The Qing Hills slept beneath the dawn mist, the wind whispering through the cliffs like a prayer long forgotten.
Huolian stepped out from the hidden cave, her robes were fluttering faintly with her movement.
Her eyes, once bright with an evil crimson, now shimmered with cold ambition.
The spirit stones were almost gone.
The soul jades had been consumed.
The cultivation she'd gained had pushed her to the very edge of the Peak Wu Realm, yet it wasn't enough.
Not nearly enough.
Her enemies weren't simple mortals or backwater elders anymore. They were cultivators of large sects with centuries of knowledge. The righteous clans. The same sects that had once torn Boluo down.
By this time, they would know that Boluo is back, only not in whose body or where.
But still, their detection methods are far beyond what Huolian could fathom.
To face them, she would need more power. Even beyond Shen realm she so particularly desires.
For Shen realm is just the beginning. A beginning to the world of cultivation.
She looked up toward the distant skyline. The silhouette of a city carved into the mountains greeted her.
Mushan City.
It was only a few dozen kilometers away.
A middle to higher tier trading hub. It was wealthy enough to matter, isolated enough to hide in. And more importantly, it held the annual Hundred Merchant Fair each year.
A perfect opportunity.
Huolian's lips curled into a smile.
Wealth moved at the fair like qi in a cultivator's meridians, never still, never constant.
Merchants came from bordering towns, traveling sects, black market dealers, rogue alchemists, and wandering beast tamers. Gold changed hands faster than words.
She would blend into the crowd like a leaf in the wind.
No one would notice a petite fifteen-year-old girl.
That was what a fool would think.
But she knew better.
That was exactly the kind of person cultivators noticed, the chance of a pretty, petite girl with peak Wu realm cultivation. They would go mad like dogs to make her their disciple or servant.
She needed a cover.
A lie strong enough to hold its shape under pressure.
She stopped by a nearby stream, kneeling and washing her face. The reflection stared back at her, a soft-featured girl with pale skin and long black hair, eyes still gleaming faintly from the consumption of red jade.
No one would believe she was a demonic cultivator who had massacred her entire tribe.
They'd believe she was a lost disciple, perhaps. A wandering orphan. A common trope in the cultivation world.
But she needed something better. Cleaner.
Something elegant.
"A merchant's daughter," she whispered, standing.
Yes. A wandering merchant girl whose caravan was attacked by beasts. She'd fled alone, surviving through sheer luck, and now sought employment under another caravan to reach the next safe zone.
She could find a loving family. She certainly had the looks to play her part as their daughter.
It was simple. Pitiful. And believable.
Most importantly, it explained why she had no sect token or family jade slip.
Now, for the clothes.
She moved quickly, running her fingers through her storage ring until she found a simple green dress with silver trim. Something common enough to wear in a merchant family. She tied her hair into a modest braid, then covered it with a plain travel scarf.
She wrapped her halberd in seals and bound it in a cloth bag.
It looked like an instrument case now.
The killing aura was suppressed, but the edge was still there. Only someone at Shen Realm or higher would sense the truth.
And if such a person came close, she would run. But the problem was still unsolved. THere may not be many masters in Mushan. But there were still around 5-6 masters in the Shen realm there. And there will be more during the Fair.
She'd have to thwart them as well.
For now, this small disguise was enough, though.
She made her way down the hill paths and entered the main road. It was wide and cracked with age, with rickety wagons passing now and then. Traders, farmers, cultivators, and guards. No one spared her a second glance.
Just another poor girl walking the road.
She liked it that way.
The closer she got to Mushan City, the more alive the air became. Threads of spiritual essence hung in the atmosphere. Markets buzzed with voices.
But her mind stayed focused.
At the fair, she didn't just plan to browse.
She planned to start a business.
For Huolian knew a technique.
A cruel, brilliant little thing she'd created in her past life as Boluo. Back then, he'd called it the Silken Wish Imprint.
It wasn't a weapon. Not in the traditional sense.
It was a soul brand woven into delicate paper charms that mimicked prayer talismans. When sold, the buyer would get a temporary boost in their lucks.
Boluo had created them using a bit of soul essence.
Traders loved them.
Gullible cultivators thought they were fortune talismans. Others believed them to be simple love charms. Some even offered them as marriage gifts.
But what they did not know is that the more one believed in the charm as they kept it with them, the more soul essence they would unknowingly impart into it.
This way every charm she sold came back to her eventually.
She could drain them slowly. Subtly. A single charm might not yield much. But hundreds? Thousands?
She could build a power base without lifting a weapon.
Boluo had once funded an entire sect this way.
Now Huolian would fund her rise.
But she'd need materials. Silk paper, brush, demon-ink, and the ashes of an ancient text. Not hard to find in a fair like Mushan's.
By noon, the gates of Mushan City came into view.
Two enormous stone towers flanked the entrance. Runes hummed softly along the surface, scanning each passerby for concealed threats.
Huolian kept her pace steady.
Her qi was sealed deep inside her core. Not suppressed, but hidden behind folds of demonic silence, a technique Boluo had learnt in his later years. It has not even been discovered in this era yet.
It was enough to fool all the weaklings.
The guards barely looked at her.
She passed through the gates.
And just like that, she disappeared into the crowd.
The city swallowed her whole.
Spice carts rolled past her, trailing the scent of dried meat and bitter herbs. Street performers drew coins from children. Scholars debated in tea houses. Cultivators from half a dozen clans strutted in fine robes, drawing glances and envy.
Huolian stayed in the alleys.
She followed her instincts to the northern district where stalls leaned sideways and merchants wore daggers under their cloaks. The black market.
Perfect. Even though her business idea was a master stroke, no one would believe in her product without results.
By nightfall, she had everything she needed.
Silk paper. Blood-ink. Dragon-ash. One seller even threw in a handful of soul-salt, mistaking her for a wandering talisman crafter.
She thanked him and left.
She then picked up some of the dragon ash and the blood ink and turned it into an intoxicating mixture. She spread it on the collar of her robe and smiled.
The first step had begun.