The Discipline Hall of the Outer Sect smelled faintly of dried blood and old authority.
Deacon Shen sat behind a heavy ironwood desk, his fingers tapping against the surface in a slow, steady rhythm. It wasn't impatience—just thought. In front of him, Ma Chen lay sprawled on a woven mat, unconscious, his face pale and damp with cold sweat. The Pavilion Elder stood nearby, hands tucked into his sleeves, his expression calm but distant.
"His inner thigh nerve channels are ruined," the Elder said. "He will not walk properly again, let alone continue cultivating. He claims he stumbled after pushing the boy called Dver."
Shen's fingers stopped.
"Stumbled," he repeated, his tone flat.
The word settled. No one challenged it.
Zhao and Lin had disappeared without leaving anything behind—not even blood. Then Dver, shaking like a cornered animal, had sworn before thousands that he had hidden in the latrines through the night. It sounded absurd, yet no one could prove otherwise. Now, less than half a day later, a ranked disciple was crippled beside him by an "accident."
Shen remained still. In this sect, truth held little weight. What mattered was what could be proven—and what could be done without consequence.
"That boy…" he said.
A faint pressure spread from his body, enough to crack the stone beneath his feet. "He knows how to hide."
Not strength. Not yet. But timing. Restraint. And more importantly—the instinct to appear harmless.
Shen rose and walked toward the archive at the back of the hall. Rows of drawers lined the wall, each one holding the life of an Outer Sect disciple reduced to a thin strip of paper. He opened one near the bottom and pulled out a record.
"Dver. Sixteen. Mortal background. Iron miners from Ash-Ridge Valley."
He read it once and set it aside.
No backing. No protection. No one who would come asking questions.
That simplified everything.
A faint smile touched his lips, empty of warmth. People liked to believe cruelty came from anger, but anger was inefficient. It clouded judgment and wasted effort. This was cleaner.
He flicked the parchment toward an Enforcer standing near the door. "Take two men. Go to Ash-Ridge Valley tonight."
The Enforcer bowed.
"I don't care what remains of the camp," Shen continued. "Find his parents. Break their legs and bring them back alive."
He paused, just long enough to give the order weight.
"If the boy truly knows how to hide," Shen said, "we will see how long that lasts when it costs him something."
By the time night settled over the Outer Sect, the lower districts had already gone dark.
Dver sat cross-legged inside his small wooden shack. The shack was cramped and half-rotten, its wood warped from neglect, but he paid it no attention. The air felt heavy—not because of the room, but because of him. Faint, dark veins spread along his neck as he circulated the Asura's Iron-Blood Mantra with steady, controlled force.
He did not draw in the surrounding Qi. There was no need. He used what he had already taken—the vitality of the two disciples from the night before—forcing it through his body and refining it directly into flesh and bone.
A dull crack echoed within him. Then another.
His bones fractured and reformed in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The pain was intense—enough to break focus, enough to make most lose control. Dver remained still.
Pain was not something to resist. It was leverage.
It marked the boundary of the body—what could be taken, what could be forced, and what would collapse if pushed further.
His back tightened without warning. A sharp tremor ran through his spine, and a mouthful of black blood spilled from his lips onto the wooden floor.
The circulation halted.
Not by choice.
The body had reached its limit.
The room fell still again.
"Your body is improving," the voice said, calm and distant. "But it has reached its limit."
Dver said nothing.
"If you devour another cultivator now, this vessel will break before it can contain the power. To move forward, you require something more—ancient beast blood, or something drawn from the earth itself."
Dver wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. His breathing was uneven for a moment, then it steadied.
That was expected.
Power taken too quickly always came with a cost. The body followed only as far as it could endure. Beyond that, it broke.
Which meant force alone was inefficient.
Resources mattered more.
He closed his eyes briefly, organizing his thoughts. What he needed, where to obtain it, what risks it carried—each option arranged itself with clarity. There was no hesitation.
Only selection.
Risk was not something to avoid. It was something to price.
When he opened his eyes again, they were calm, empty, and certain.
He already knew what to take next.
He had heard nothing, yet the Void within him stirred at the presence of killing intent. It registered without error—clean and precise, like blood spreading through still water. Somewhere within the Outer Sect, malice had settled on the name Dver.
He rose.
The slouched, unremarkable posture returned at once. By the time he stepped out of the shack, there was nothing left to mark his presence. The alley took him without resistance.
He moved across the rooftops of the lower districts with quiet precision, following that thread of intent as it led toward the Discipline Hall. There was no urgency in his pace. Killing intent did not fade. It left direction.
At the edge of a slanted roof, he came to a stop and looked down.
Three men in black-and-crimson robes stood in the courtyard below—Shen's personal Enforcers. They worked without wasted motion, securing armored terror-horses, checking straps, adjusting their gear. Dver narrowed his focus until their voices carried clearly through the night.
"…three days to Ash-Ridge," the scarred leader said, fastening a spiked whip to his saddle. "Deacon Shen wants the family alive. The rest is irrelevant. Move."
Dver's gaze stilled.
Ash-Ridge. The family of the dead boy.
He didn't react. Information came first. Reaction followed.
Shen had chosen the simplest method. When a target could not be reached, pressure was applied elsewhere. Subtlety was unnecessary.
It worked.
Dver watched them a moment longer, committing their movements, their formation, and the condition of their mounts to memory. Foundation Establishment. Armed. Confident.
Expendable.
Interfering here would gain him nothing. Even if he killed them, Shen would send others—faster, more careful, less careless.
The blade was not the problem.
The message was.
Dver's attention shifted, already moving past them. If the Enforcers reached Ash-Ridge, the family would be taken. If they failed to return, Shen would escalate. Either way, pressure would tighten.
Unless the board changed first.
Family was leverage. And leverage could be taken.
Dver turned away. There was no reason to stop them.
He would arrive first. He would decide what they found.
The night closed around him as he stepped back, his presence thinning until even the shadows lost track of him. By the time the Enforcers mounted their beasts, Dver was already gone—moving ahead of them, toward Ash-Ridge.