Fifteen minutes later, the husk finally sighted a village at the forest's edge. Beyond the village's northern outskirts stretched open farmlands, a plain of trampled earth scored by countless wheel ruts and hoofprints.
Generations of footsteps had carved a crude road leading toward a distant city several miles away.
The husk descended stiffly on the forest's outer fringe. The moment Wuji felt the landing, he pushed open the coffin lid.
It creaked aside, and he sat upright as the yellow evening light washed over him. Climbing out, he stretched his sore limbs briefly before lifting his gaze toward the village.
In the distance, he could see houses clustered together; thin trails of smoke rose lazily from chimneys peeking over the wall that surrounded the village.
Children's laughter carried faintly on the wind, mingling with the distant clamor of poultry. To his right, several women walked with practiced balance, clay pots resting atop their heads—likely returning from a well.
It was peaceful. Perhaps too peaceful.
Prompted by caution, he turned his gaze back toward the forest, straining his Eye of the End for any sign of stealthy beasts or lurking cultivators.
Fortunately, no lifespan numbers flickered into view. He focused his hearing; no distant howls or roars echoed from the vicinity. That alone told him enough about the area.
The beasts in this region had likely been hunted clean by the nearby sect. If there were cultivators nearby, they would have shown themselves by now. Still, he ordered the husk to survey the area and attack anyone it saw.
It floated upward on its sword, scanning the surroundings, and moments later returned to the ground. No cultivators were visible.
Yet even that didn't make him feel safe. The husk could see, but it couldn't scan with spiritual sense since it lacked a soul. Without a soul, spirit sensing was impossible.
Perhaps at a higher rank it might develop such an ability, but that was a concern for another time. For long moments, Wuji strained his own senses and eventually found nothing.
Only then did he relax slightly. He turned to the husk and willed it to dig a grave large enough for the coffin.
Three minutes later, the grave was ready—two meters deep and five meters long—and the husk stood above it, slender sword in hand. As he felt the time was right, he ordered the husk to place the coffin inside.
It lifted the coffin and began to lower it into the earth when his voice rang out abruptly.
"Stop."
The husk froze mid-motion. A frown crept across Wuji's face as realization struck him. "The hell—what stupid thing am I doing?"
His original plan surfaced clearly in his mind: bury the coffin with the husk inside, walk into the village alone, ask for directions, gather information, perhaps even socialize. Then purchase coffins, one by one, slowly and carefully returning to this area to store them inside the Interment Space.
On the surface, it was a sensible plan, almost comforting for a sanity worn thin by the tortures of recent days. He could already imagine the warmth of human interaction, the dull normalcy of mortal life, the illusion of safety… the smiles, the food he missed.
But something in him rejected that fantasy. An old man purchasing coffins in bulk would raise questions, too many questions at that.
Even buying them one at a time, scattered across different villages, would take more time than he could afford and still expose him to far too many eyes.
And then came the more dangerous thought: what would people think when those coffins began disappearing without a trace? Suspicion would cling to him like a shadow. Who was he burying? Where were the graves? Why so many coffins, and why were none ever filled?
"No," he said quietly, his tone hardening.
That path was foolish. He lowered his hand, his gaze cooling as the last trace of hesitation bled away. Some plans were made for other people, in safer times. He could no longer afford such luxuries, especially the luxury of appearing harmless.
So he chose the only method left to him, the one that felt, in a grim way, inevitable.
He turned to the husk, commanded it to follow, and walked toward the village alone.
Five minutes later, he stood before the village gate.
Two young men guarded it, their crude spears clutched too tightly in trembling hands. Their eyes darted from Wuji to the motionless figure behind him, and their posture stiffened instantly.
Wuji saw the fear there, plain as day.
"Who are you?" one demanded, leveling his spear. His voice shook with thinly veiled panic. "What do you want?"
The other turned sharply and shouted back toward the village, his voice cracking as it carried through the air: "The bandits are back! They're back!"
Immediately, tension rippled through the village. Villagers spilled from their homes, drawn by fear more than curiosity. They gathered in a loose, trembling mass as murmurs spread like a sickness.
"Why have they returned so soon?" a young woman whispered.
"Didn't we give them the protection money just three days ago?" a man beside her replied, his voice tight, knuckles white.
"When will the sect disciples come?" a middle-aged man urged, turning toward an elderly figure leaning heavily on a cane.
"I don't know," the old man said hoarsely. "They will arrive… soon." He paused, then straightened with effort. "For now, we comply. Give them what they want."
"They'll come," a young woman insisted, desperation edging her voice. "Brother Yin Li will come. He always does."
They moved toward the gate. A handful of villagers followed behind the elder, rusted swords and farm tools clutched in shaking hands. Their faces were pale, but their eyes carried the brittle courage of those who still believed protection was owed to them.
Then the husk stepped forward.
One motion. A single, clean slash. The young guard's head separated from his shoulders without resistance. Blood burst outward in a violent arc, splashing across the dirt as the body collapsed with a hollow, final thud.
Silence followed. Absolute silence. The second guard froze, eyes stretched wide, his mouth open, but no sound came. Behind him, the villagers halted mid-step, shock carving itself into their faces as whatever resolve they had evaporated like mist.
This was a village under Heaven's Fall Sect's shadow. People here did not die like this. Beasts attacked sometimes, but disciples usually arrived in time. Bandits extorted, but rarely killed, fearful of sect retribution. Violence existed at the edges of their life, never at its center.
They lived beneath the illusion of protection. They had never seen a man beheaded.
Some gagged, hands clamped over their mouths. Others stumbled backward, others covered the eyes of children even though they were not that much different from children. The slain guard's family stood frozen, until a heartbeat later, when raw, animal wails tore through the crowd.
Wuji watched. Calmly. No, it was too calmly; the sound of grief stirred nothing within him. Neither revulsion nor a tightening in his chest followed. He looked at the headless corpse, watched the blood pool beneath it, and sighed inwardly.
His first kill. Not by his own hand, but his will had delivered it all the same.
"As expected," he murmured softly. "I don't feel it."
The realization settled into him like cold ash. Mei Xu's memories had not merely taught him cruelty, they had eroded something fundamental. The instinctive resistance to killing, the hesitation that once defined him, had been ground down to nothing.
That absence frightened him far more than any scream. He had tried to preserve his old morality, that fragile, Earth-born belief in the sanctity of innocent life. He had clung to it stubbornly, even through torture and betrayal.
But now he understood: this world did not recognize morality. Lives were not equal here; perhaps they never had been in any world—not truly, not since the dawn of time.
Whether it was Mei Xu's lingering influence, the coffin's cold erosion, or simply reality tearing away comforting illusions, killing no longer felt wrong. It felt necessary. Neutral. A tool, like fire or steel.
He tightened his grip slightly. Perhaps he had known this from the beginning. Perhaps this was always the price. In this world, even the innocent were expendable if they stood in the way of survival, benefit, or fate.
And for the first time since his rebirth, Wuji did not argue with that truth. He simply accepted it.
The village chief watched Wuji and the husk from the front of the crowd, anger and reason warring in his wrinkled face. He had lived long enough to recognize true danger, and the emotionless woman's empty gaze told him everything. She could slaughter them all. So he chose restraint.
Leaning on his cane, he stepped forward until he stood before Wuji. Wuji noted the old man's forced composure and allowed a faint, almost amused smile.
"I like smart people," Wuji said calmly. "I am not here to terrorize you." He paused deliberately. "Follow my orders, and no one else will die by my hand."
His voice carried no overt threat, only the certainty of consequence.
"Understood, senior," the village chief replied hoarsely, bowing his head.
"Good," Wuji said. "Bring me all your food."
A sharp gasp rippled through the crowd, fear giving way to confusion. The chief hesitated, then spoke carefully.
"Esteemed senior… why would one of your stature require mortal food? If you are willing to wait, we can offer spirit rice—"
"Old man," Wuji interrupted, his tone lethally soft. "I like smart people. But when someone tries to be too smart, I enjoy dooming them."
The chief's body trembled. Cold sweat soaked his back as he met Wuji's gaze—dark, bottomless, as though it devoured light itself.
"Y-yes," he stammered. "Of course, senior. Right away."
Wuji continued, his voice even and unhurried.
"I want all your food. All your water. Every medicinal herb. Several clean robes. Hmm, yes black, preferably. Wooden bathing barrels." He paused, then added almost casually, "And coffins. Every coffin and ritual material you possess. The higher the quality, the better."
Each demand grew more unsettling than the last. Food, water, robes, these the chief could understand. But coffins?
He did not dare question it. Not again. Turning sharply, he barked orders to the middle-aged man beside him. "Hurry. Gather everything the senior has asked for. Now."
"Uhh…yes, alright, alright," the middle-aged man said, turning to direct the others. They scattered into their homes and within minutes began returning with sacks of food, crates of fruit, bundles of herbs.
Someone even brought out a steaming roasted chicken, its aroma making Wuji's mouth water instantly. After days of surviving on insects, the sight felt almost divine. He forced himself to swallow, his expression unchanging.
Several minutes later, the space before the gate was crowded with sacks of uncooked rice, flour, sides of meat, folded robes, barrels, and herbs, all laid out beside the headless corpse of the young guard.
The villagers watched, their faces etched with fear and thinly veiled anger. This old man was worse than the bandits; bandits took coins, but he was scouring them clean.
Wuji ignored their simmering resentment. He turned to the husk, which had gone motionless after its allotted time expired. He fed it another two years of lifespan, leaving only five years and nine months stored. The expenditure was costly, but necessary.
He ordered it to carry everything back to the coffin he'd left at the gravesite. Without hesitation, it began, first hauling sacks of grain, then returning for the coffins. The village had thirteen ready-made ones. Within three minutes, every last item had been stored inside the Interment Space, which Wuji activated remotely.
On his command, the husk retrieved five low-tier spirit stones the coffin had extracted and brought them to him.
Wuji took them, weighing the cold, faintly luminous stones in his palm. Giving all five seemed excessive. He tucked four into his sleeve and extended the last toward the village chief.
The old man's eyes widened. He knew of spirit stones from the sect disciples, but he had never held one. To possess even a low-tier stone was like holding a thousand gold coins, a sum that could take a family years to earn.
As the chief took it, a flicker of greed passed through his eyes. Wuji saw it clearly, the man was already imagining trading it for a Blood Qi Replenishing Pill, something to restore his fading vitality.
Wuji didn't care. Whether the chief shared it or hoarded it, whether it caused strife later, none of that mattered. He had given compensation. In his own way, he was being… civilized.
Then he turned to the wailing woman, the mother or sister of the slain guard, and those trying to console her. He tossed another low-tier spirit stone; it landed in the dirt before her.
She looked at it, then at him, her sobbing never ceasing. Wuji watched intently. This wasn't compensation as compensation would imply he owed something for a life, and that was an absurd precedent to set.
No, this was an experiment. If she refused it, she was principled, and therefore dangerous.
If she accepted it, she was greedy, and therefore predictable, but still dangerous.
If someone else seized it first, the village was rotten, and therefore unstable and dangerous.
The woman's hand darted out, seized the spirit stone, and tucked it into her sleeve without breaking her wail.
"Greedy and cunning," Wuji noted. "And also dangerous."
His eyes swept over the villagers again, their hidden anger simmering beneath the fear. If they could kill him now, they would skin him alive.
Wuji chuckled faintly at himself, at his own stupidity and naivety. He stood before them for a long moment, inwardly reprimanding himself. "I swore to be cautious, even against mortals. And here I am, acting like a fool. I should have stayed in the coffin and used the husk for this."
The risks flashed through his mind: a hidden cultivator, a sect patrol arriving at any moment. He had to hurry, he had to erase every trace.
Then a darker, more pragmatic thought surfaced, cold and clear. And there is the matter of lifespans. Roughly six hundred villagers. Even if each yielded only a few years of time, a trickle from each would become a river when pooled. To walk away from that… would be sheer incompetence.
His eyes narrowed to slits as he willed the husk to move.
The village chief, studying Wuji's face, felt a chill creep down his spine, the very air seemed to stagnate. Then, in his peripheral vision, the woman stepped forward.