Willowbrook Town clung to the Serpent River like a leech to dying flesh—its warped timbers bowed under years of neglect, rot seeping through every beam. At sunset, Long Wuqing appeared on its muddy approach, draped in the simple gray garb of a merchant's apprentice. This disguise was more than fabric—it was inheritance: Elder Qin's memories had taught him local dialects, customs, and even the merchant's half-smile of muted authority.
Inside the River's Rest Inn, three Flowing River disciples huddled in a corner booth, voices low, eyes darting. Their cultivation levels were respectable—one early Foundation Establishment, two peak Qi Condensation—but their auras reeked of desperation: forced breakthroughs, unstable meridians, borrowed time.
Long Wuqing sat nearby and ordered watered rice wine, letting their panic thread itself through the inn's lull.
When midnight came, he rose—not for crude violence, but execution as art.
Room Seven
He slipped upstairs under a silence ward, unlocked the door with techniques from a long-dead thief, and found the youth asleep, blade at his side.
Lin Zhao, seventeen, wind-path aptitude. Dreams of Core Formation. A naïve heart.
He laid one hand over the boy's mouth, another on his brow.
Essence Devouring activated silently: qi, bloodline echoes, pressure-point reflexes.
Experience Assimilation followed: stolen memories of sparring drills, reaction patterns, fear-shaped survival tactics.
A poisoned meridian seal took root. Lin Zhao twitched once—and died, face serene. No struggle. No noise.
Room Eight
The woman lunged before he fully entered. Chen Lu, mid-Foundation Establishment, a silver-edged dao in hand. Reflexes honed by blood debt.
He met her attack with Dao Engraving: a borrowed Flowing Stream Palm executed with ghost-like fluidity, severing her qi channels and locking her throat.
With her consciousness still flickering, he applied Temporal Imprint Storage: capturing her memories of cache locations, vault defenses, and assassination protocols—three more hidden stores of spirit stones and legacy scrolls.
Then he staged the scene: broken furniture, spattered blood, a blade slipped under her collar, leaving witnesses to conclude a desperate struggle.
Room Nine
Inside, Wei Kang sat cross-legged, aura alert. He nodded as Long Wuqing entered.
"Lin Zhao and Chen Lu—dead."
"I thought as much."
Wuqing offered an outstretched hand.
"Your sect's legacy need not die with them. Share your knowledge. Let it live."
In silence, Wei Kang poured out techniques, resource maps, sect alliances, forbidden cultivations—Dao Engraving and Talent Cannibalism at work in Wuqing's mind as he absorbed:
Five-generation cultivation philosophies Enemy weakness dossiers Monastery diplomatic debts
When Wei Kang's spirit faltered, Wuqing bowed and delivered a single, clean strike to end his life with dignity.
Dawn's Return
By sunrise, the inn was a tomb: three rooms, three deaths, each clean, each strategically framed.
Disguised among a merchant caravan, Long Wuqing strolled through Willowbrook at dawn, robes dusty, face unreadable. He now carried:
Three lifetimes of cultivation Ten unique techniques Detailed intelligence on hidden resources and future threats A flawless cover story
The Night Fangs would hail his efficiency. Mei Lin would praise his reliability. Wang Shen would deepen his trust. None would glimpse the monster beneath the mask.
Three days. Three deaths. Three new voices in my library.
The harvest has only begun.