**Chapter 5: The Drought and the Iron-Tipped Harvest**
Time, for a man who possesses an infinite supply of it, moves differently. It loses its sharp, frantic edges. The days cease to be a countdown to an inevitable end and instead become a gentle, flowing river, each drop as valuable and meaningless as the last.
Three months drifted over the Azure Mist Mountains in a haze of golden sunlight and cool, crisp breezes. Autumn had firmly taken root, painting the surrounding mortal forests in vibrant hues of crimson, ochre, and burnt orange.
Inside the boundaries of Lin Mo's invisible *Minor Wood-Spirit Ward*, the passage of time was marked not by the changing leaves, but by the relentless, quiet progression of hard work.
Lin Mo stood in the center of his dirt training patch, the morning air cool against his bare chest. His body had undergone a subtle but profound transformation over the past ninety days. The scrawny, underfed frame of the fifteen-year-old loose cultivator was completely gone. In its place stood the physique of a seasoned warrior in his absolute prime. Dense, corded muscle wrapped around his bones, his skin was tanned a healthy, golden bronze, and his hands were thick with protective calluses that felt like hardened leather.
He held his hornwood bow, the heavy weapon that had once caused him agonizing pain to draw, with casual ease. He didn't even look at the hay bale thirty paces away. He simply focused on the rhythm of his breathing, the alignment of his spine, and the smooth, mechanical release of his fingers.
*Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.*
Three arrows left the bow in less than two seconds. They struck the center of the hay bale in a tight, perfectly spaced triangle, burying themselves up to the fletching in the densely packed straw.
A familiar, comforting blue screen flickered into his vision.
**[Falling Leaf Archery proficiency +1]**
**[Falling Leaf Archery: Competent (142/500)]**
Lin Mo lowered the bow, letting out a satisfied breath. The mortal archery manual only contained the basics, but the system's absolute law of non-regression meant that every single one of the forty-five thousand arrows he had loosed over the past three months had contributed to an infallible, terrifying muscle memory. He could shoot the wings off a fly at forty paces in the dead of night.
He walked over to the water barrel, splashed his face, and summoned his full status panel.
**[Name: Lin Mo]**
**[Lifespan: Endless]**
**[Cultivation Realm: Qi Condensation, Level 2 (995/1000)]**
**[Cultivation Method]**
* **Azure Wood Breathing Art:** Novice (99/100)
**[Spells & Skills]**
* **Spring Breeze Drizzle Art:** Competent (210/500)
* **Earth Turning Technique:** Competent (15/500)
* **Array Formations:** Novice (88/100)
* **Carpentry:** Beginner (90/100)
**[Martial Arts]**
* **Mountain Cleaving Saber:** Competent (50/500)
* **Falling Leaf Archery:** Competent (142/500)
He was on the precipice. His dantian felt heavy, saturated to the absolute brim with pure, refined wood and earth qi. For the past week, every time he meditated, the spiritual energy felt as though it were pressing against a solid wall within his lower abdomen.
To break through to the third level of Qi Condensation, a cultivator had to forcefully expand that wall, increasing the physical capacity of the dantian. For those with poor spiritual roots like Lin Mo, this process was notoriously dangerous. Forcing the expansion often led to micro-tears in the spiritual reservoir, which leaked qi and caused excruciating pain. Wealthy cultivators bought 'Foundation Expanding Pills' to soften the dantian walls. Poor cultivators gritted their teeth, risked crippling themselves, and hoped for the best.
Lin Mo simply walked over to the porch, sat down in a comfortable lotus position, and closed his eyes.
"Let's get this over with," he murmured.
He initiated the *Azure Wood Breathing Art*. He drew in a massive breath of the ambient spiritual energy trapped within his array dome. He guided it down his spine, feeling the familiar, chaotic scrape of the raw qi against his poor-quality meridians.
He pushed the energy into his already-full dantian.
Immediately, a sharp, stabbing pain erupted in his lower stomach. The walls of his spiritual reservoir screamed in protest, stretching under the unnatural pressure. Lin Mo felt a sickening *pop* as a microscopic tear formed in the spiritual lining. A surge of chaotic qi began to leak into his internal organs, burning like battery acid.
Any other low-level cultivator would have immediately coughed up blood and ceased the breakthrough, their cultivation severely damaged.
Lin Mo didn't even flinch.
Deep within his soul, the Immortal Lotus sensed the damage. It flared brilliantly, its nine pearlescent petals spinning rapidly. A torrent of endless, pure vitality flooded downward. It hit the leaking dantian like a wave of cool, solidifying cement. It instantly patched the tear, but it didn't just heal it—it reinforced the expanded area, making the tissue thicker, more resilient.
Knowing his safety net was absolute, Lin Mo became ruthless. He abandoned the slow, careful breathing rhythm and inhaled the ambient qi like a starving man gorging on a feast. He violently slammed the energy into his dantian.
*Rip. Tear. Burn. Heal. Fortify.*
It was a brutal cycle of internal destruction and instant, divine reconstruction. The Lotus kept his physical body perfectly stable, anchoring him to his prime state while his spiritual vessel was violently remodeled.
After thirty minutes of agonizing internal pressure, there was a profound, echoing *crack* that reverberated through his entire body.
The invisible wall within his abdomen shattered.
The heavy, compressed spiritual liquid in his dantian suddenly rushed outward, filling the newly expanded space. The pressure vanished, replaced by a deep, resonant emptiness that craved to be filled. The volume of his spiritual reservoir had just doubled.
At the same moment, the knowledge of his breathing art seemed to click into perfect clarity in his mind. The inefficient, stuttering way he had been filtering the world's energy smoothed out, becoming a natural, subconscious reflex.
Two notifications cascaded into his vision, glowing brightly.
**[Azure Wood Breathing Art proficiency +1]**
**[Azure Wood Breathing Art has reached 'Competent' level]**
**[Cultivation Breakthrough: Qi Condensation, Level 3 (0/2000)]**
Lin Mo opened his eyes. The world looked slightly sharper. The colors of the autumn leaves outside his barrier were more vibrant. He could vividly sense the distinct, individual pulses of wood-qi coming from every single stalk of wheat in his fields.
He let out a long, slow breath. The breakthrough had cost him no money, required no dangerous expeditions, and left zero hidden impurities in his body. It had merely required time and the willingness to endure a bit of pain.
"Level three," he smiled, stretching his arms. "At this breakneck pace, I'll reach Foundation Establishment in a mere forty years."
A loud, booming bark interrupted his celebration.
Bounding from the edge of the fields was Baozi. The Earth-Burrowing Hound was no longer a fat, waddling pup. He was a magnificent beast, standing as tall as Lin Mo's waist, with a chest like a barrel and thick, dark mahogany fur that shimmered with a faint, earthen light. He moved with surprising agility for his size, his heavy paws thudding against the dirt.
Baozi slid to a halt at the edge of the porch, a large, dead, mortal forest badger hanging from his jaws. He dropped the creature at Lin Mo's feet, let out a proud *woof*, and sat back on his haunches, his golden eyes shining expectantly.
Since evolving into a Rank 1 mid-tier beast, Baozi had appointed himself the guardian and provider of the farm. He frequently used his earth-manipulation abilities to slip under the array boundary at night, hunt in the nearby woods, and bring his kills back.
"Good boy," Lin Mo laughed, reaching out to roughly scratch the thick fur around the hound's neck. "You're getting faster. But I'm not eating badger for breakfast. You can have it after we work the fields."
At the mention of the fields, Baozi gave a low groan, flopping dramatically onto his side.
"Don't give me that," Lin Mo said, nudging the massive dog with his foot. "It's harvest day. The wheat isn't going to grind itself."
Lin Mo walked out to his two-acre plot. The sight was deeply satisfying. The acre of Moonlight Beans was covered in low, silvery bushes, heavy with pods that faintly lumesced even in the daylight. The acre of Azure-Vein Wheat was a sea of tall, stiff, golden stalks, the grains glowing with a dense, heavy earth-qi.
However, looking past his invisible green barrier, the stark contrast of the world outside was alarming.
The mortal forest beyond his fence was dying. The autumn colors weren't natural; they were the result of severe desiccation. The leaves were brittle and falling prematurely. The dirt road was cracked and dusty. The small creek that usually trickled near his property line had completely dried up, leaving behind a bed of cracked mud.
For the past two months, a localized, severe drought had struck the Clear Water region. Not a single drop of rain had fallen.
Lin Mo's farm, however, was an oasis. The *Minor Wood-Spirit Ward* acted as a terrarium. It trapped the moisture inside, and Lin Mo's daily application of the *Spring Breeze Drizzle Art*—now effortlessly sustained thanks to his higher proficiency and larger qi reserves—ensured his crops drank deeply every single morning.
The drought hadn't affected him physically, but he knew the economic and social ramifications for the rest of the region would be devastating. Desperation was a breeder of violence.
"Focus on what you can control," Lin Mo muttered, turning his attention back to his harvest.
He spent the morning clearing the Moonlight Beans. It was relatively easy work. The pods snapped off cleanly, and he tossed them into his woven baskets.
The Azure-Vein Wheat, however, was a different beast entirely. As Elder Ma had warned, the stalks were incredibly tough, heavily infused with earth-qi to protect the grains.
Lin Mo swung his iron sickle.
*Clang.*
The blade bounced off the wheat stalk, leaving only a shallow notch. The impact jarred Lin Mo's wrist.
"Stubborn," Lin Mo grunted. He channeled his newly expanded spiritual qi into the iron, forcing a sharp edge of wood-qi along the blade, and swung again. This time, the sickle sheared through the stalk, but it drained a noticeable chunk of his energy. Harvesting an entire acre this way would take days.
He looked over at Baozi, who was happily gnawing on the badger near the porch.
"Baozi! Get over here. Earn your keep!"
The hound looked up, sighed, and trotted over to the edge of the wheat field.
"Loosen the roots," Lin Mo instructed, pointing at the golden sea of wheat.
Baozi gave a sharp bark. He slammed his massive front paws into the dirt. A wave of golden-brown earth-qi pulsed outward from the dog, rippling through the soil beneath the wheat.
The ground churned and trembled. The tough, deep-set roots of the Azure-Vein Wheat were violently shoved upward, breaking their connection to the deep soil. The entire acre of stalks shifted, leaning haphazardly, their iron-like grip on the earth broken.
"Perfect. Good boy," Lin Mo praised, tossing the hound a piece of dried spirit-meat from his pouch.
With the roots dislodged, the stalks lost their ambient earth-qi reinforcement. Lin Mo was able to wade into the field and harvest them rapidly, his sickle cutting through the weakened stems with ease.
By mid-afternoon, the harvest was complete and piled near his shed. Now came the processing.
The Moonlight Beans were simple. He spread them out on large wooden drying racks to let the sun harden the pods so they could be easily shelled later. The wheat required milling.
Behind his cabin sat a massive, circular stone mill that Lin Mo had purchased and hauled from town two months prior. It consisted of a heavy, flat base stone and a massive, cylindrical top stone that weighed nearly five hundred pounds. A thick wooden push-bar jutted from the top stone.
It was designed to be operated by an ox or two strong mortal men.
Lin Mo poured a basket of the tough Azure-Vein grains into the center hole of the mill. He didn't harness an ox. He simply walked over to the wooden push-bar, gripped it with both hands, and engaged his core.
He didn't use spiritual qi. He relied entirely on the physical strength granted by his endless vitality and the thousands of saber swings that had hardened his muscles.
He pushed.
The massive stone groaned, resisting the movement, but then it began to slide, grinding against the base.
*Grit. Crush. Grind.*
Lin Mo walked in a steady circle, driving the massive stone around and around. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his leg muscles bulging with exertion. As the heavy stone crushed the iron-hard husks of the wheat, a fine, pale-yellow flour began to sift out from the edges, collecting in the wooden trough below.
It was agonizing, brutal labor. After ten minutes, his arms felt like lead, and his back ached fiercely.
But the Immortal Lotus pulsed.
The fatigue washed away, replaced by cool, endless stamina. He didn't need to stop. He didn't need to rest. He became a perpetual motion machine, grinding his harvest with the relentless, unyielding patience of a glacier carving a valley.
When Baozi woke from a nap an hour later and trotted over to see what the noise was, he simply sat down and watched his master push a stone that weighed five times as much as the dog did, round and round, without breaking a sweat.
By sunset, Lin Mo had processed fifty pounds of the flour. It was enough for his immediate needs.
He retreated to his kitchen, his body humming with the pleasant vibration of hard physical labor. He took two handfuls of the dense, yellow flour, mixed it with water, and kneaded it into a thick dough. He flattened it out and tossed it onto a hot, dry iron skillet over his fire.
While the flatbread cooked, releasing a rich, earthy aroma that made his mouth water, he boiled a pot of water. He shelled a handful of the freshly harvested Moonlight Beans—they looked like tiny, silver pearls—and dropped them into the boiling water to steep.
He took his dinner out to the porch. The sun was gone, replaced by a blanket of brilliant stars.
He tore a piece of the Azure-Vein flatbread. It was incredibly tough, requiring significant jaw strength to chew, but the moment it broke down in his mouth, a dense, warm feeling of physical nourishment flooded his stomach. It didn't provide spiritual qi like the Golden Jade rice; instead, it fortified the flesh and blood, settling heavily and comfortably in his gut.
He washed it down with the Moonlight Bean tea. The hot liquid slid down his throat, instantly releasing a cool, refreshing wave of yin-qi that rushed directly into his newly expanded dantian, rapidly refilling the reserves he had depleted during his morning breakthrough.
"Self-sufficiency," Lin Mo sighed in pure contentment. He was eating food he grew, on land he protected, living a life he entirely controlled.
But the reality of his isolated existence meant he still needed basic supplies. He was out of salt, his cooking oil was low, and he needed more iron nails for his carpentry projects. Furthermore, he had an excess of the Azure-Vein flour that he could trade.
The next morning, he hitched his wooden cart to Baozi. The hound, despite his massive size and fearsome appearance, simply let out a resigned sigh and allowed himself to be strapped into the harness.
"Don't sulk. You ate three badgers this week. Walk it off," Lin Mo commanded gently.
The moment they stepped off Lin Mo's property, passing through the invisible barrier of the ward, the oppressive reality of the outside world hit them.
The air was bone-dry, carrying the scent of dust and dying vegetation. The dirt path beneath Baozi's paws was cracked so deeply it looked like a shattered mosaic. The trees bordering the path were entirely bare, their branches looking like skeletal fingers reaching pleadingly toward the cloudless sky.
As they approached the outer boundaries of Clear Water Town, the situation grew increasingly grim.
The farms belonging to the other low-level loose cultivators were wastelands. Without a massive array to trap moisture or the deep qi reserves to sustain rain spells, their crops had completely withered. Stalks of yellow, dead spirit rice lay rotting in the dust.
Lin Mo saw an elderly cultivator sitting in the dirt of his ruined field, staring blankly at the dead stalks, his hands trembling. He looked like a man who had already died but simply hadn't stopped breathing yet.
A profound sense of unease settled into Lin Mo's stomach. This wasn't just a poor harvest; this was a famine in the making.
Passing through the massive stone gates of Clear Water Town, the atmosphere was a powder keg. The usual bustling, noisy energy of the market was gone, replaced by a tense, suffocating silence.
The hawkers weren't shouting their wares. The mortal townspeople moved quickly, heads down, clutching their meager belongings tightly. Cultivators, usually arrogant and aloof, loitered on the street corners in packs, their eyes darting around with the predatory, desperate look of starving wolves.
Lin Mo kept his face blank, pulling the brim of his straw hat down low. He guided Baozi directly to the agricultural sector.
He stopped at Uncle Wang's vegetable stall. The jovial, rotund mortal man was gone. In his place stood a gaunt, hollow-eyed version of Wang, his clothes hanging loosely on his frame. His stall was nearly empty, holding only a few shriveled, pathetic-looking root vegetables.
"Uncle Wang," Lin Mo greeted softly.
Wang looked up, blinking slowly before recognition dawned. "Little Brother Lin. You... you look well." Wang's voice was hoarse. He eyed Lin Mo's healthy complexion and the massive, well-fed beast pulling his cart with a mixture of awe and disguised envy.
"I've managed," Lin Mo said quietly. He didn't want to flaunt his success. "I don't have vegetables today, but I have a sack of Azure-Vein flour. Fifty pounds. I need salt, oil, and some common spices."
Wang's eyes widened at the mention of the flour. "Heavens, Lin Mo. Keep your voice down." Wang looked frantically left and right, ensuring none of the loitering cultivators had heard.
"Things are that bad?" Lin Mo asked, stepping closer to the stall.
"Worse," Wang whispered leaning in over the counter. "The magistrate has tripled the food tax for mortals. The cultivators who lost their harvests are refusing to pay rent, and the magistrate's enforcers are breaking legs. The grain merchants are hoarding everything, waiting for the prices to rise even higher."
Wang pointed a trembling finger toward the towering peaks of the Azure Mist Sect in the distance.
"It's them. Elder Ma says the Sect is refining a massive batch of Water-Cloud Pills for their inner disciples. They forcefully diverted the underground spirit springs that feed the outer regions to supply their alchemy cauldrons. They stole the water, Lin Mo. They stole it to make pills, and left us to dry up and blow away."
Lin Mo's jaw tightened. The casual cruelty of the powerful. To the sect, the thousands of mortals and low-level cultivators in the outer ring were nothing more than an acceptable casualty for the progression of a few chosen geniuses.
Lin Mo reached into his robes. He didn't pull out the flour. Instead, he pulled out a small, tightly wrapped canvas bundle he had prepared for his own lunch. It contained five dense, fully cooked Azure-Vein flatbreads, packed with physical nourishment.
He slid the bundle across the counter, hiding it under a piece of dirty burlap.
"I don't need the salt today, Uncle Wang. Take this. For your family. Don't eat it in public," Lin Mo said, his voice flat and commanding.
Wang looked under the burlap, his eyes filling with sudden tears. He reached out and grabbed Lin Mo's hand, squeezing it weakly. "The heavens will bless you, Lin Mo. You are a good man."
"I'm just a gardener," Lin Mo replied gently, pulling his hand away.
He didn't visit Elder Ma. He didn't visit the blacksmith. The town was too volatile, too dangerous. Flaunting a heavy cart of valuable, qi-dense flour in a town filled with starving cultivators was practically begging to be murdered.
"Let's go home, Baozi," Lin Mo ordered, turning the cart around immediately.
He felt the eyes on him as he left the town. Hungry, desperate eyes tracking the healthy gleam of his dog's coat and the unbothered, steady stride of his walk. He kept his hand near the hilt of his iron saber the entire journey back, his senses heightened.
He made it back to his farm without incident, the invisible green dome parting to let him and Baozi through before sealing shut behind them.
The contrast between the dying world outside and the vibrant, pulsing life inside his ward had never felt so profound, or so dangerous. His farm was a beacon in the darkness. To a starving man, a locked door wasn't a deterrent; it was a challenge.
Lin Mo unhitched Baozi, giving the hound an extra portion of dried meat. "Sleep on the porch tonight, buddy. Keep your ears open."
He spent the evening not in meditation, but in preparation. He sat by his oil lamp, sharpening the broadhead tips of his iron arrows with a whetstone. He cleaned and oiled his saber. He checked the spiritual qi reserves in the *Minor Wood-Spirit Ward's* central disc, ensuring it was fully charged.
He went to sleep fully dressed, his bow resting on the bed beside him.
The attack didn't come that night, nor the next.
It came on the fourth night of the drought, just as the crescent moon reached its zenith.
Lin Mo was in the middle of a light meditation cycle when a sharp, high-pitched chime rang directly inside his skull.
The *Alert Node*.
His eyes snapped open. He didn't rush. He smoothly slid off the bed, grabbed his hornwood bow, slung his quiver over his shoulder, and strapped the heavy iron saber to his waist.
He stepped out onto the porch. Baozi was already awake, standing at the top of the steps, a low, terrifying growl vibrating deep in his massive chest. The hound's golden eyes were locked onto the southern perimeter fence.
Through the darkness, Lin Mo could see them.
Five figures were standing on the dirt road, just outside his wooden fence. They wore the ragged, mismatched robes of loose cultivators. They looked thin, desperate, and heavily armed with cheap, rust-pitted swords and crude iron spears.
Leading them was a man nearly as large as Iron-Arm Chen. He was bald, heavily scarred, and radiated a chaotic, fiery aura that pegged him as a Qi Condensation Level 4 cultivator—a brute who relied on physical strength and low-grade fire magic.
"Look at this," the bald man rasped, his voice carrying easily in the still night air. He reached out, running a hand over Lin Mo's wooden fence. "Green grass. I can smell the damp earth. This little rat has been hoarding a water talisman or an array while the rest of us eat dust."
One of the thinner cultivators sneered. "He's just a Level 3 farmer, Boss. I checked his registry in town last month. Nobody backs him."
"Good," the brute grunted. He raised a heavy, iron-shod boot and kicked violently at the wooden gate.
*BOOM.*
The boot never touched the wood. A brilliant, emerald-green web of energy flared into existence an inch from the gate, absorbing the kinetic force entirely. The brute was thrown backward, stumbling into the dust, cursing loudly.
"An array!" one of the men shouted in surprise. "A real defensive array! How did a trash farmer afford that?"
Lin Mo stepped forward, walking slowly to the very edge of his porch. The moonlight illuminated him perfectly. He stood tall, his posture relaxed, the heavy hornwood bow held casually in his left hand.
"It's a polite request to stay off my lawn," Lin Mo called out, his voice calm, steady, and utterly devoid of fear.
The five cultivators snapped their attention to him. The brute scrambled back to his feet, his face twisting in rage.
"You little shit," the brute snarled, stepping up to the glowing green barrier. "You think a cheap tortoise shell will save you? I am Huang, leader of the Iron-Blood Brotherhood! The whole outer ring is starving, and you sit in here growing fat on spirit wheat? Open this barrier, hand over all your food, and surrender that beast of yours, and I might let you live to see morning."
Lin Mo sighed. It was always the same script. Greed, masked as righteous desperation.
"Huang," Lin Mo said, projecting his voice clearly. "I sympathize with your hunger. The sect has wronged us all. But this farm is mine. I built it. I bled for it. There is nothing here for you. Walk away now, and we can pretend this never happened."
Huang threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "You hear that, boys? The farmer is giving us mercy!" He stopped laughing, his eyes narrowing into hateful slits. "Break the dome! He's only Level 3; he can't power it forever!"
Huang stepped back, his hands flashing through a series of rapid, crude hand seals. His palms ignited with roaring, unnatural flames. The four men behind him drew their weapons and began to hack wildly at the invisible barrier.
"Fireball!" Huang roared, thrusting his hands forward.
A sphere of condensed, roaring fire the size of a boulder shot from his hands, slamming directly into the *Minor Wood-Spirit Ward*.
The entire emerald dome flared into visibility, violently shuddering under the impact. The *Reflect Node* tried to bounce the energy, but the sheer elemental disadvantage of wood against fire caused the barrier to groan.
Down in his dantian, Lin Mo felt a sudden, sharp drain on his spiritual reserves. The array was drawing on his energy to repair the damage. At this rate, five men battering the shield while a Level 4 cultivator spammed fire magic would break his qi reserves in less than an hour.
Lin Mo's expression hardened. The time for words had passed. The illusion of peaceful isolation was over.
"You cannot tend a garden if you cannot kill the pests," he whispered to himself.
He didn't draw his saber. He didn't cast his *Drizzle Art*.
He raised the hornwood bow.
His movements were a blur of absolute, mechanical perfection, honed by nearly fifty thousand repetitions. He nocked an iron-tipped arrow, drew the heavy hemp string back to his cheek, and exhaled.
He didn't aim for the head. He wasn't a murderer by trade, and he wanted to send a message, not start a blood feud with whatever larger gang these idiots belonged to.
Through the shimmering green barrier, his eyes locked onto Huang, who was currently forming the hand seals for a second Fireball, his right hand glowing brightly.
*Thwack.*
The bowstring snapped forward.
The arrow passed through the *Minor Wood-Spirit Ward* seamlessly—the array was designed to allow attacks outward while preventing entry.
Huang never even saw it coming.
The iron broadhead crossed the thirty-yard distance in a fraction of a second. It struck Huang's glowing right hand perfectly, driving straight through his palm, shattering the metacarpal bones, and embedding itself a full three inches deep into the thick wooden trunk of the dead tree standing directly behind him.
The Fireball spell collapsed instantly in a shower of harmless sparks.
Huang stood frozen for a microscopic second, staring at his hand, which was now securely nailed to a tree, blood pouring down the bark.
Then, he began to scream. It was a high, shrill sound of pure, unadulterated agony.
The other four cultivators stopped hacking at the barrier, turning around in horror. They looked at their leader, pinned to a tree by a single arrow, screaming like a slaughtered pig.
Lin Mo hadn't stopped moving.
In the time it took Huang to begin screaming, Lin Mo had nocked and drawn a second arrow. He aimed at the ground, three inches in front of the feet of the closest thug.
*Thwack.*
The arrow buried itself halfway into the packed dirt, the fletching vibrating violently just toes away from the man's boots.
The thug shrieked, dropping his rusted sword and falling onto his backside.
"Next one goes through the throat," Lin Mo said. He didn't shout. He didn't infuse his voice with qi. He spoke with the quiet, chilling certainty of an accountant confirming a negative balance.
Baozi stepped forward, placing his front paws on the lowest rail of the porch fence. He unleashed a roar that sounded more like an earthquake than a bark. The ground beneath the four uninjured thugs violently buckled, throwing them entirely off balance.
"A... a Rank 1 beast!" one of them screamed, scrambling backward in the dirt. "He has a demon beast!"
The fight was over before it ever truly began. The sheer, shocking violence of the single arrow, combined with the terrifying roar of the massive hound, shattered their desperate courage.
"Pull it out! Pull it out!" Huang wailed, tugging frantically at his ruined hand, tearing his own flesh against the iron broadhead in his panic.
Two of his men grabbed him, violently yanking him backward. The arrow ripped free from the tree, but remained lodged in his hand. They didn't wait to grab their dropped weapons. The five men turned and fled down the cracked dirt road, disappearing into the darkness of the dead woods, Huang's pained whimpers fading into the night.
Lin Mo stood on the porch for a long time, the bow still held loosely in his hand. He watched the empty road, listening to the return of the nocturnal silence.
He looked down at the hornwood bow. It was just a piece of wood and string. A mortal weapon. Yet, guided by the infallible, unyielding perfection of his proficiency panel, it had defeated a Level 4 cultivator and his gang in a single heartbeat.
He didn't feel a rush of adrenaline. He didn't feel the bloodlust that drove so many cultivators to seek combat.
He felt only a profound, quiet satisfaction.
His walls had held. His skills had proven true. His home was safe.
He unstrung the bow, patted Baozi heavily on the head, and turned back to his cabin.
Tomorrow, he needed to till the empty fields. He was thinking of planting spirit-cabbages. They required less water, and with the drought persisting, it was the sensible, practical choice for a gardener who intended to outlive the world.