Treasure-hunting mountain folk trickled back to camp.
To everyone’s surprise, Sly Zhao emerged from the forest as well.
As a hunter, Zhao had the skill to hunt treasures, but a man of his caliber rarely bothered.
Is there some rare prize in the mountains?
The camp buzzed with gossip, though no one dared speak too loudly.
Zhao’s face was dark as a storm cloud.
That morning, he’d noticed his trusted guard and Rat Li hadn’t returned.
A simple meeting with the Witch Clan should’ve taken half an hour, tops.
He’d waited and waited, but no sign of them. Suspicion had gnawed at him.
This was his first deal with the witches, and he’d kept his guard up.
Sensing something amiss, he’d entered the forest to track them.
The Hundred Thousand Mountains were thick with miasma. Even for a seasoned, powerful hunter like Zhao, finding two men in the dense woods was no easy task.
But find them he did.
Call it skill, call it luck.
“Not the witches’ work. The wounds… look like a mountain dweller’s doing.”
Zhao’s face was grim. His deal with the Witch Clan was a secret he couldn’t afford to leak.
If the Mountain Patrol Division’s higher-ups caught wind, he’d be done for.
“Count heads now. See who’s missing,” he ordered upon returning to camp.
It was routine, but with Zhao overseeing it personally, the guards and mountain folk moved with nervous haste.
The tally came quickly.
Two mountain folk dead, three missing. One guard gone.
When the list reached Zhao’s hands, his eyes lingered on a name he vaguely recalled.
Jiang Heng…
If memory served, this kid had bad blood with Rat Li.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Did he kill them?
It wasn’t impossible.
But Zhao had heard Jiang Heng was recently deathly ill. Could he have grown so strong, so fast?
His eyes narrowed, sensing something off.
Does this kid have a secret?
And that missing guard—did he catch wind of something and bolt?
“I want them found—dead or alive,” Zhao growled, his gaze cold and predatory.
In the pitch-black cave, Jiang Heng tended a small fire but kept his distance, wary of its heat. He scoured the cave for dangers.
First, the entrance. He sealed it with grass and mud, leaving only a side vent for air.
At the mouth, he piled dung from a spirit beast tiger. The stench was foul, but it’d keep most beasts at bay.
Inside, he sprinkled insect-repellent powder along the walls and crevices.
Beasts were a threat, but in the forest, bugs were the real menace, especially at night.
Satisfied, he lay on a rough grass mat he’d woven. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was secure.
No longer a mountain dweller, slaving for others. This freedom feels damn good.
In the dead of night, faint screams woke him.
Peering through the vent with [Night Vision], he looked toward the camp.
Even his enhanced sight couldn’t pierce the distance, but he caught wisps of faint red smoke rising into the sky.
No surprise. The mountain folk are done for.
The tragedy weighed on him, but he couldn’t dwell.
Did Tian get my warning? Did he make it?
The bodies of Rat Li and that guard—I burned them, but a hunter like Zhao might still find clues. I need to power up fast in case he comes knocking.
Jiang Heng mulled his options.
To grow stronger quickly, he had two paths.
First, hunt more Hellseeds in the forest to gain new abilities.
But Hellseeds were rare, and some, like the peacock, were too strong to tackle. Plus, the abilities were random—often utility-based, not always combat-focused.
The second path was safer: head to the black market at the mountain’s base, sell his treasures, and buy a medicinal meal recipe.
With his current haul—worth over seven taels and two hundred coppers—he could afford a basic recipe and ingredients, boosting his strength significantly.
There’s a market at the mountain’s base. I can offload my goods there. I’ll go at dawn.
If he recalled correctly, crafting a soul banner took days. Until it was done, the Witch Clan wouldn’t let Zhao leave.
That gave him time for a round trip.
At first light, Jiang Heng raced down the mountain, moving like the wind.
He ignored lesser spiritual traces along the way.
A gut feeling urged him—time was tight, and strength was urgent.
The miasma mountain, called Tiger Pass, had a bustling hub at its base, a crossroads town called Tiger Pass Town.
From afar, Jiang Heng felt its lively pulse.
Wandering swordsmen, loggers harvesting spiritual timber, imperial couriers, and cunning local merchants mingled in a chaotic throng.
Stepping into the town, he was hit by the aroma of wine and herbs, mixed with shouts and haggling.
“Prime mountain saffron, just a bit small—ten coppers!”
“Check this out, boss! Thirty-year red resin, minimum thirty coppers!”
“Look at my catch—top-grade silken pheasant, a must for any medicinal meal, only ten coppers!”
At a medicinal stall, swordsmen and mountain hunters hawked their herbs and game.
Lacking hunter status, they couldn’t enter miasma zones, so their finds came from ordinary forests, fetching low prices.
That thirty-copper red resin? Only valuable for its head-sized bulk.
Then, a shout cut through.
“Holy hell, that’s a prime yam essence! A nail-sized piece is worth fifty coppers! Where’d you get that, sir?”
Someone had unveiled a rare find, drawing gasps from the crowd.
Yam essence?
Jiang Heng glanced over, shaking his head inwardly.
That’s their idea of a treasure?
Every item in his stash was rarer, worth more.
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