The morning sun hung low and hazy over the Wen clan's outer territory, casting long shadows across the dirt paths and wooden watchtowers. I moved through the familiar routines with calculated laziness, my body still humming from the previous night's frenzied cultivation. After all, it was a Rank 6 inheritance. Ancient, treacherous, and far beyond what any sane Rank 1 cultivator should casually stroll into. There would be no better candidate than me—the half-dead soul who had already stood before its maw once and walked away breathing.
Naturally, the clan leader had announced the call. All disciples and outer guards at Rank 1 Middle Tier or above were to enter and explore. He himself had no intention of stepping inside; a Rank 6 relic might not align with his personal path, but the prestige and resources it could bring the entire Wen root clan made it worth sacrificing a few expendable juniors. I, however, had already decided to skip the suicidal theater.
I returned to my modest residence on the edge of the outer circle—a simple shack of weathered timber and thatched roof—and loudly complained to the patrolling guards about "internal injuries sustained during training." No one questioned it. An orphaned Lone with thin white luck wasn't worth much scrutiny anyway. That night I allowed myself only five broken hours of sleep, waking every so often to circulate qi. My death-luck grass foundation protested the strain, but it held firm. By dawn I felt stable enough. Excited, even. The sheer density of luck I had sensed radiating from that inheritance still lingered in my mind like the aftertaste of strong wine.
One small but crucial change broke my usual routine: a quiet bribe. Fifty spirit coins slipped into the palm of the southern perimeter guard—a lazy Rank 1 High Tier fellow named Old Guo who had zero interest in gambling his life inside an immortal's tomb. The deal was simple. He took the morning off. Jack took his post. And I took the shovel.
Jack and I swapped positions with practiced ease. I reported to the headquarters tent as ordered, keeping my expression neutral.
"Senior, I broke through last night," I said casually. "Now at Rank 1 High Tier."
The overseer, a bored Rank 1 outer elder, barely lifted his eyes from the roster. "High Tier? Fine. Continue your guard duties because you need to earn some trust. The inheritance exploration is for Middle Tier and above anyway. Dismissed."
No fanfare. No suspicion. Just another nameless face in a sea of outer sect laborers. Perfect.
With my official duties covered by Jack, I made my way toward the inheritance grounds. The air grew heavier the closer I came, thick with lingering spiritual pressure and the faint metallic scent of old blood. 'This is the place that voice spoke of,' I thought, gripping the shovel tighter. 'It seemed to like me. Let's see if my white luck is truly worth something.'
I dug like a common mortal. No flashy techniques. No wasting karma on trivial labor. The shovel bit into earth again and again until blisters formed and popped on my palms. Hours passed. Sweat soaked my robes. Finally, the blade struck something solid—then punched through into emptiness. A low, ancient groan echoed from below as a hidden wall crumbled.
A cascade followed.
First came treasures: jade bottles of cultivation pills glowing with dense spiritual energy, rolled skill scrolls tied with golden thread, weapons still humming with residual power—swords, spears, even a few defensive talismans. Then came the bodies. Dozens of them. Cultivators preserved in a grotesque mortuary, their faces frozen in expressions of greed, shock, and final terror. Dried blood stained ancient robes. Empty eye sockets stared into nothing.
I stood there, breathing steadily, violet eyes reflecting the dim light filtering through the hole.
'Such a vicious method,' I mused. 'Cultivators rush in seeking fortune, but the inheritance cares nothing for their treasures. The real nourishment is their deaths—the burst of karma and life essence released before it dissipates back into the world. This place is deteriorating. It needs to feed to survive.'
If I were an immortal at Rank 6, I would have done the same. Results mattered. Sentiment was weakness.
Wealth beyond imagination lay at my feet. Any normal Rank 1 cultivator would have wept with joy and tried to carry everything. I felt only cold calculation.
I built a fire.
Every pill—refined, potent, worth small fortunes—went into the flames. Skill scrolls I couldn't carry in full, I tore apart ruthlessly, committing only the most useful sections to memory before burning the rest. Weapons I left untouched; their owner markings and auras would scream theft the moment a higher-ranked elder glanced at them. I lacked the cultivation to erase such traces cleanly.
If anyone had witnessed this scene, their hearts would have bled. Tears of blood. I simply stood over the blaze and inhaled.
Deep. Greedy. Deliberate breaths.
Thick, fragrant smoke filled my lungs—essence of burned cultivation resources, the ultimate vice of this world. They said the smoke from destroyed pills, scrolls, and spirit weapons was more addictive than any mortal drug or underworld narcotic. My old self, Flick, would have become hopelessly addicted after a single session. Even now, a dizzying euphoria spread through my meridians. Qi surged. My aperture throbbed with satisfaction. The white thread of my luck seemed to shimmer just a little brighter in my inner vision.
I staggered slightly as I worked, intoxicated yet focused. Thankfully, the clan had already cleared the monsters around the inheritance site during earlier expeditions. No other cultivators were nearby. No witnesses.
When the fire finally died down to embers, I gathered what little I could carry—carefully selected manual fragments, a few untraceable spirit stones, and small pouches of purified essence—and stuffed them into two sturdy sacks. Then I returned to my post as if nothing had happened.
Jack's face lit up with barely contained excitement the moment he saw me. His eyes kept darting to the heavy sacks.
Without a word, I divided the profits evenly. Fifty percent to him. Connections were currency no matter where you walked in this world. Never burn a useful bridge unless absolutely necessary.
"Bayley… how?" he whispered once we were alone behind the watchtower, voice trembling with awe and greed.
I leaned against the wooden beam, still faintly dizzy from the smoke, and gave him a simplified version of the truth.
"I was right at the entrance during that first chaotic exploration. The voice inside the inheritance spoke to me directly. It seemed… amused by me. I asked for some 'free meat' I could safely chew. It asked what benefit it would gain. So I told it my ambition."
Jack listened, rapt.
"I seek eternal life. Then I described my nature—I wish to be dead, yet I fear death the most. I want to witness my own life's journey until the very end, because no one else could be a better spectator than myself. The voice pondered for a long time. It said it had considered making me its true inheritor, but my ambition was something even a fallen Rank 6 immortal admired. Since the hidden hole was already leaking corpses and power anyway, it told me the location. No rules broken. It simply wanted to watch how far this interesting madman could walk before dying."
Jack let out a low whistle. "That's… insane. Amazing story. But I guess everyone has their own fate."
He didn't press for darker details. Good. He was still a proper son of the Wen clan. Some truths were better buried.
We returned to our duties—two lowly outer guards working diligently, taking light but extremely rich breaks between patrols. The sacks sat conspicuously beside us. Anyone with decent memory would notice we hadn't carried them in the morning. Whispers might start. Questions might follow.
But for now, no one dared ask.
I closed my eyes briefly, feeling the fresh surge of qi circulating through my strengthened aperture. Patience burned quietly within me—the first fire virtue—steady and reliable.