Azure Peak rose from the morning mist like a celestial blade piercing the heavens, its jagged silhouette etched in defiance of gravity and gods alike. Tiered pavilions and cultivation terraces lined its slopes, housing over three thousand disciples — all bound by one shared obsession: Power.
As the flying boat drifted toward the outer disciple quarter, Long Wuqing stood at the railing, unmoved. Others around him stared in awe at the sprawling sect compound — gazing upon sacred architecture and majestic design.
He saw something else entirely.
Courtyards designed for duels. Alleys perfect for ambushes. Tower windows crafted for surveillance lines.
Defensive formations hidden beneath ornamental jade. Formation lines disguised as decorative paths.
Three days' journey. Forty-two hours of observation. Result: internal layout mapped. Weak points identified.
To him, Azure Peak was not a sanctuary. It was a machine of conquest. A fortress built to digest talent.
And now, he would slip into its bloodstream.
The sect's hierarchy was refreshingly clear:
Outer disciples. Inner disciples. Core disciples. Elders. Sect Master.
But beneath that formal pyramid pulsed a second structure — older, more potent.
Debt networks. Favor trades. Manipulated merit exchanges. Camouflaged competition.
Wu had explained the surface-level merit system on their journey — gain points, rise in rank.
Transparent systems foster trust. Trust fosters predictability. Predictability fosters exploitation.
A flawed structure is exploitable. A flawed structure with ambition? Even better.
Wu played his part as expected — full of cultivated wisdom and superficial mentorship.
"Remember, Long Wuqing," he said as they disembarked, "gratitude is a virtue. But in this world, only strength buys anything real. Tragedy earned you entry. Now earn your place."
Wuqing bowed low. "This junior understands, Senior Brother Wu. I will strive not to shame your recommendation."
What he actually understood was simpler:
Wu saw him as a disposable success story. A controlled asset.
All the better. He'll be easier to consume once he relaxes.
Wuqing's quarters — Building 847, Room 3 — were efficient, gray, and forgettable.
His three new roommates were anything but forgettable. Not to him.
Chen Wei, sixteen, merchant bloodline. Late first-tier. Earth techniques. Honest, eager. Lu Feng, seventeen, orphan. Peak first-tier. Agile. Self-doubting. Fast reflexes. Zhao Ming, eighteen, disowned noble. Second-tier. Sword user. Arrogant but relentless.
Each believed they were rising stars. Each had the makings of talent.
Each was already being catalogued for future harvest.
Wuqing laughed with them, listened to their stories, and shared a careful version of his own: the sole survivor of a senseless tragedy, determined to prove himself. Grief in his eyes, resolve in his tone.
By sunset, they considered him a brother.
Initial threat rating: low.
Cultivation utility: moderate.
Strategic value: long-term, mid-yield.
Harvest window: 6–9 months.
The next day, sect life began in earnest:
Dawn meditations. Noon drills. Evening lectures. Interlaced with labor, competition, failure.
To most outer disciples, this was overwhelming.
To Long Wuqing, it was familiar — just like village life, only with better victims.
His assigned instructor, Outer Elder Fang, was a weary Foundation Establishment cultivator, with eyes like burned-out lanterns.
After a brief sparring test, Fang offered his dry evaluation:
"Solid foundation. But your style is… unorthodox. Self-taught?"
Wuqing bowed. "Yes, Honored Elder. My village had no formal scrolls. I stitched methods together as best I could."
Technically accurate.
The seventy-three minds he had consumed left behind scattered, conflicting techniques — purposefully blended to mimic rustic genius.
Fang sighed. "Standard curriculum, then. With effort, you could attempt the inner disciple trial… within two years."
Two years?
I need two months.
He pressed, voice sincere. "Might this junior request advanced duties? I lack foundation, but I'm prepared to push harder. I must rise — not for myself, but for those I've lost."
A flicker of something passed through Fang's eyes — fatigue, or perhaps curiosity.
"Ambitious. Risky. You may regret this. Still… very well. You'll join the night patrol rotation. Normally for third-years. Let's see if you last."
Perfect.
Night patrol meant minimal oversight. Access to the sect's perimeter wards.
And most importantly: unwatched time.
His first assignment was alongside Wang Shen — a third-year disciple with eyes like razors and posture like a coiled bow. Fourth-tier. Detection-oriented techniques. Alert.
Exactly the type that survives long enough to be valuable.
"New blood," Wang muttered as they moved through moonlit trees. "You're the Stonehaven one, right? Wu's charity case?"
Wuqing let pain ghost across his face. "I was in the eastern hills. They… didn't survive."
Wang exhaled slowly. "Most villages that get wiped don't see their survivors offered robes. You got lucky."
The words were casual. The warning wasn't.
"I know what we are," the tone implied.
"Don't act like this place is righteous."
Wuqing didn't.
"Senior Brother Wang… how often do operations like that occur?"
Wang's eyes flicked across the forest. Then shrugged.
"Monthly. Rogue cultivators, resource-bearing settlements, rival sects. Orders come from above. Mainland branch demands tribute — stones, disciples, corpses. We feed the beast."
A tributary system.
Weaker sects feeding stronger ones.
Predation as hierarchy. The same model Wuqing now embodied.
"Disciples who excel at such work… do they rise faster?"
Wang glanced at him. Long. Quiet.
Then: "You're not like the others. Most outer disciples fear truth. Or choke on ideals."
Wuqing's voice was low. "When your home burns, you stop believing in noble intentions. You believe in results."
Another pause. Then Wang gave a single nod.
"You might be Night Fang material."
Wuqing feigned confusion. "Night Fang?"
Wang smirked. "Unofficial. We handle… pragmatic work. Stuff the elders don't admit exists. If you want real advancement — and have the spine for it — I'll introduce you."
Exactly what I need. A cloak. A network. A mask.
"I'd be honored, Senior Brother."
They returned to the compound beneath starlight.
Wuqing memorized the shadow lines of each path.
Noted guard rotations. Trap sigils. Blind spots.
He said nothing. Showed nothing.
But his mind was already mapping, scheming, digesting.
The Night Fangs offer targets. Methods. Cover. If I maneuver carefully, I can hollow them out from within — and wear their skin while doing it.
That night, in the dark dorm room, his hands folded over his chest, Wuqing did not sleep.
His breathing slowed. His expression relaxed.
But behind closed eyes:
Timetables calculated. Weaknesses prioritized. Chains of command dissected.
Six months. Infiltrate. Ascend. Consume. Replace.
The Azure Sect razed a village searching for a treasure they will never find.
I will repay them. Not in rage. Not in fire.
But in silence. Precision. And ruin.
When Long Wuqing finally drifted into meditation, it was not peace he found.
It was hunger.