The wind off Lague Mountain still carried the faint, acrid bite of death-luck grass as I descended the western gullies. They must be thinking that I am on the other side—the eastern slope, the safer one, the one where search parties from the awakening ceremony would naturally look first for a dazed, half-naked orphan boy still buzzing from his aperture opening. I doubt they will notice that I am not there. No one will bother scouring these razor ridges for me. Perfect.
I moved forward along the path Grandfather had etched into my memory during those long, cold nights when the wind howled like grieving spirits—every crooked pine marking a turn, every shallow dip where rainwater gathered into hidden snares, every thicket of thorn-vine that could conceal a beast's ambush. The way felt as easy as a breeze, almost too easy to believe this is a cultivation world where monsters roam, eager to devour humans—not only out of hunger, but also to rise in rank, for they too desire strength and survival.
My steps were smooth, slipping past traps whose purpose I did not yet understand, until I heard familiar footsteps—soft, practiced, predatory.
A voice called out from the thicket, dry and tinged with disappointment.
"I am a bandit here to rob you—even your clothes."
He stepped into view: lean, mid-twenties, face half-hidden beneath a patched hood, eyes sharp like chipped flint. Four more shadows rose behind him—two at peak rank 1, three at high rank 1, one lingering at middle rank 1 as though still weighing whether today was worth the blood.
They took the small pouch at my waist—the pitiful resources I had painstakingly saved for reaching middle rank 1 cultivation—and the disappointment weighed heavier than the loss itself. Not just the coin and herbs gone, but the missed opportunity. No girl among them, I thought bitterly, gaze flicking over the five hardened men. If there were one, I could have turned this trap inside out. Dropped to one knee, clutched my chest, eyes wide and dramatic: "I… I fell in love at first sight with you, miss. This ambush has captured my heart—please, let me join you, I beg!" They'd laugh, or hesitate, or at least lower their blades for a second. Long enough for me to vanish into the nearest shadow and leave them clutching air.
But there was no girl here. Just five rough men with swords, spears, and hungry eyes. No easy romantic ploy to exploit. No skirt-line to hide behind. Just the raw calculus of survival.
Still, I realized it may be safer to travel as a bandit. In this world calm always precedes the storm, and with only one skill, death awaits me.
I raised empty hands slowly, voice calm.
"Bayley Lone. No family. No backing. Just awakened. I'd rather join than die here. My skill might be useful."
They exchanged glances. The leader—Grim—tilted his head.
"Show it."
I picked the deepest shadow cast by a leaning boulder forty meters away. Fed qi into the aperture. The pull was medium—noticeable, not draining. Reality folded once, twice. One heartbeat I stood before them; the next I crouched on the boulder, then jumped back in the same breath.
Grim whistled low.
"Shadow Jump. Rare piece of shit. Half movement, half evasion. No shield, just gone. Perfect bait for monsters. You're in."
No ceremony. No blood oath. Bandits didn't waste time on trust—they wasted it on results.
Thus began my journey as a bandit.
We slew many rank 1 beasts—frenzy rabbits that blurred crimson across the undergrowth, grey wolves whose howls carried faint killing intent—using coordinated tactics. The peak and high rank 1 fighters wielded swords and spears in close combat, carving brutal, efficient arcs that severed tendons first, throats second. Others hurled fireballs that reeked of sulfur and waterballs that froze on impact. One peak rank 1 cultivator raised earth-type defenses—thick slabs of hardened soil that cracked under claws but bought precious seconds to regroup and shield the wounded. At night we rested carelessly in shallow overhangs or root-caverns, though I slept lightly, knowing a single beast could end us all.
They became bandits because their families were mortal. Cultivation demanded resources they could never beg from sects, yet they had to care for their kin. The sin path was easier to cultivate—qi flowed faster, breakthroughs came cheaper—but they never revealed its secrets to me, for I was righteous while they were unorthodox. Their mindset had hardened into banditry over years of necessity. They were surprised by my solitude—no family at all—and assumed that lack of ties was what led me here, that I had nothing to lose or protect. I kept silent about Lague Mountain to avoid trouble.
Things might have remained stable, but righteousness soon arrived.
The girl we robbed was a maid serving a cultivator, and she returned with his companions—eight youngsters in total, swords gleaming with virtue-light, formation tight as sect drills. We cursed silently in our minds: Why let a maid carry something precious if you did not want her robbed? You clearly seek to loot us under the guise of justice.
The battle began.
Rank 1 fights are unpredictable—ranks are hard to discern at this stage, everyone looks the same until someone bleeds. On one side, seven righteous cultivators stood in formation, blades gleaming and spells weaving together in practiced harmony. On the other, six unorthodox fighters and I, the newcomer, moved with cunning and deceit, relying on instinct and experience rather than honor.
Steel clashed against steel. Fireballs streaked through the air, water surged to counter them. Earth walls rose and crumbled. Spears and swords carved arcs of desperation. I darted through the chaos, distracting the weakest opponent with Shadow Jump, slipping from shadow to shadow to break their rhythm. The righteous youngsters faltered, their lack of battle experience showing against our hardened instincts. For a moment it seemed the tide favored us—seven against seven, evenly matched in number if not in spirit.
But then despair descended.
A powerful cultivator arrived—rank 2, righteous, accompanied by his peak-tier snake. His presence shifted the balance instantly. The righteous side swelled to eight with his arrival, their morale surging, while we remained only seven in number. The snake coiled with lethal intent, its aura pressing down on us like a mountain.
At first, the righteous cultivators' teamwork shone, their unity sharper than any blade. We, the unorthodox, grinned through deceit and desperation, finding joy in the chaos. Yet when the rank 2 beast revealed itself as everyone's foe which led their legs trembled at the irony.
Relief turned to despair.
I could not help but laugh bitterly at the uncertainties of life.