The administrator who had intimidated even Dao Lords at the Assembly earlier now stood nervously before a misty, ethereal presence. Both were surrounded by an endless void, the oppressive silence amplifying the tension.
“My lord,” the administrator began cautiously, “directly observing the participants will result in their death. They are not able to handle the strain of your perception.”
“I see,” the ethereal voice responded, a faint resonance in the mist. After a moment, the voice continued, “Grant numbers one through eleven pills to heal the damage they took... except number seven. He had some sort of technique that prevented major injuries.”
The administrator quickly consulted the list. “Feng Zhiming?” he murmured, perplexed as to why this individual was being exempted. “What kind of cultivator would turn down a gift from a god?”
The misty presence began to fade, but not before leaving the administrator with a final, cryptic statement. “You seem to be mistaken about something.”
“Please, enlighten me,” the administrator asked, bowing his head lower in deference.
“That boy,” the ethereal voice responded, now barely audible, “he's a walking contradiction.”
…
As Feng Zhiming approached the bandit encampment, he observed with cold calculation. The camp was not in chaos—there were no signs of bandits scrambling to retrieve a stolen artifact, no sense of urgency. This meant that the two disciples who had gone ahead were either dead or captured. Feng Zhiming felt a mix of irritation and amusement. If he was going to exert effort, he wanted something in return. He wasn’t truly loyal to the sect, so why blindly complete their missions without gaining anything of value?
“Time to spread the Circle of the Forgotten One,” he thought. Feng Zhiming knew that to survive this deadly game, he would need to establish a faction loyal to him. People in factions were loyal to those who held power, or at least to those they believed held power.
Before stepping into the encampment, Feng Zhiming retrieved his fan from his storage ring. “Let’s make this convincing,” he muttered. He gritted his teeth and stabbed himself in the left tricep with the fan, causing blood to spurt out. He quickly bandaged the wound with a torn sleeve from his robe, giving him the appearance of someone who had been through a tough battle. His left arm was now bandaged, and the other was sleeveless, adding to the effect.
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“One more thing,” he said, activating his Art of Demonic Suppression, lowering his perceived cultivation level to that of a Qi Condensation cultivator. “Time to commence this play.”
…
Within the encampment, fourteen bandits sat around a campfire, roasting meat and drinking. They wore mismatched clothing, with the exception of one man who stood out—he wore a hide made from beast skin. This man looked like he had grown up in the forest, with an unkempt beard, scars lining his arms, and a rugged physique that spoke of countless trials.
“And then he said, ‘I AM A DISCIPLE FROM THE THREE GREAT DEMONIC SECTS!’” The vice-captain of the group, a cultivator at the Condensed stage of the Ethereal Core, recounted the story with a mocking tone. The camp erupted in laughter.
“I’m surprised fools like them even made it to the Ethereal Core realm—a couple of show ponies,” the beast-hide man, clearly the leader, remarked. He glanced at the head of the long-nosed disciple, which had been mounted on a spike at the camp entrance.
“Did they really think two Ethereal Core loose cultivators would just show up to join a bandit group on a whim?” another bandit chimed in, shaking his head.
“Boss, another one is approaching the camp,” one of the guards reported. “Same robes, but this one looks injured and is only at the Qi Condensation stage.”
“Bring him here,” the leader ordered.
Feng Zhiming was dragged into the camp and forced to kneel before the bandit leader. He made his voice tremble with fear as he spoke. “I am Mu Han, and the second elder of the Heavenly Divine Demon Sect is my grandfather.”
He knew that bandits, by their nature, were greedy. “I was walking through the forest when I came across a group of immigrants. The cultivator they had with them was just a little stronger than me, so they decided to rob me and nearly killed me.”
The bandit leader unsheathed his saber and stabbed it into the ground, glaring at Feng Zhiming. “Why should I let you live? And where are the ones who robbed you?”
Feng Zhiming, his face a mask of terror, responded quickly. “I’m worth a lot to my grandfather. He’ll pay whatever you ask. As for the immigrants, they’re camping two miles north of here.”
The leader leaned in, whispering something to his vice-captain. “If the camp is weak, rob and kill them all. Take everyone with you.”
The bandit leader was no fool. He knew enough about the unorthodox territories to recognize the value of holding someone connected to a key figure of power. The group of bandits quickly departed, none of them suspecting the seemingly weak Qi Condensation cultivator they left behind.
With the bandits gone, the leader slammed his foot into the ground, creating a pit into which he tossed Feng Zhiming. “Did they have anything of value?” he asked, watching Feng Zhiming closely.
“I don’t know what treasures they had,” Feng Zhiming replied, his voice shaky. “But they did mention something about a valuable possession.”
The leader smirked and began to drink again, turning his attention back to Feng Zhiming only when he noticed something odd.
“Praise to the Forgotten One,” Feng Zhiming murmured, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. He began to chant softly, “The one who was forgotten and the one who was lost will be found in the vestiges of eternity.”