what they’re attached to.”

  Lee straightened. “Magic isn’t

  sacred. It isn’t alive. It isn’t a mystery begging to be worshipped.”

  He spread his hands. “It’s Heaven

  and Earth.”

  “We manipulate it. Break it apart.

  Rebuild it into shapes that benefit us. But no matter how twisted or refined it

  becomes, it’s still Heaven and Earth wearing a different color.”

  Damian listened, pain still pulsing

  through him.

  “When I say ‘root,’” Lee continued,

  “I don’t mean philosophy. I don’t mean science. I don’t mean some hidden truth

  beneath reality.”

  He smiled. “I mean this—Magic qi is

  a tool.”

  Lee leaned in slightly. “Don’t

  romanticize it. Don’t make it more than it is. If Heaven and Earth truly had a

  will of its own, cultivators wouldn’t exist. We’re parasites. We abuse it. We

  force it into weapons and armor and techniques meant to destroy.”

  His voice lowered. “We don’t

  coexist with Heaven and Earth.”

  “We conquer it.”

  Lee stepped back. “And in doing so…

  we eventually become one with it. That’s the essence of Magic. Or at least,

  that’s how I was taught.”

  Something clicked.

  Not fully—Damian wasn’t suddenly

  enlightened—but a piece slid into place. The idea stopped being mystical and

  started being… practical.

  A tool. A system. A resource to

  dominate.

  That was something he understood.

  The next few hours were spent

  refining his control over killing intent. Slowly, painfully, Damien became more

  comfortable sitting beneath that invisible pressure. His instincts screamed

  less. His thoughts sharpened instead of scattering.

  Lee also shared fragments of his

  past—how had been created not just as a Magic method, but

  as a way to embrace aggression without losing control. The physical side

  effects sounded almost casual when Lee said them: purple breath, altered

  presence, and, at higher mastery, even changes to one’s appearance to hide

  identity.

  Lee winked. “Very useful when you

  make enemies.”

  Before dismissing him, Lee handed

  Damien a pill.

  “This’ll help with the mental

  backlash from consciousness cultivation,” Lee said. “Stress builds up faster

  than you think.”

  Damian accepted it gratefully. He

  hadn’t hit the breaking point yet—but he could feel the edge of it in the

  corners of his mind whenever he pushed too hard.

  By the time training ended, it was

  still midday.

  Damian returned to his room,

  showered quickly, and changed clothes. His body ached. His mind throbbed. But

  beneath it all was a growing certainty.

  He was improving.

  And improvement meant survival.

  Stepping out again, he headed

  toward the Mission Hall.

  He needed experience.

  As Damian walked, his mind stayed

  busy, sorting through numbers and timeframes like a ledger.

  Among first-years, he was probably

  above average. But compared to Elder disciples—or monsters born with absurd

  spiritual roots, rare constitutions, or ridiculous talent—he was behind.

  Very behind.

  And unlike them, he didn’t have the

  luxury of time.

  On paper, he was still at the

  Foundation Realm. The beginning. The stage where everyone pretended to be equal.

  If he couldn’t reach the first

  realm of Magic soon—not by the end

  of the year, sooner—then the gap

  between him and the people who mattered would become permanent.

  Three months.

  That was the real limit.

  Qi Refinement was the true first

  step of cultivation. If he focused entirely on consciousness techniques, he

  could probably reach it.

  But that would be a dead end.

  Without a core, he would stay there

  forever.

  Magic was different.

  If Lee was telling the truth, the

  first realm of Magic could let him match Qi Refinement cultivators in combat

  strength—at least for a time. It wasn’t guaranteed. It wasn’t proven. But it

  was better than stagnation.

  And it was why he’d been

  obsessively working on Bloodshaper

  Murder Art.

  If Magic techniques were too risky

  to show right now, killing intent and consciousness cultivation were his cover.

  Normal enough to pass. Dangerous enough to survive.

  Lost in thought, Damian didn’t

  realize he was only a few steps from the Mission Hall.

  The building looked like everything

  else in the sect—stone frame, green and blue patterns worked into the walls.

  he thought with a smirk as he stepped inside.

  It was crowded. First-years,

  second-years, and Elder disciples filled the hall. Some scanned mission boards.

  Others handled paperwork at the counters.

  The system was simple: a massive

  board divided missions into four categories.

  Easy. Medium. Hard. Death.

  Damian scanned the listings.

  Easy was useless. He needed combat

  experience.

  Hard was suicide. His only true

  combat technique right now enhanced consciousness and intent—strong, but not

  enough to gamble his life against other cultivators.

  Medium was the only option.

  But the board was nearly empty.

  He stepped up to the front desk and

  asked why.

  The man behind the counter looked

  gentle—early fifties, calm eyes, polite voice. He explained that due to issues

  outside the sect’s wilderness gate, all missions were suspended.

  No first-years would be allowed out

  for the next two to three months.

  He didn’t elaborate.

  But Damian didn’t need him to.

  The careful phrasing, the avoidance

  of detail—it was obvious.

  A cultivator threat. Close enough

  to matter. Second-years are probably deployed. Maybe an Elder, just to be safe.

  Annoyance flared—

  Then Damian reframed it.

  Three months.

  A clear deadline.

  In three months, he would become a

  Magic cultivator.

  He would master —or at least reach a level where it could save his

  life.

  That was the plan.

  As he thanked the staff member and

  stepped back, he spotted Kevin near the board, frowning at the empty listings.

  Damian walked up beside him,

  smirking. “Didn’t think they’d have you fancy Elder students doing missions

  this early.”

  Kevin snorted. “My master said I

  need ‘real experience.’ Whatever that means.”

  Damian studied him. Fast, talented,

  but still… untampered. A blade that hadn’t been tested.

  Interesting.

  “Well,” Damian said lightly, “hate

  to ruin your plans, but first-years are banned for three months.”

  Kevin blinked. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Whatever’s outside the gate

  would get us killed.”

  Kevin clicked his tongue. “Figures.”

  Damian laughed softly. “Tell you

  what. When the ban lifts, we take a mission together.”

  Kevin considered it. “As long as

  it’s at least medium. My master would kill me otherwise.”

  Damian clapped once, grinning.

  “Same.”

  They parted ways.

  As Damian walked off, his thoughts

  settled again.

  Three months.

  That was enough time.

  Enough time to become something

  useful.

  With new goals set, Damian made one

  more stop.

  Elder Duan.

  If anyone outside of Lee could

  offer a perspective on Magic cultivators, it would be him. Duan had tried to

  stop Damian from walking this path. That meant he knew something—whether from

  rumor, experience, or simple fear.

  Duan’s training ground was public,

  but smaller than most by choice. As Damian approached, he felt the difference

  immediately.

  No overwhelming pressure meant to

  impress.

  No spectacle.

  Instead, it felt… personal.

  Like a garden.

  At its center stood a single tree

  in full bloom, pink petals drifting lazily through the air. Beneath it sat a

  student in meditation.

  Damian recognized the pale

  complexion within seconds.

  Marcus Lin.

  The younger brother of the Immortal

  Sword.

  Beside him stood Elder Duan.

  The moment Damian crossed within

  twenty feet, pressure washed over him—not violent, but sharp. Like stepping

  onto a battlefield without armor.

  His instincts screamed. His body

  tensed.

  Then the pressure eased.

  Duan had recognized him.

  Damian stopped at a respectable

  distance, deliberately avoiding Marcus. He had no desire to draw attention from

  a prodigy whose family history reeked of blood and grudges.

  Duan continued instructing his

  student calmly, repeating the same principle: a sword cultivator needed an

  empty mind, but a solid heart.

  Only after finishing did he turn

  and walk toward Damian.

  He wore dark green and black sect

  robes, his damaged arm hidden within the sleeve. When he reached Damian, his

  expression softened into something closer to a teacher greeting a student.

  Damian bowed. “Greetings, Elder. I

  was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

  Duan nodded. “I don’t know the full

  extent of your situation,” he said, “but from what the principal told me,

  walking that path was a good decision for you.”

  Damian straightened. “That’s why

  I’m here. Master Lee has been teaching me, but he’s… vague. I wanted your

  perspective.”

  He hesitated only briefly. “How do

  you view Magic cultivators?”

  Duan rubbed his face slowly.

  “That’s an interesting question.”

  He looked at Damian with something

  like reluctant honesty. “You are a unique bunch.”

  His voice stayed calm, but Damian

  could hear the restraint beneath it.

  “From the stories and information

  I’ve gathered,” Duan continued, “you’re always considered dangerous encounters.

  Clever. Powerful.”

  He adjusted his robe. “Monsters.

  Unique monsters. Wherever you appear, chaos follows.”

  Damian stayed quiet.

  “One thing I’ve heard

  consistently,” Duan added, “is that your leaders—no matter the generation—are

  considered walking disasters.”

  He met Damian’s eyes. “I don’t know

  much about the path itself. But if you can make it far enough… even reaching

  Lee’s level, you’ll have a future.”

  A pause.

  “I don’t know if it’ll be bright or

  deadly. But it will be yours.”

  Damian thanked him sincerely and

  turned to leave.

  As he walked away, a prickling

  sensation crawled up his spine.

  He didn’t turn around.

  He already knew.

  Marcus’s gaze pressed into his

  back—curious, measuring, cold.

  Damian kept smiling.

  He doubted he was truly on Marcus’s

  radar yet. More likely, it was a probe.

  That didn’t make it comfortable.

  As he put distance between them,

  Damian pieced together what he’d learned.

  Magic cultivators were rare.

  Feared. Poorly understood—even by elders.

  Either they kept a low profile… or

  they left no survivors.

  The second felt far more likely.

  Which raised an uncomfortable

  question.

  If they were truly that dangerous,

  why hadn’t the great families acted? Why hadn’t governments tried to suppress

  them—or ally with them?

  That led Damian to the thought he

  couldn’t shake.

  Strong enough to make everyone else

  hesitate?

  Damian exhaled slowly.

  “Three months,” he muttered. “I

  should talk to Teacher.”