CHAPTER 6
That night, Yang Feng did not cultivate.
He only sat.
The Outer Sect was silent. Wind moved across the roof tiles. In the distance, the bell of the Ninefold Qi Refining Tower echoed.
He did not need to think long.
The path the sect laid out was very stable.
Temper the body.
Accumulate points.
Wait five years.
Exchange for a Foundation Elixir.
Correct. And safe.
But who could guarantee he would still be alive after those five years?
Qi Refinement was the lowest tier.
The ones sent out the most.
The ones who died the most.
Many never even reached Foundation, already left behind in some forgotten corner of a forest.
If cultivating meant dying earlier than a mortal…
Then what was the point of cultivating?
Yang Feng lowered his gaze to his own hands.
He did not want to defy the heavens.
He wanted to live.
Live long enough to choose his own path later.
That was enough.
The next day.
Yang Feng stood before the Mission Hall.
This building stood to the west of the plaza, not far from the training grounds.
If the Transmission Hall carried the stillness of studying the Dao, then the Mission Hall carried the smell of… reality.
Thick stone walls. The main doors open all day.
People moving in and out without pause. Footsteps. Discussions. Complaints… blending together like a small marketplace.
At the center of the main hall stood the mission board.
A large wooden wall taller than two men, covered in bamboo slips listing tasks.
Some newly placed.
Some so old the writing had faded.
Some scratched across by someone in frustration.
Beside the board stood a long table, where several stewards recorded names, received missions, and stamped confirmations.
The smell of ink, paper, road dust… mixed with the sweat of disciples who had just returned from below the mountain.
The air here was not solemn like the Transmission Hall.
It was noisy. Real. Heavy with pressure.
A place where outer disciples had to face the truth:
If you want to live, you must take missions.
If you want to grow stronger, you must accumulate points.
If you want to exist…
no one is allowed to stand still.
Yang Feng stood before the mission board.
His gaze swept over each bamboo slip, not lingering more than a breath.
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He did not look for glory.
He did not look for difficulty.
He did not look for anything to prove himself.
He looked for only one thing,
which one was the safest.
Level 1 mission: gather herbs for the Healing Pavilion — 20 contribution points.
Level 2 mission: suppress bandits at the foot of the mountain — 30 points.
Level 3 mission: capture a demonic cultivator — 50 points.
Level 3 mission: hunt spirit beasts — 50 points.
He calculated quickly.
Two Level 1 and Level 2 missions together equaled one Level 3.
But Level 3 missions…
either meant facing demonic cultivators,
or encountering spirit beasts.
Not worth it.
And low-level missions?
Killing mortal bandits.
Gathering herbs.
Finding lost items.
Escorting caravans.
Slow.
Few points.
But… hard to die.
He gave a slight nod, as if confirming it to himself.
“Enough.”
Yang Feng extended his hand.
No hesitation.
No further thought.
He pulled down four bamboo slips in one motion… all Level 1 and Level 2 missions.
The movement was so decisive that several nearby disciples were startled.
He turned and left, steps light as if everything had already been calculated.
Murmurs rose behind him.
One frowned.
“Huh… first time and he takes those?”
Another let out a quiet laugh.
“Not taking a Level 3? That scared?”
Someone else only watched him, expression puzzled.
“This guy… strange.”
No one knew what he was thinking.
They only saw him turn and leave, steps light as though everything had been decided long ago.
And from that moment,
the first impression of Yang Feng within the Outer Sect was set:
someone… unlike the others.
Yang Feng stepped out of the Mission Hall, the morning sunlight falling straight upon the stone steps before him.
In his hand were four thin bamboo slips, light enough to seem weightless… yet determining a long stretch of time ahead.
He did not turn back to look at the mission board again.
Nor did he pay attention to the gazes still following him.
He simply walked quietly toward the western mountain gate,
where the dirt road leading down toward the market town and the villages at the foot of Heavenly Sword Mountain began to unfold, long and dusty.
The first mission Yang Feng chose to complete was:
“Suppress the Bandit Camp of Linghe Village.”
He glanced again at the bamboo slip to confirm the direction.
To Linghe Village.
..
..
The dirt road leading down to Linghe Village was narrow and uneven, fields of yellowed grass on both sides burned by drought.
Wind passed through, lifting thin layers of dust that clung to legs, to robes, to breath.
From afar, the village could already be seen.
A row of crooked thatched houses, roofs full of holes.
Earthen walls cracked long like spider webs.
Wooden doors hanging crooked, ready to fall open with a stronger gust of wind.
No children’s voices.
No dogs barking.
Only wind whistling through the cracks in the walls.
Villagers stood scattered before their homes.
Thin.
Gaunt.
Faces hollow.
In every gaze there was something… exhaustion and vigilance.
One man held an arm wrapped in torn cloth.
An old woman saw Yang Feng’s blue robe and shrank slightly aside, as if afraid of causing trouble.
An elderly woman looked at him, eyes both hopeful and fearful.
“Another… another cultivator has come?”
A child hid behind his mother’s back.
Large eyes, but without the light of childhood — only worry.
At the far end of the village, one house had been burned black, only a charred frame remaining.
Ash still carried the scent of smoke.
Yang Feng understood at a glance.
The bandits did not only rob.
They killed.
And they killed often.
The air in the village felt heavy enough to choke the throat.
A middle-aged man stepped forward, walking with a limp, voice hoarse.
“Immortal… the bandit camp lies north of the bamboo forest.
They… they came here three days ago.
Linghe Village… cannot endure another time.”
He bowed deeply, trembling.
Yang Feng said nothing.
He only tightened his grip on the bamboo slip.
Level 2 mission.
Few contribution points.
But looking at the devastation before him,
he understood why the sect still issued this mission.
The bandit camp lay three li north of Linghe Village.
The path into the bamboo forest was so narrow only one person could pass.
On both sides were tall bamboo stalks, deep green, leaves sharp as blades.
The deeper he walked, the dimmer the light.
Wind moving through the bamboo created a long whistling sound, like someone whispering in the dark.
Yang Feng stopped before a small clearing.
From here, he could already see the camp.
A crude wooden fence stood around it, crooked as though a single push could topple it.
Yet on those wooden stakes,
hung torn pieces of armor stained with dried blood.
The camp gate stood half open.
No guards.
Only an oil lamp hanging loosely, swaying with the wind.
Inside, several low wooden huts, thatched roofs blackened by smoke.
Some still emitted warmth, as if cooking had just finished.
Some doors stood wide open, darkness inside, nothing visible but vague shadows.
Coarse laughter echoed from one corner of the camp.
The sound of bowls striking.
Someone cursing.
And woven between those sounds…
a faint, stifled moan, as though someone’s mouth had been covered.
Yang Feng stood still within the bamboo’s shadow, not entering at once.
He observed.
Counted the number of people.
Counted the exits.
Not because he did not wish to fight yet.
But because he was calculating a retreat.
Suddenly, he realized—
within the air there was
…a fluctuation of Spiritual Power
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