**Chapter 4: Road Bandits? No, Counter-Robbery**
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Gu Xiao sat in the woodshed until dawn.
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When morning light finally flooded the room, he stood, pushed open the door, and stepped out. The early autumn chill carried the scent of damp earth and crushed grass. Old Man Wang’s yard was small: a crude chicken coop to the east, a neat stack of chopped firewood to the west, and an old jujube tree in the center, its branches heavy with half-ripe red-and-green fruit.
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Old Man Wang was squatting in the yard, sharpening his hunting knife. The blade had been with him for thirty years, whetted to a mirror finish that caught the morning sun. Seeing Gu Xiao emerge from the woodshed, the old man froze for a moment, then his eyes dropped to the boy’s blood-stained clothes. His brows knitted tightly.
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“What happened to you—”
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“Nothing serious.” Gu Xiao’s voice was still raspy, but steadier than the day he woke. “Had a minor setback while practicing. Just needs rest.”
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Old Man Wang studied him for a few breaths. The old man had no spiritual root, but a lifetime of hunting had taught him to recognize the look of a dying beast. Gu Xiao’s eyes didn’t belong to a boy who had just crawled back from death—they were too heavy. Heavy as a bottomless pool. But he didn’t press. He simply nodded, set his knife aside, and went inside. Moments later, he returned with a bowl of hot porridge and a small dish of pickled vegetables, placing them on a wobbly wooden table propped up by a stone.
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“Eat.”
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Gu Xiao didn’t decline. He picked up the bowl. The porridge scalded his mouth, but he drank it slowly. After the shift from a useless root to a Yellow root, his body’s nutrient absorption had noticeably improved. He could feel the warmth of the porridge spreading from his stomach to his limbs. It wasn’t spiritual energy. It was simply food being utilized with far greater efficiency. The Yellow root’s changes weren’t limited to cultivation speed; it had fundamentally restructured his entire physical constitution.
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After finishing, Gu Xiao helped Old Man Wang split firewood, fetch water, and process the hunt. He moved slowly. His strength still fell short of an ordinary mortal youth—the Yellow root had only pulled him out of the “useless” category, not turned him into a prodigy. But his movements were steadier now. Every strike of the axe split the wood cleanly, the cracks as straight as if measured with a ruler.
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Old Man Wang watched in silence, saying nothing.
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That afternoon, Gu Xiao sat beneath the old jujube tree, closed his eyes, and turned his senses inward.
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His Yellow spiritual root was quietly breathing within his dantian. It looked like a newly sprouted seedling, its fine roots intact, each tendril slowly drawing ambient spiritual energy from the air. The absorption rate was over ten times faster than during his useless root era. It sounded dramatic, but the useless root’s baseline had been appallingly slow. Tenfold improvement merely brought him to the average level of a normal Qi Condensation Stage One cultivator. In other words, he had finally reached the starting line others were born on.
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Fifteen years. He had finally caught up to where everyone else began.
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Gu Xiao didn’t dwell on it. He began circulating the foundational Qi Condensation technique—not the mysterious manual from his dream, but the basic *Qi-Guiding Art* he had memorized over fifteen years. Spiritual energy flowed from his root, tracing a slow path through his meridians. One full cycle took the time of an incense stick. During his useless root era, the same cycle had taken him a full hour.
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One cycle. Two. Three.
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The accumulation rate was still slow, but no longer like mud sinking into the ocean. He could clearly track every wisp of energy. It settled into his dantian, condensing into a misty spiritual force that quietly pooled around his root. At this pace, breaking through from Qi Condensation Stage One to Stage Two would take him roughly three months. Su Ning, with her Heavenly Spiritual Root, had done it in three days.
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He wasn’t in a hurry. Three months or three days meant nothing against fifteen years of being labeled trash.
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By dusk, Old Man Wang’s wife had prepared dinner. The three of them—two elderly hunters and one stranger they’d taken in—sat around the small yard table. A cool evening breeze rustled the jujube leaves, a few drifting onto the edges of their bowls. Old Man Wang took two sips of his home-brewed rice wine, then suddenly spoke.
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“Child, what are your plans from now on?”
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Gu Xiao set down his chopsticks.
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He had thought about this for days. Qingmu Village was gone. His parents were gone. Su Ning was gone. That remote mountain hamlet had been erased from the map, not even leaving behind a single grave marker. He had no family left in this world, no place to return to. The Wangs had taken him in for a year, given him a second life, but he couldn’t stay forever. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he couldn’t.
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Lun Hua was still alive. The black-robed, crimson-eyed demonic cultivator at Foundation Establishment peak had slaughtered over three hundred villagers without a second thought. He had probably already forgotten Qingmu Village’s name. To him, it was just another stop on a long trail of bloodshed. But Gu Xiao couldn’t forget. He couldn’t forget his mother’s burned-through chest, his father’s broken bow, or Su Ning’s back as she raised her sword, and her final silent word: *Go.*
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He needed to grow stronger. Strong enough to kill Lun Hua with his own hands. Strong enough to protect the next person he cared about.
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And Qingmu City was the nearest gathering place for cultivators. It had sects, rogue cultivators, cultivation manuals, pills, every resource he could imagine for his path. He was a Qi Condensation Stage One Yellow root, penniless. But as long as that mysterious manual was real—and he had already verified the first step—the road ahead, however brutal, at least existed.
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“I’m going to Qingmu City,” Gu Xiao said.
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Old Man Wang’s hand holding the wine bowl paused. He looked at Gu Xiao, then at his wife. The old woman was clearing the dishes. Hearing those words, her hands slowed, but she didn’t look up.
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“Qingmu City is far,” Old Man Wang said. “From here, you’ll cross two mountains and pass through a wild forest. Fast, five days. Slow, seven or eight. With your frame—”
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“I can make it.”
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Old Man Wang fell silent, then drained his bowl in one gulp. “Fine. This old man went to Qingmu City in his youth to sell pelts. The city’s a mixed bag. Cultivators look down on mortals, the rich look down on the poor, major sects look down on rogue cultivators. When you get there, don’t pick fights.” He set the bowl down, went inside, and returned with a cloth pouch. It was small but heavy, the sound of copper coins clinking inside unmistakable.
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“Twenty taels of silver, three hundred copper coins.” Old Man Wang said. “Saved over the years for my old age. But you need it more than I do.”
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Gu Xiao looked at the pouch. He didn’t refuse. Refusal would be hypocrisy. He needed the money. He didn’t even know how he’d survive in Qingmu City—a Qi Condensation Stage One Yellow root rogue cultivator wasn’t even at the bottom of the cultivator food chain. Those twenty taels might be his only lifeline for months to come.
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He stood, bowing deeply to Old Man Wang. Then he turned and bowed just as deeply to the old woman.
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“I’ll come back,” he said. “And when I do, I’ll repay you.”
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Old Man Wang waved a hand, as if to say *don’t bother*, but his eyes grew red. The old woman finally looked up, wiped her eyes with her apron, and said nothing.
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Before dawn the next day, Gu Xiao set out.
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Old Man Wang saw him off at the village edge. The early autumn fog was thick, visibility under thirty paces. Gu Xiao carried a coarse cloth bundle on his back, holding two changes of clothes, a pack of dried rations, the hunting knife Old Man Wang had given him, and the pouch with twenty taels of silver and three hundred copper coins.
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“Follow this path straight east,” Old Man Wang pointed into the fog. “Cross the mountain ahead. At the foot, you’ll find a river. Follow it north. Past the stone bridge, you’ll hit the official road. Stick with the crowds there.”
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Gu Xiao nodded.
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“Child.” Old Man Wang suddenly called after him. The old man stood in the fog, his white hair damp with dew, his weathered face carrying an expression too complex to name. He opened his mouth, then finally said only: “Stay alive.”
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Gu Xiao looked at the old man who had saved his life. His lips moved. He wanted to say so much, but in the end, he only nodded firmly.
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Then he turned, and walked into the fog.
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The first day’s journey was harder than he expected.
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By the time he climbed the first mountain, his stamina was nearly spent. The Yellow root had improved his constitution, but the improvement had limits. His physical fitness now roughly matched that of a farm boy who worked year-round. Stronger than city-bred youths his age, but far below any real cultivator. The trail was steep, littered with loose gravel. More than once, he slipped and barely caught himself from tumbling down the slope. He used the hunting knife as a walking stick, driving the blade into dirt and tree roots to maintain his balance.
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At noon, he rested on a flat ledge halfway up the mountain, chewing on two bites of dried rations. The old woman had packed coarse grain flatbread for him. Hard and dry, but filling. As he chewed, he gazed at the distant rolling peaks. The fog had lifted, revealing the outline of the second mountain, and farther beyond, the faint silver line of a river.
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Looking at that vast landscape, he suddenly remembered a poem his village tutor had taught him as a child. He couldn’t recall it fully, only fragmented lines. But the weight in his chest demanded release. He opened his mouth, his voice raspy as he recited:
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*Leaving my homeland alone, ten thousand mountains lie ahead.*
*No blade in hand, only cold blood in my heart.*
*Grass grows on my elders’ graves, my mother’s face lingers in dreams.*
*When I reach the azure clouds, I’ll draw my sword and cut Lun down.*
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After reciting it, he fell silent for a long time, then let out a dry, self-deprecating smirk. What a terrible poem. The tonal patterns were off, the rhyme scheme messy. If his old tutor heard it, he’d probably claw his way out of his grave from sheer rage. But Gu Xiao didn’t care. It wasn’t written for an audience. It was written for him.
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He finished the bread, stood, and continued on.
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The afternoon path grew steeper. Some sections were nearly vertical. Gu Xiao had to climb on hands and feet, the hunting knife strapped to his waist, the bundle on his back, every step carefully testing for secure footing. His palms quickly rawed against the rock, sweat soaking his clothes only to dry in the mountain wind, leaving a crust of white salt.
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By sunset, he finally crossed the first mountain.
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At its base lay a sparse forest with a clear stream winding through it. Gu Xiao knelt by the water, cupping it to wash his face. The stream was icy cold, stinging his raw palms and making him hiss through his teeth. He looked down at his hands. Blisters and torn skin covered his palms, some areas revealing fresh pink flesh beneath.
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He tore a strip from his hem, wrapped it loosely around his hands, found a flat stone by the stream, sat cross-legged, and began circulating the *Qi-Guiding Art*.
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Spiritual energy flowed from his root, tracing a slow path through his meridians. The exhaustion from the day’s physical toll gradually eased under the energy’s gentle nourishment. He finally felt the greatest difference between the Yellow root and the useless root: during his useless root era, circulating techniques didn’t relieve fatigue; it drained what little energy he had, leaving him weaker. Now, the nourishing effect finally manifested. Faint, but undeniably real.
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After one full cycle, over half his fatigue had lifted. Gu Xiao opened his eyes, looking up at the sky. Free of city light pollution, the mountain night sky blazed with stars like a luminous silk ribbon. He watched it for a long while, then closed his eyes, leaning against the stone, and fell asleep.
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Before dawn the next day, Gu Xiao set out again.
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As he neared the second mountain, the official road wasn’t far. But just then, noisy voices echoed from the woods ahead.
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“This tree was planted by me, this road was opened by me—”
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“Boss, that’s not right. This tree’s wild. We didn’t plant it.”
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“Shut up! Who asked you to correct me!”
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Gu Xiao stopped, watching seven or eight men emerge from the brush.
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The leader was a bald brute, eight feet tall, face a mass of scar tissue, wielding a rusted broadsword. Behind him trailed a ragged gang of underlings, armed with hoes, sickles, wooden clubs, and one guy holding a loose brick.
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Gu Xiao assessed them at a glance. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.
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Mortals. Every last one. Not a single cultivator. Fat sheep walking right to him.
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The bald brute slammed his broadsword into the ground with a dull thud, kicking up gravel. He sized Gu Xiao up top to bottom—a emaciated youth, carrying a worn bundle, a plain hunting knife at his waist, face sallow, looking like one kick would drop him.
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“Boy. Toll. Leave the silver, leave the clothes, leave the bundle.” The brute grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. “You can walk.”
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Gu Xiao didn’t speak. He slowly circulated the spiritual energy in his body, guiding it through his meridians. A Qi Condensation Stage One cultivator’s energy was pitifully thin, incapable of forming external attacks, but more than enough to reinforce his flesh. Spiritual energy flooded his arms. He felt a faint but undeniable surge of strength.
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Seeing him stand motionless, the brute assumed he was paralyzed with fear, and reached out to grab his bundle.
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Gu Xiao moved.
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He sidestepped the grabbing hand, drew his hunting knife in his right hand, blade up, and swung the flat of it hard against the brute’s wrist. A Qi Condensation Stage One strike wasn’t powerful, but hitting a mortal’s fragile wrist joint was enough to produce a crisp, sickening crack.
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The brute howled, clutching his wrist and stumbling back three steps, face draining of color.
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“Cultivator—he’s a cultivator!” One of the underlings reacted first. The brick slipped from his grip, smashed onto his own foot, and triggered another howl of pain.
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Gu Xiao didn’t stop. He stepped forward, leveling the knife horizontally, tip aimed at the brute’s throat. His eyes were calm as a dead pond. No anger. No killing intent. Not a single excess emotion. But it was precisely that calm that sent a cold sweat down the brute’s spine.
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“Silver,” Gu Xiao said, his voice quiet but carrying to every man present. “I do have some.”
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He paused.
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“Now, it belongs to me.”
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The bandits stared at each other, completely lost.
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Gu Xiao slid the bundle off his shoulder and dropped it to the ground. It split open, revealing his spare clothes, rations, and the cloth pouch holding twenty taels of silver and three hundred copper coins. He didn’t look at them. Instead, he tapped the knife tip lightly against the brute’s chest.
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“But you’ll have to trade for it.”
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“T-trade… trade what?” The brute’s voice trembled.
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“Your lives.”
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The air froze.
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The brute’s face shifted from pale to ashen green. His underlings were already backing away. One dropped his hoe entirely.
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“M-m-my lord—” the brute stammered. “We had eyes but failed to recognize Mount Tai—”
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“Shut up.” Gu Xiao cut him off. “I don’t have time for nonsense. Now. Hand over everything of value. Silver, copper, even a single copper coin. Hide one, and I’ll take a finger.”
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The bandits froze.
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Was he… robbing them back?
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“Not understanding human speech?” Gu Xiao pushed the knife tip forward half an inch, breaking the skin on the brute’s throat. A thin line of blood trickled down the blade.
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“We understand! We understand!” the brute practically wailed. “Quick! Everyone, hand over the damn money! Hide a single coin and I’ll chop your hands off myself!”
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A flurry of clinking sounds. Copper coins,碎 silver, even a few small silver ingots, were pulled from pockets, sleeves, and boots, piled onto the ground. Gu Xiao glanced over it. Roughly seven or eight taels of碎 silver, plus two or three hundred copper coins. Not a rich haul, but he wasn’t picky.
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He crouched, scooped the coins into his bundle, retied it, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he stood, looking at the brute.
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“Remember, today you met a cultivator in a good mood.” His tone was as casual as commenting on the weather. “Next time you try highway robbery, ask yourself first how much your life is worth.”
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He finished, picked up the discarded brick from the ground, and waved it in front of the brute.
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“I’m taking this too.”
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“W…why?” The brute was utterly bewildered.
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Gu Xiao didn’t answer. He tucked the brick into his bundle, turned, and continued down the road.
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Behind him, the bandits stood in stunned silence for a long time.
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“Boss,” the brick-wielding underling whispered. “He even robbed us of a brick… he’s really that broke.”
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The brute clutched his bleeding throat, speechless.
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“Boss, so… do we chase him?”
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The brute slapped him upside the head. “Chase my ass! I almost lost my life! Go back, tell the second-in-command there’s a crazed, broke cultivator on this road, fiercer than us—he robs you of your own bricks!”
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The underlings scrambled and fled into the deep woods.
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Gu Xiao didn’t look back. He walked at a steady pace, his footsteps firmer than before. His bundle now held over twenty-seven taels of silver. Not much, but enough to buy him a month or two in Qingmu City. He felt no guilt, no cruelty. This was how the world worked: the strong preyed on the weak. Not killing them was the greatest mercy he could offer.
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Past the stone bridge, onto the official road, the crowds thickened. Two more hours of walking later, as the sunset painted the horizon gold and crimson, the silhouette of Qingmu City finally appeared on the horizon.
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Qingmu City wasn’t large, but for a boy from a mountain hamlet, it was overwhelming. The walls stood thirty feet high, built of gray-green stone, flags of various colors snapping in the evening wind atop the battlements. The city gates stood open, a steady stream of people flowing in and out. Carved above the archway were three bold characters: *Qingmu City*.
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As Gu Xiao passed through the gates, the two guards at the entrance glanced at him. Seeing his ragged clothes and sallow, malnourished face, they didn’t even bother collecting the entry tax, waving him through with a dismissive flick of the hand.
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Inside, the city was a cacophony. Shops lined both sides of the streets: taverns, teahouses, pawnshops, apothecaries, artifact stores, pill shops. Hawkers’ calls echoed endlessly, the air thick with the smell of cooking food, medicinal herbs, and horse dung. Gu Xiao stood at a crossroads, swept along by the current of people, like a lone leaf caught in a tide.
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He needed a place to stay first. Twenty-seven taels could support a mortal in frugal comfort for half a year, but to a cultivator, it couldn’t even buy a single bottle of low-grade Qi Condensation pills.
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He found the cheapest inn in a southern alley: *Peaceful Inn*. The name was so tacky it almost deterred entry. The proprietor, a plump woman in her fifties, sized him up and quoted: “Communal room. Twenty copper per night.”
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Gu Xiao paid twenty copper, was led to a dim, crowded hall already housing seven or eight laborers. The air reeked of sweat, snores shook the rafters. He found a corner, placed his bundle under his head as a pillow, and closed his eyes.
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But he didn’t sleep. He waited until deep night, confirmed everyone else was asleep, then quietly rose, sat cross-legged in the corner, and began circulating the *Qi-Guiding Art*. Spiritual energy flowed from his root, tracing a slow path through his meridians. In this unfamiliar city, in this room reeking of sweat and snoring laborers, only cultivation offered him a sliver of safety.
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Over the next few days, Gu Xiao began gathering information in the city.
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He visited the southern market, where all walks of life mingled and rumors flowed freely. He went to city taverns, spent a few copper on the cheapest wine, and sat in corners listening to conversations. He even checked the notice boards outside the City Lord’s manor, looking for official warrants regarding demonic cultivators.
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Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The slaughter of Qingmu Village was recorded in official archives with a single line: *“Qingmu Village attacked by demonic cultivators, village wiped out. Personnel dispatched for investigation.”* As for who the cultivator was, what he looked like, or where he’d gone, not a word.
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Gu Xiao didn’t grow discouraged. In the market, he found an old man who sold rumors for a living. One tael of silver bought him a single sentence: *“Go ask the Mercenary Guild.”*
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The Mercenary Guild stood in the north, a three-story stone building. It was where rogue cultivators took contracts, earned spirit stones, and traded intelligence. When Gu Xiao walked in, the main hall was packed. After waiting in line for half an hour, he finally reached the counter.
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Behind it sat a woman in red, around thirty, with phoenix eyes and a beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. She glanced at Gu Xiao, sensed his faint Yellow root aura, and frowned slightly. *Qi Condensation Stage One, Yellow root. A guy like this dares to come to the Mercenary Guild?*
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“Looking to take contracts? Get your cultivation tested first. Below Stage Three, you’re only fit for pulling weeds outside the city.”
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“I’m not taking contracts,” Gu Xiao said. “I’m looking for someone.”
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“Looking for people? Go to the magistrate’s office.”
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“He’s no ordinary person. Demonic cultivator. Foundation Establishment peak. Crimson eyes. Cultivates black flame.”
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The woman’s hand paused. She looked up, studying Gu Xiao more carefully this time.
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“Lun Hua,” she said. “You’re looking for Lun Hua.”
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The name struck Gu Xiao’s chest like a knife.
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“You know him?”
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“I don’t.” She shook her head. “But every rogue cultivator in Qingmu City knows that name. Three months ago, he was active around Red Serpent Ridge, wiped out three villages. A month ago, someone spotted him in Black Wind Canyon. Rumor says he’s refining a magical artifact, needs a large number of living souls.”
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“Where is he?”
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The woman looked at him, a faint smile touching her lips, laced with pity. “You won’t find him. A Foundation Establishment peak demonic cultivator moves like a ghost. Even the Azure Cloud Sect’s enforcement squads can’t catch him. And even if you do—” Her gaze swept over his Qi Condensation Stage One cultivation. “What do you plan to do? Kill him with your eyes?”
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Gu Xiao fell silent. Then he asked one last question: “Why did he slaughter villages? Why Qingmu Village?”
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The woman shrugged. “No reason. Because it was close. Because they were weak. Because no one cared.” She looked down, resuming her paperwork. “One tael. Information fee.”
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Gu Xiao placed one tael on the counter, turned, and left.
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Stepping out of the Mercenary Guild, the sunlight was blinding. He squinted, stood on the stone steps, and took a deep breath.
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Lun Hua. He finally knew the name.
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*No one cared.* The woman was right. The lives of over three hundred mortals in Qingmu Village didn’t even count as a single chess piece on the vast board of the Mortal Realm. The authorities didn’t care. The sects didn’t care. Rogue cultivators didn’t care. No one would trouble themselves over three hundred dead peasants to hunt down a Foundation Establishment peak demonic cultivator.
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Except him.
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Gu Xiao clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. Qi Condensation Stage One. Foundation Establishment peak. Between them lay nine stages of Qi Condensation, nine layers of Foundation Establishment. Seventeen minor realms. He would have to walk that path with a Yellow root, while others with Heavenly Spiritual Roots would take years.
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He didn’t know if he could make it. But he knew if he didn’t even try, those three hundred lives would have truly died for nothing.
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Returning to Peaceful Inn, Gu Xiao noticed a fresh notice posted on the board by the entrance. It was printed on fine rice paper, edges gilded, with several large characters:
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*“Azure Cloud Sect Triennial Disciple Recruitment Ceremony. Registration now open. Applicants aged fifteen to twenty-five, possessing Yellow-grade spiritual roots or higher, and cultivation of Qi Condensation Stage Three or above, may apply. Those who pass assessment will enter the Azure Cloud Sect’s Outer Court. Registration location: Qingmu City Lord’s Manor. Deadline: Three days.”*
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Gu Xiao stood before the notice, reading every character carefully.
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Azure Cloud Sect. The number one sect in the Eastern Domain. Su Ning had been recruited by them—the Heavenly Spiritual Root genius, personally fetched by a senior disciple. But she delayed leaving by one night to stay with her family, and died at Lun Hua’s hands.
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He remembered Su Ning’s back as she raised her sword, her final silent *Go*. If she had left that morning with the sect’s people, she’d already be an inner disciple of Azure Cloud Sect. Heavenly Spiritual Root. Limitless potential. Ascension to the Immortal Realm wasn’t out of the question. But she stayed. For him. For a childhood friend with a useless root.
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Gu Xiao closed his eyes. Opened them.
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He turned toward the City Lord’s Manor.
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Qi Condensation Stage One. Yellow spiritual root. Of the two requirements, he only met the root. He couldn’t even reach the Stage Three threshold. But he was going anyway. Not because he was confident. Because he had no other choice. The rogue cultivator path was too slow. Too slow to ever catch Lun Hua before old age took him. He needed sect resources. Sect techniques. Sect protection. He needed anything that could accelerate his growth.
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He had never told anyone he was once a useless root. To everyone, he was just an ordinary Yellow root youth, Stage One, average talent. No one knew about the mysterious manual. No one knew he had already broken common sense once.
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And now, he was about to break it a second time.
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*(End of Chapter 4)*29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBhq1m58kYe
and then Add to home screen.