Chapter Three: Malice Unavoidable

The man who entered was a mangy Daoist priest, his scalp covered in scabs, his features ugly enough to inspire genuine aversion. The moment Ying Chen saw him, he furrowed his brow imperceptibly and took a subtle half-step back before respectfully cupping his hands and saying, “So it’s Senior Brother Di.”

Di the Mangy seemed oblivious to his reaction, merely displaying a disturbing grin. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I heard you’ve been in seclusion for a month, Junior Brother Ying. The minor examination draws near, so you finally decided to emerge?”

“That’s right,” Ying Chen replied with a forced, insincere smile, not saying a word more.

Di the Mangy appeared unconcerned and asked casually, “Have you considered what we discussed before?”

A chill ran down Ying Chen’s spine, though it didn’t show on his face. He paused before replying, “I’m rather forgetful, Senior Brother. What matter are you referring to?”

Di the Mangy saw through his feigned ignorance but refused to let him off. With a sly chuckle, he said, “Haven’t I told you already? Senior Brother Wei appreciates your talent and wishes to cultivate you.”

“What a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! I heard it from Senior Brother Wei himself…” Suddenly, he lowered his voice, “All you need to do is nod, and this year’s minor examination—he can ensure you receive an ‘Upper-Middle’ evaluation!”

Ying Chen’s eyebrows rose involuntarily. “Upper-Middle?”

“Exactly.” Di the Mangy lifted his chin, speaking with an air of mystery. “Since your induction, you’ve never had an upper-grade result, have you? With it, not only will your monthly spirit stone allowance increase, but the ‘Purple Ganoderma Pill’ is what truly matters.”

Ying Chen’s eyelids twitched. He knew Senior Brother Wei was influential, but he’d never imagined he could even interfere with examination results.

Every five years, the Xiantian Dao opens its gates to recruit a large number of disciples—the six lower courts, including Chishui Cliff, each with tens of thousands of outer disciples.

But the Xiantian Dao doesn’t take in so many just to feed them; the elimination process is exceedingly ruthless. As for the other branches, Ying Chen didn’t know, but at Chishui Cliff, there was a minor examination every year and a major one every five years, dividing all disciples into ‘Upper, Middle, and Lower’ tiers.

Those who ranked Upper received more generous monthly allowances, including a medicinal pill each month to aid cultivation; those in the Middle tier got no pills and a meager allowance, barely enough for regular practice. As for the Lower tier…

At Chishui Cliff, a single Lower evaluation meant immediate loss of all monthly provisions—not just spirit stones, but even food had to be procured by one’s own means. Two consecutive Lower rankings meant instant demotion to menial labor, servitude, even mining or alchemy slavery—almost no hope of redemption.

Such harsh screening continued until after the fifth-year major examination, when things eased slightly.

Ying Chen had been a disciple for three years without ever ranking Lower, but it had been a close thing—his first two years, he earned only ‘Lower-Middle’ evaluations. In his third year, anxiety drove him to train harder and learn the ropes, and with considerable effort he secured more resources and advanced quickly enough to earn a ‘Upper-Middle’ rank, but never an Upper one.

Now, another year had passed, and the fourth minor examination loomed. If he couldn’t make further progress, there would be no more chances before the major test…

Even so, Ying Chen knew he could never accept the proposition. The terms Di offered were tempting, but he knew all that talk of appreciation and cultivation was nonsense. Senior Brother Wei was a notorious pervert with a taste for boys, wanting to make him a catamite.

Ying Chen admitted he had few scruples, but he could never stoop so low as to sell himself for advancement.

Moreover, who’s to say the offer was even genuine?

Ying Chen’s false smile stiffened as he replied, “Thank you for your suggestion, Senior Brother. I’ll certainly consider it carefully.”

“Will you?” Di the Mangy said. “Then don’t take too long—time is running short.”

Ying Chen simply cupped his hands again, said nothing further, and brushed past Di toward the exit. He’d barely stepped outside when Di’s voice stopped him.

“By the way—”

Ying Chen halted.

From behind, Di’s sinister tone drifted over. “If Senior Brother Wei can get you an Upper grade, he can also make sure you don’t even get Middle.”

“Think it over!”

Ying Chen paused but didn’t answer. Without looking back, he left.

Di the Mangy showed no sign of anger—instead, he seemed delighted. He’d seen plenty of self-righteous types, and their fates were usually even more miserable than the shameless.

“Seeking death, seeking death…” Di shook his head, hands clasped behind his back, and headed into the Administrative Hall.

…

Ying Chen left without changing his expression, following a mountain path until he was far from the Administrative Hall. Only then did his eyes darken, cold light flickering beneath their depths.

“To dwell in a sect like this—malice is not something one can simply avoid.”

He raised his head and looked around. Though the sun had risen, heavy clouds still hung over Chishui Cliff, obscuring the sky.

“It seems rest is still a luxury I can’t afford.” He lowered his gaze and altered his course, heading toward the Alchemy House.

The Alchemy House was not only a place to buy pills, but also sold herbs, spiritual materials, talismans—everything a cultivator might need. As a result, it was always bustling with disciples from Chishui Cliff.

Upon entering, Ying Chen saw a tall counter with two or three dozen windows. Behind it, numerous figures moved busily—grinding herbs, weighing ingredients, packaging powders.

In front of the counter, many waited in line. Some windows were deserted, others packed with crowds.

The distinction between these windows was simple: categories A, B, C, and D—essentially a matter of status. If you only wanted to buy a cheap powder, the A windows wouldn’t even look at you; if you wanted the finest pills, there was no need to crowd at the D windows.

Ying Chen’s purchases were a mixed lot, but together they added up to some value, so he chose one of the C-class windows with the fewest people and queued up.

After about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, it was finally his turn. Yet before he could speak, a booted foot suddenly cut in ahead of him.

“I’ll trouble you, attendant—one jar of Mountain Lord’s Marrow and a branch of Bloodcry Vine.”

The newcomer turned his back on Ying Chen, addressing the attendant as if Ying Chen didn’t exist.

Ying Chen frowned but didn’t rush to protest. The Alchemy House was important enough that few dared act with such impudence; if someone did, they must have some backing.

So he merely stepped back and watched the attendant’s reaction. The attendant, too, seemed momentarily surprised. He squinted at the newcomer, then, as if recalling something, broke into a smile.

“So it’s Junior Brother Yan?” he said, immediately calling over a Daoist boy. “Are your ears clogged? A jar of Mountain Lord’s Marrow and a branch of Bloodcry Vine—fetch them quickly!”

The Daoist boy scurried off at once. The attendant turned back, beaming, and asked, “Will you be paying with contribution points or talisman money, Junior Brother Yan?”