Ye Feng did not 'sleep'. He spent his night on the hard tea sacks, not meditating as he usually would, but... listening. He listened to the anxious, restless rhythm of Lin Qing's heartbeat from the floor above. He heard her turn over in her bed, again and again. He heard her soft, frustrated sighs, which, to his senses, were louder than the mice skittering in the roof.
Thirty Silver Pieces.
To Ye Feng, the number was meaningless. He was used to thinking in trillions of souls, seven realms, millions of years. But here, in this small, herb-scented shop, Thirty Silver Pieces was everything. It was the number that had stolen the peace from the girl who had given him warm gruel.
And so, when the first light—not the sun, but that pale, grey pre-dawn glow—began to filter through the cracks in the storage room, Ye Feng was already moving.
He picked up the axe. He did not chop wood as he had before. He did it with a cold, terrifying efficiency.
THWACK! (A three-second pause). THWACK! (A three-second pause). THWACK!
Each swing of the axe was perfectly identical, landing with the exact same force on the exact same spot. Large logs split cleanly, as if cut by silk, and when he was done, the woodpile in the backyard was not just stocked for three days. It was stocked for three weeks. Everything was stacked with the geometric precision of palace-grade masonry.
He then filled every water cauldron, swept the yard, and even cleaned out the noisy neighbor's chicken coop—all before Lin Qing came downstairs.
She appeared, yawning, her hair slightly messy, her eyes puffy from a lack of sleep. She was tying her apron strings as she walked to the stove and... she stopped.
She saw the water cauldrons, already full and steaming. She saw the front floor, already swept clean of yesterday's dust. She glanced into the backyard and her eyes widened at the impossible, perfect stack of firewood.
"Ye Feng...?" she called out, her voice hoarse.
Ye Feng emerged from the storage room, his simple blue cotton robe already free of dust. "I am going out," he said flatly.
Lin Qing tensed, her sleepiness vanishing, replaced by a light panic. "Out? Out where? Are you... are you quitting?" She sounded almost... disappointed? "I mean, good! I can't pay you. But..."
"I am going to find Thirty Silver Pieces," Ye Feng said, as if announcing he was going to buy vegetables.
Lin Qing fell silent. She stared at the young man before her. The man who broke bowls, set orders on fire, and made thugs slip on soapy water. The man who could lift a cauldron with one hand but couldn't understand profit and loss. The man with the 'Wolf-Slaying Gaze' and the confused expression of a lost child.
She looked at the woodpile in the yard.
Then, she laughed. A tired, bitter laugh. "Ye Feng, finding thirty silver isn't like chopping wood. You can't just..." She stopped when she saw the absolute expression on his face. It wasn't confidence. It was certainty. As if the money already existed; he just had to go and collect it.
"You're serious?" she whispered.
"Yes."
Lin Qing let out a long sigh, rubbing her face. She didn't know what possessed this strange young man, but she knew one thing: Ye Feng, outside the shop, unsupervised, with his unpredictable strength and total naivety, was a recipe for a disaster far greater than three thugs.
"Alright," she said, making a quick decision. She walked to the cash drawer, opened a hidden compartment, and took out several copper coins. She counted them carefully.
"Here." She held out her palm. There were ten copper coins on it.
Ye Feng stared at the dull bronze coins.
"This isn't a salary," Lin Qing said quickly, her face flushing slightly. "I don't have the money for that. Consider this... lunch money. And for emergencies." She looked at him sharply, switching to her 'sharp boss' mode.
"Listen. I have rules. Rule number one: Do not destroy other people's property. Understand? Do not break anything!" Ye Feng nodded. "Rule number two: Do not fight. I'm serious, Ye Feng. Your 'Wolf-Slaying Gaze' is terrifying, but it attracts trouble. No violence." Ye Feng nodded again, a little hesitantly. "Rule number three: Be back before dark. Before the city gates close. Promise me."
"I promise," Ye Feng said.
He carefully took the coins. The hand that had held the fate of seven realms now weighed ten copper coins. The sensation was strange. This was the first 'money' he had earned from someone who... trusted him.
"I doubt you'll find it," Lin Qing muttered softly, more to herself. "But... good luck, 'Wolf-Slayer'."
Ye Feng stepped into the bustling streets of Spring Cloud City. The ten coppers felt heavy and warm in his pocket. He needed Thirty Silver. That meant Three Thousand Copper.
He had to find work that required... his skills. The problem was, his only skills were conquering, destroying, and ruling.
He saw a large notice plastered on the town square. "WANTED: DOCKHANDS FOR THE WHARF. HIGH PAY! PAID DAILY."
High pay. Paid daily. Perfect.
He walked to the wharf on the edge of the Cloud River. The air smelled of salted fish, muddy water, and sweat. A foreman with a thick mustache and a bare chest was shouting, a small whip in his hand.
"MOVE IT, YOU LAZY COCKROACHES! Get those silk crates onto the Red Dragon Junk! We sail before noon!"
Ye Feng reported for duty. The foreman, whose name was Guo, looked him up and down with a sneer. "You? Who are you? One of Young Master Zhao's runaways? Look at those hands! Too soft! You're more suited for embroidery than lifting crates! Get lost!"
"I am strong," Ye Feng said simply.
The foreman burst out laughing, spittle flying. "Strong? Strong at complaining? Alright, pretty boy. You want work? You see that crate?"
He pointed to a massive wooden crate lying alone, far larger than the others. It was marked with the symbol for 'Black Iron'. It likely contained ore or weaponry. "That one takes four of my strongest men just to slide. If you can even make it budge... you're hired."
The other porters stopped working for a moment to watch, grinning, ready to laugh at the handsome youth.
Ye Feng walked over to the crate. He crouched. He didn't try to slide it. He didn't try to push it. He simply placed one hand underneath it.
Then, he stood up.
SCREEEEE...
The massive crate, weighing perhaps a thousand kati, lifted off the ground. Ye Feng didn't lift it with strain. He lifted it lightly, as if it were a pillow of goose down. He lifted it, settled it comfortably on one shoulder, and turned to the foreman.
"Where do I put this?"
The grins on the porters' faces froze. One man's jaw dropped so low his smoking pipe fell into the river. Foreman Guo dropped his clipboard.
A total silence fell over the wharf, broken only by the lapping of water.
"W... w... what..." stammered one porter. "A sorcerer!" yelled another, backing away in terror. "He's... he's not human!"
Foreman Guo was the first to recover. His face was pale. He didn't see a strong worker. He saw something wrong, something unnatural. Something that brought bad luck.
"Put it down! Put that thing down!" he shrieked.
Ye Feng dutifully lowered the crate, which landed with a soft THUD that made the wooden dock tremble.
Foreman Guo fumbled in his pouch, grabbed several copper coins—more than ten—and threw them at Ye Feng's feet, as if feeding a wild beast.
"Go! Get out of here!" he shouted, raising his whip as if it could protect him. "We don't hire demons here! Don't curse the Red Dragon Junk! Go!"
Ye Feng looked at the coins on the ground. He had failed his first job. He was too... efficient.
He tried elsewhere. He saw a blacksmith's shop. "WANTED: FORGE ASSISTANT. DUTY: TEND THE FIRE."
Tending fire. That was easy. He was the master of the Nine-Sun Immortal Flames.
The blacksmith, a massive, sweating man, gave him a set of manual bellows. "Keep this fire red, boy. Don't let it die, don't let it get too hot. Got it?"
Ye Feng nodded. He sat at the forge. The bellows... were boring. Slow. Inefficient.
He looked at the embers, which were dying down. He... exhaled. Very softly.
Fffff....
It wasn't a normal breath. It was the tiniest, most infinitesimal leak of heavenly qi.
The dull red embers didn't just glow. They detonated. They exploded into a blinding, white-blue flame. A loud WHOOOSH sound filled the shop, and the temperature in the smithy rose fifty degrees in one second.
"What in the hells is that fire?!" shrieked the blacksmith, dropping his hot hammer.
He looked at the forge. The iron bar he had been shaping was no longer red. The iron bar... was melting. It was dripping like water onto the floor.
"My forge! My stone forge! You... you're melting my forge!"
The blacksmith grabbed a bucket of quenching water and threw it at Ye Feng. "FIRE DEMON! GET OUT OF HERE!"
Failed again.
He tried a third job. An "easy" job. A high-class teahouse was looking for a temporary waiter. "Task: Deliver tea. Do not break anything."
Ye Feng thought this was perfect. He could control his strength.
The manager, seeing his clean and handsome appearance, hired him on the spot. "Take this tray," he said, pointing to a lacquered tray holding a dozen expensive porcelain teacups. "To the 'Orchid' private room on the second floor. Be careful. Do not run."
Ye Feng lifted the tray. He walked slowly. One step. Two steps. This was easy.
Suddenly, a drunk, wealthy customer stumbled out of another room, crashing right into Ye Feng. "Outta my way!"
The tray was knocked into the air. A dozen teacups flew. The teahouse manager shrieked in horror.
Reflex.
Ye Feng's immortal reflexes, honed by a million battles, took over.
To the onlookers, time seemed to stop. The young waiter didn't panic. He didn't fall. He just... moved. His body blurred. He spun under the falling tray. He caught one cup on his foot. He caught two cups on his elbow. He kicked the tray back up into the air. He caught five cups in one hand. He caught five cups in the other. He caught the tray on his back. He spun one more time, and in a fraction of a second, he was standing perfectly still.
All twelve teacups were stacked neatly back on the tray in his hands. Not a single drop had spilled.
The entire teahouse was silent. The drunk customer was now sober.
Ye Feng looked at the manager. "I did not break anything."
The manager stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, his face as pale as chalk. That wasn't a human move. That was a demonic circus acrobat's move. It was too perfect. Too fast.
"G... get out," the manager whispered. "But I..." "GET OUT! You... you're scaring the customers! Go!"
By late afternoon, Ye Feng was sitting on a curb near a gutter, frustrated. Lin Qing's rules ("Don't break anything" and "Don't fight") were incredibly difficult.
He had been kicked out of three jobs. He stared at his hands. These hands, which could crush stars, could not lift a crate, tend a fire, or even carry tea. He was truly... useless in this mortal world.
He held the ten coppers from Lin Qing, plus the eight coppers the dock foreman had thrown at him. Total eighteen. He had spent three on a steamed bun (it was decent, but not as warm as Lin Qing's gruel). Fifteen coppers left.
He was still 2,985 coppers short.
A strange feeling of despair—a completely new sensation—began to creep over him. He wasn't frustrated at failing. He was frustrated because he was going to fail Lin Qing. He had promised to be back before dark. And he would be returning... empty-handed.
That's when he heard it.
Not just a sound. It was a vibration. A low, raucous roar of a crowd, muffled by walls. It was coming from a narrow alley behind the city's filthiest tavern.
The alley smelled of cheap alcohol, rotten garbage, and... something else. Something Ye Feng recognized. The faint, coppery tang of adrenaline. The smell of dried blood.
Driven by curiosity (and desperation), he followed the sound.
A dilapidated wooden door was guarded by a large man with a facial scar. Ye Feng tried to enter. The guard shoved him. "Get lost, kid! This is no place for you!"
Ye Feng showed him five copper coins. The guard's eyes lit up. He took the coins and moved aside.
Ye Feng stepped inside.
He was in a large, excavated courtyard, covered by a dirty tarp. Smoke and sweat filled the air. Hundreds of men—porters, gamblers, shady merchants—were packed around the edges, shouting and throwing money bags.
In the center was a fighting pit made of packed earth.
And in that pit, a giant, bald man, with muscles like boulders, had just slammed his opponent to the ground, knocking him unconscious.
A thin man with prominent gold teeth (the Bookie) jumped onto a small stage.
"AND THE WINNER, ONCE AGAIN... 'THE MAD BULL'!"
The crowd roared and cursed. The Gold-Toothed Bookie raised his hands.
"WHO'S NEXT? WHO DARES?" he shrieked, his voice hoarse. "The Bull is on a hot streak! Young Master Zhao just placed a huge bet that no one can take him down tonight!"
That name made Ye Feng's ears perk up.
"Listen up!" the Bookie shouted. "A new challenge! I don't need you to win! Just SURVIVE one minute in there with The Mad Bull! One minute! You don't even have to punch! Just survive! And you walk away with... TEN SILVER PIECES!"
Ye Feng's eyes focused.
Ten... Silver... Pieces.
That was one thousand copper.
He looked at The Mad Bull, who was drinking ale straight from a jug. He looked at the bloodthirsty crowd. He thought of the Thirty Silver Pieces.
He only needed to do this... three times. And he didn't need to win. He just had to survive one minute. He wouldn't have to break Lin Qing's "No fighting" rule. He would just... dodge. That was his specialty.
"Me," Ye Feng said, his voice calm, yet cutting clear through the din.
He stepped out of the crowd.
The entire arena went silent. The gamblers stared at the handsome, clean-faced young man in the simple blue cotton robe.
Then, they exploded in laughter.
"Look at this pretty boy!" "Is he lost from the tea house?" "The Bull is gonna eat him for breakfast!" "I'll bet five copper he cries!"
The Gold-Toothed Bookie grinned, his eyes gleaming with profit. "You sure, kid? One full minute. No suing us if you lose your teeth or break an arm. Sign this waiver."
He shoved a grimy piece of paper at Ye Feng. Ye Feng didn't read it. He just took the brush, and this time (with perfect control so it wouldn't ignite), he signed his name.
The calligraphy was so regal and powerful that the Bookie stared at it, but he was too ignorant to understand. "Fine! Ye Feng! Into the pit, fresh meat!"
Ye Feng hopped lightly into the dirt arena. He landed without a sound.
Across from him, The Mad Bull (whose name was Xiong) snorted. He hated pretty boys.
GONNNG! An iron bell was struck.
"TIME STARTS... NOW!"
The Mad Bull roared and charged Ye Feng, his fist—which was the size of Ye Feng's head—raised to smash.
The crowd cheered.
Ye Feng stood still. He remembered Lin Qing's rule: "No fighting." He also remembered Lin Qing's other rule: "Don't break anything." (Including this brawler, if possible.)
He wouldn't fight. He would just... dodge.
WHOOSH! The Bull's fist missed Ye Feng's nose by an inch, punching nothing but air. The wind of it alone made Ye Feng's hair flutter. The Bull was surprised. He charged again. Ye Feng took a half-step to the side. The Bull crashed into the arena post. The Bull spun and threw a brutal roundhouse kick. Ye Feng simply bent over, as if to pick up a coin, and the kick sailed over his head.
For forty-five agonizing seconds, it was an embarrassing dance. The Mad Bull attacked with savage, bone-breaking force, smashing the air, punching the posts, while Ye Feng avoided him with minimal, almost lazy, movements. He didn't look like he was fighting. He looked... bored.
The crowd, which had been laughing, now began to boo. "FIGHT HIM, YOU COWARD!" "STOP DANCING LIKE A MONKEY!"
The Mad Bull was furious. His face was beet-red. He stopped attacking. "Fight... me... coward!" he growled, spittle flying.
There were ten seconds left.
The Bull did something treacherous. He stomped the ground, punched the dirt, and scooped up a large handful of sand and gravel, throwing it hard into Ye Feng's face.
Reflex. Ye Feng raised an arm to shield his eyes from the dust.
And in that split-second of blindness, The Bull charged.
He didn't try to punch. He wrapped both of his tree-trunk-like arms around Ye Feng's body in a crushing, bone-breaking bear hug.
KRAK!
The crowd heard what they thought was the sound of Ye Feng's ribs cracking. "CRUSH HIM!" "YOU'RE DEAD, KID!"
The Mad Bull laughed in triumph. He squeezed. He squeezed with all his might.
Ye Feng was pinned. He could feel the mortal's muscles straining against his body. It wasn't painful, but it was... annoying. And an invasion of his personal space.
The bell was about to ring. Five seconds. But The Bull wasn't letting go. He was going to break him.
Ye Feng sighed. 'Sorry, Lin Qing. This is for the shop.'
He couldn't use his fist. Too destructive. He couldn't kick. He couldn't release his aura.
So, Ye Feng, still trapped in the death-hug, casually raised one hand.
He... tapped... The Mad Bull's chest. One, soft pat. PLAK.
It wasn't a normal tap. It was the tap of an Immortal Emperor. Ye Feng didn't inject any power. He simply... reflected it.
All the kinetic energy from The Mad Bull's savage squeeze, all the power from his straining, massive muscles, was in an instant reversed and focused back onto his own body, concentrated in a single point on his chest.
To Ye Feng, it was a pat. To The Mad Bull... it felt like he had been hit by a stampeding carriage from inside his own body.
The Bull's eyes widened in sheer horror. WHOOOOOOSSSSH! All the air was driven from his lungs in a single, explosive gust. He didn't fly. He didn't explode. He just... deflated. The strength in his arms vanished instantly. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed in a heap at Ye Feng's feet. Completely unconscious.
GONNNGGG! The bell rang, signaling that one minute was over.
But no one cheered. The entire arena was dead silent. Utterly still. The bell had just rung, but their champion was passed out on the ground. The kid hadn't won. He hadn't survived. He had... knocked out The Mad Bull.
Ye Feng brushed off his robe, which was slightly wrinkled. He walked over to the Gold-Toothed Bookie, whose jaw had hit the floor.
"One minute," Ye Feng said. "Ten silver."
The Bookie trembled. He didn't dare argue. He grabbed a heavy leather pouch from his table and tossed it at Ye Feng.
Ye Feng caught it. It was heavy. Cold.
Just as he was about to turn and leave, a new voice cut through the silence. It was calm and cold.
"Young man."
The voice came from the darkest corner of the arena, from a hidden private booth. A man in elegant black silk, his face obscured, was smoking a long pipe. He clapped, slowly. Clap. Clap. Clap.
"That was... interesting," the man said. "You didn't punch him. You didn't choke him. You... tapped him."
The man stepped out slightly, revealing a black jade ring on his finger. He was the owner of this place. Bos Tie.
"What's your name?" "Ye Feng." "Ye Feng," Bos Tie mused, taking a drag from his pipe. "The Bull was my biggest earner. You just cost me a lot of money at the betting tables tonight. But... you also just showed me a very profitable new opportunity."
Bos Tie smiled, but his eyes didn't.
"Come back tomorrow night," he said. It wasn't a request. It was an order. "I have a new opponent for you. Someone from out of town. Much stronger than The Bull."
He motioned to the Gold-Toothed Bookie, who immediately trembled.
"Pay him... Thirty Silver Pieces."
Ye Feng's eyes widened slightly. The exact amount. All in one night.
"Consider it a bonus," Bos Tie said. "And an advance for tomorrow's fight. Don't disappoint me by not showing up. I don't li