Time flew by.
In the blink of an eye, another half hour had slipped away.
"Do you guys think it makes any sense for us to be keeping watch over those people from the Luo Family?"
The question came from a Zhao Family house servant dressed in grey robes, his voice carrying a lazy grumble as he stood near the edge of a high-quality Qingshi ore vein that stretched over three hundred meters.
The night air buzzed with mosquitoes. He slapped irritably at one hovering near his neck, his expression one of growing impatience.
"Who's to say it does?" replied another servant beside him, voice equally disgruntled. "When I first heard the Family Head was sending us here, I thought it was for something big."
"But who would've guessed…" he scoffed, "we're just here to keep an eye on those Luo Family people."
"Yeah, it's honestly been nothing but dull as hell!"
Their complaints echoed softly in the damp air as more of the Zhao Family servants joined in, their voices hushed but clearly bored and resentful.
The sky continued to darken, the stars swallowed by thick clouds. Time dragged on, and the long, dull hours of watching without incident took their toll. Even among those who had stepped into the early stages of cultivation, the mental weariness crept in like a slow fog, thick and suffocating.
"Brothers, what do you say?" one servant finally muttered with a yawn, rubbing his temples. "How about I get some shuteye first? Just two or three hours. Then I'll switch with one of you to keep watch on the Luos."
He blinked blearily, shoulders drooping as he scanned the dark surroundings.
"Hey… where is everyone?"
No answer came.
"Why isn't anyone talking?" he asked again, unease creeping into his voice. "Don't tell me you've all fallen asleep on me?"
He began to turn his head toward where his companions had stood moments ago.
But he never finished the motion.
Shing—
A blade, sharp and glinting with cold light, silently slipped against his neck.
[Pu-chi.]
The sound was soft, almost intimate. A muffled sigh of steel through flesh.
The Hundred-Forged Steel Knife didn't need much force. Just one clean stroke—and the man's head tumbled from his shoulders, landing with a quiet thump on the forest floor, rolling a few feet before coming to a stop.
Blood sprayed outward in a hot arc, spattering the night air like a sudden, violent painting.
Luo Qingshan staggered back a step as the blood sprayed across his face, soaking his clothes, even touching his lips.
The taste hit him immediately.
Slightly sweet. Thick. A touch of iron. That faintly fishy smell lingered in the back of his throat.
He didn't like it.
This was the first time Luo Qingshan had ever killed a man with a blade.
He had always thought it would be a hard thing to do.
That maybe his hands would tremble before he struck.
That he would need to mentally prepare himself. That his conscience might rebel. That guilt or revulsion would overwhelm him afterward, just like the stories said.
But reality was different.
When the moment came, all he did was lift the blade… aim for the neck… and cut.
Just that. Simple.
The man died. And Luo Qingshan lived.
"How does your first kill feel?"
The question came from behind him, calm and low.
Luo Yong stepped out of the shadows, his own blade dripping crimson. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scanned his son with a strange mixture of scrutiny and approval.
Luo Qingshan was still staring at the corpse when he heard his father's voice. He slowly raised his hand to wipe the blood from his face, his expression unreadable.
"It's… much simpler than I thought," he replied after a long pause, turning toward Luo Yong. His voice held neither panic nor triumph—just a cold clarity, like someone waking from a dream.
He glanced at the dozens of bodies now lying scattered across the clearing—lifeless, twisted, still.
Then he gave Luo Yong a slight bow, his cupped hands forming a salute.
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his steps heavy, yet steady.
"Young Master, he…" Luo Zhong, the head house servant, stepped up beside Luo Yong, his gaze lingering on the retreating figure of Luo Qingshan. The youth's silhouette, disappearing into the darkness, seemed lonelier than ever.
After a slight hesitation, Luo Zhong swallowed and voiced his concern. "He looks… a bit lost."
"It's alright. Don't mind him," Luo Yong said quietly, eyes narrowed as he followed his son's path into the night. "Qingshan is my son. He'll be able to process this in his own time."
His voice held neither softness nor sternness—just a quiet certainty.
This world was never gentle.
Especially not now.
In chaotic times like these, human life was worth less than grass underfoot.
If one wanted to survive—and not merely survive, but live well, protect one's people, stand tall—then strength was not enough.
One needed a heart sharp enough to cut.
A heart cold enough to kill.
And a hatred deep enough to burn away fear.
All of these… were necessary.
"Has everything been checked?" Luo Yong asked after a long silence.
His eyes shifted to the night sky, where the clouds had finally begun to part.
A pale moon emerged from behind the gloom, casting its gentle light over the blood-soaked clearing.
"No survivors?" he asked again, his voice low, almost a whisper.
Luo Zhong stepped forward, his tone cold and unwavering. "Master, rest assured. Not a single one slipped through."
"Good." Luo Yong nodded slightly. "Then have the servants clean it all up."
"I don't want to see a single drop of blood when I wake up tomorrow."
"Yes, Master!"
—
The next morning.
The sky was still painted in a dim shade of gray, as if the sun itself was reluctant to rise.
The air was heavy with moisture, carrying the earthy scent of dew-soaked soil.
In Qingshi Town—deep within the Zhao Family's territory—Zhao Wu, head of the Zhao Family, had already woken early.
He sat in the solemn quiet of his family affairs room, where everything was neatly arranged and the scent of old wood mingled faintly with incense.
Stacks of documents were spread before him on the desk.
He read through them one by one, stamping orders, giving approvals, attending to daily affairs with a calm that bordered on mechanical.
Yet something felt off.
Beneath the surface of his thoughts, a strange anxiety lingered—like an itch he couldn't scratch.
His fingers paused over a document mid-signature.
Why do I feel this way?
He couldn't explain it.
It was like the sky before a storm—eerily still, but charged with invisible tension.
He tried to brush it off, but the feeling wouldn't leave.
Finally, after enduring another twenty minutes of this growing unease, Zhao Wu set down his brush and called out sharply, "Someone! Come in!"
A Zhao Family servant hurried into the room and knelt, waiting respectfully.
"In recent days," Zhao Wu said, voice hoarse and tight, "has anything happened within the Zhao Family… or in Qingshi Town… that I don't know about?"
His gaze was sharp as he fixed it on the servant.
The man bowed low and began to speak carefully.
"Reporting to the Family Head—within the past few days, everything has remained quiet. There's been no trouble in town, no unusual movements within the family either…"
As he spoke, Zhao Wu's expression only grew darker.
The servant glanced up nervously, noticing the growing storm behind his master's eyes.
Zhao Wu's voice turned colder. "That's all?"
"No other matters at all?"
"I—" the servant broke into a cold sweat. For a moment, he couldn't speak.
Then suddenly, as if a thought had just struck him, he quickly raised his head.
"There is one more matter!"
Zhao Wu's eyes narrowed. "Speak."
"The group of servants who were dispatched yesterday to watch the Luo Family's camp… this morning, we've yet to receive any word from them."
A long silence followed.
Zhao Wu's face paled visibly.
"You're certain?"
"Absolutely certain, Family Head! I—I wouldn't dare deceive you in such a matter…"
The servant's voice trembled as he knelt, his forehead nearly pressed to the floor.
Zhao Wu stared out the nearby window, his fingers curling into a fist.
The early morning mist was still thick outside.
But to Zhao Wu, it already smelled faintly… of blood.