“I thought you were single? How come you already have three kids? I feel so betrayed,” Tulip said softly, wiping fake tears from her eyes.

  Zamian sighed, reading the scripture he was writing using green ink, a leaf, and commoner’s paper.

  He and Tulip were sitting at a rectangular table inside the Camp of Salvation’s main building. The table was covered with leftover fruit, cereal, juice, and pasta, most of which had been eaten by the three kids Zamian had found earlier.

  Ren, the young girl, was only eight years old. She barely spoke and only let Tulip apply special herbs on her after Elm checked each of them.

  Bud, the oldest at nine, didn’t know how to read and was a little shy. He ate quickly, but Zamian noticed he kept glancing at the doors from time to time.

  Elm, the other eight-year-old, insisted on eating with his friends, and Zamian had already instructed a few Zealots to take him to Calla or Yokki to deal with his condition. He was sure that whatever had cured Yokki and could heal Lakea would work for this commoner child.

  The two little boys and the little girl had already left with Kurt, at Zamian’s orders.

  ‘I bet he only held on this long because of his friends… Is this the power of friendship mother talked about? It doesn’t look so funny in real life… Poor kid…’ Zamian thought grimly, continuing to write.

  “What are you doing, young father?” Tulip asked, resting her head sideways on Zamian’s shoulder while hugging his free arm.

  “You are becoming more and more daring, aren’t you?” he said, half-smiling.

  “Not my fault. You’re all talk and no action,” she shrugged, reading what he was writing and making a puzzled face. “Are you writing a novel? Is this a monster? So scary. Eight hearts and no organs? Be more realistic.”

  Zamian’s hand trembled, and he gave a forced laugh. “… Something like that, yes,” he muttered.

  “This makes me relieved,” Tulip said, pressing his arm. “I only see you relaxing at mealtimes, so it’s good you’re finding new hobbies and not just cultivating, training, or whatever.”

  “About that, how’s your cultivation going?” Zamian changed the subject as he kept detailing his inner structure. “Anything to tell me?”

  “I’m not like you freaks,” Tulip sighed. “I’m planting seeds and even watering them, but I have to constantly chant to send my essence, and it takes sooooo long. But,” she paused, her tone turning serious. “I’m cultivating whenever I have the essence to do it… I won’t disappoint you, okay?”

  Zamian paused and looked at her.

  He had some thoughts and guesses about how and why she got attached to him so fast, but since his instincts never detected a lie, he felt no need to say what was inside his head.

  But now, seeing how she was curiously reading his writings to better understand him and how she squeezed herself into his arms more and more, Zamian wanted to say something.

  “Tulip,” he began, making her look at him with her big blue eyes. “I—” He closed his mouth and looked at the door, sensing a presence outside.

  Then, there was a knock.

  “Come in, Kurt,” Zamian said, avoiding looking at Tulip, who was staring at him.

  Receiving permission, Kurt opened the door, with two Zealots and an Enlightened following him.

  While the outsider was smiling, the trio behind him wore puzzled expressions.

  “Great Sir, it took me a while to find them, but these are the ones responsible for patrolling that area,” he said, scratching his beard. “I haven’t seen that Yokki yet, but the ones she put in command helped me a lot, and the kids are being taken care of.” Kurt chuckled, glancing at Tulip.

  Zamian moved, prompting Tulip to let go of him.

  “I’ll be waiting for you,” she said, waving at Zamian.

  He glanced at her, nodded, and went to the door, prompting Kurt and the other three to leave.

  Zamian followed them out, and after closing the door, he stared coldly at the Enlightened and the two Zealots.

  They gulped.

  “Kurt,” Zamian said, without taking his eyes off one of the Zealots who was sweating cold. “Tell Yokki’s representatives that if any of the kids I brought die, I’ll personally kill the ones I find responsible.”

  “Okay, Great Sir,” Kurt nodded, smiling. Just as he was turning around to find the representatives, he heard Zamian clear his throat, prompting Kurt to look back.

  “Also, tell them that I’m as stupid as an oak tree,” the pale cultivator grinned. “It’s totally possible that I kill the wrong people at first and need to kill others until I find the true culprit.”

  Kurt chuckled, avoiding giving an answer and hastily walking away.

  No matter what, he was an outsider! He would pass Zamian’s message, but never letter by letter.

  The only reason Kurt could live here was because Dante’s son allowed him to; but if he angered enough Zealots or a Chosen and they killed him without a second thought, what would it matter if Zamian or the elusive Dante avenged poor Kurt?

  The man himself would be dead!

  Seeing Kurt rush away, Zamian returned his focus to the three cultivators in front of him.

  As the Enlightened was about to kneel and greet him formally, Zamian held the man’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, I believe you won’t stay here long enough to need to greet me,” Zamian said, grinning. “Now, answer with a yes or no: are you allowing commoners to get hurt, be it through laziness, incompetence, or any other reason?”

  “What? No!” one of the Zealots said, scowling.

  “No, never!” the Enlightened denied, shaking his head.

  “Of course not. Why are you saying that?” the other Zealot asked, frowning.

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  Zamian listened to his instincts and chuckled.

  “The smartest of you is also the dumbest, what an amazing irony,” he said, tightening his grip on the Enlightened’s shoulder, making the middle-aged man slowly kneel.

  “Arrgh!” The Zealots heard the man scream and conjured a spear each, jumping away from Zamian.

  “What are you doing?!” one of them barked.

  “Tell me what happened with the kids in your territory while you were patrolling,” Zamian ignored the Zealot’s questions and actions, his cold eyes fixed on the Enlightened. “And believe me when I say this, but killing you would give me neither pain nor pleasure. You, and you alone, decide if I need to do it.”

  Zamian’s eyes flashed white as he glanced at each Zealot when saying the word “killing”, then tilted his head to the side, narrowly avoiding a spear’s thrust.

  Glancing at the sweating Zealot glowing with green light, Zamian smirked. His feet gleamed with white light as he kicked to his other side, blocking a sweeping strike from the other Zealot’s spear.

  Looking at the Enlightened still in his grasp, he said, “See? You’re smart enough to behave and answer me, but dumb enough to be blind to what those two were up to.”

  As he spoke, the Zealots kept thrusting and sweeping their spears, leaping onto the ceiling and switching attack patterns. First aiming to cut Zamian’s neck, then, when failing, trying to wound him in any way.

  The pale cultivator kept dodging most of the attacks while speaking to the Enlightened, only blocking when necessary, all without wasting too much essence to enhance his body.

  Sadly for the Zealots, the wooden hallway they found themselves in wasn’t big enough for them to fully demonstrate their skill with spears.

  Even worse, their target kept talking and dodging, unfazed by their attacks.

  “I bet these two have their instincts going crazy. They felt they were about to die, and now they’re attacking me without any retaliation,” Zamian continued, addressing the trembling man. “I guess the training with the Warrior Chosen wasn’t a waste of time.”

  One thing Zamian learned while training with Marlos was that a person’s intention could mess up a target’s instincts pretty badly!

  Marlos had him practice by closing his eyes and waiting for an incoming attack, relying only on his instincts.

  Through this, Zamian learned that instincts could be deceived when not supported by other senses!

  When he glanced at the Zealots after they had already drawn their spears, he looked for an opening and had the full intention of killing them!

  At that moment, both reacted!

  However, Zamian completely focused on speaking with the Enlightened, dodging their attacks without giving them attention

  He had to fully ignore the Zealots since he wasn’t as skilled as the Warrior Chosen at manipulating his instincts at will.

  Still, his level of control was enough to confuse his attackers.

  ‘Good enough,’ Zamian thought, his eyes glowing white once more. ‘Time to stop playing. Tulip could get hurt even inside there, and I still have to test my book theory.’

  As both Zealots pulled back their spears for another attack, Zamian’s body flashed white, and a moment later, both attackers were on the floor, passed out, their wooden armor covered in cracks.

  The Enlightened’s eyes shook as Zamian helped him stand and patted his shoulder. “Sorry about that. When I realized both of them were involved, I was surprised and had to deal with them right away.”

  “A-are their… their mortal cycles finished?” the Enlightened asked, his eyes darting between the fallen men and Zamian.

  “You mean dead, right? No,” Zamian answered, raising an eyebrow.

  “I mean… dead? No… I mean… their mortal cycles ended?” the Enlightened repeated, his voice trembling.

  Zamian stared into the man’s eyes before sighing. “Don’t worry, they’re fine,” he paused. “For now.”

  Walking past the Zealots’ bodies, Zamian opened the door, only to find Tulip standing with one arm crossed, the other holding his manuscript.

  Slowly picking it up, he offered an apology. “Sorry, I’ll have to deal with this. Can we talk more later?”

  Clicking her tongue, she crossed both arms and looked away, not answering him.

  Zamian was once more in a rare situation: his instincts didn’t tell him what to do, and he had no clue what he had done to deserve this reaction.

  ‘Mother… why didn’t you teach me how to deal with women…’ he lamented inwardly.

  “See you later, Tulip,” he said, closing the door.

  As the door clicked shut and Zamian turned around, his eyes changed, and any trace of kindness disappeared as he looked at the unconscious Zealots.

  “I really, really hope you two can give me some answers because I have a lot to do,” he muttered, grabbing each man by the ankles and dragging them.

  “Come on, I can’t have you walking around everywhere without me resolving this.”

  The Enlightened yelped and followed as Zamian dragged the men underground.

  “I swear! That’s everything I—” A bruised man was speaking when a punch cut him off, sending him to the ground, bleeding.

  He was a commoner, lying inside a small building at the edge of the Camp of Salvation.

  Surrounding him were dozens of others, just as bruised—if not worse—and broken furniture stained with blood.

  Some stains were fresh, but many were old.

  At least a few days old.

  A kick to the head knocked the commoner unconscious. The one who kicked him, a middle-aged man, looked toward the corner of the room, trembling but keeping his voice low. “Zealot, are you satisfied?”

  From the shadows, a young man with pale skin, shoulder-length black hair, and cold brown eyes held a wooden cup, sipping from it before speaking. “Yes, now all commoners and Enlightened involved have been dealt with. You can call the cultivators on patrol to clean this mess.”

  “And… what about the other Zealots?” the middle-aged man asked, his voice shaking.

  “You’re too soft,” the young cultivator said, stepping forward, revealing his full face and a wild grin. “You held back and avoided hurting anyone too badly. I bet you don’t want to be involved in what comes next, so no need to worry about it.”

  Zamian chuckled as he watched the Enlightened slowly nod, trembling.

  Finishing his tea, he stepped over the unconscious bodies and left the building.

  As he walked to his last destination, he pulled a paper from his inner pocket, reading while occasionally sipping his tea.

  ‘To think something like this would happen here,’ he thought coldly, his eyes darkening. ‘Did this used to happen in the Sanctuary too?’

  When Zamian rescued the kids, he thought he would just have to beat up some commoners and be done with it.

  Never did he imagine he would waste an entire day walking through the Camp, piecing together the situation and tracking down the culprits. Worst of all, the ones in command were even cultivators!

  ‘Five more Zealots, making seven in total,’ he clicked his tongue. ‘Along with ten Enlightened and half a hundred commoners… No way those vipers didn’t know this blighted thing was happening.’

  At first, he couldn’t understand their reasons, but slowly, it became clear: the invasion had left more than just physical damage and lost loved ones.

  A strong contributor to the current situation, of course, there was a taboo connected with the Verdant God’s sacred rules: food could only be farmed by commoners. While Zealots could help occasionally, it also meant that most crops would take too long to grow and be harvested.

  But people needed to eat.

  And there wasn’t enough food for everyone.

  Zamian understood that.

  Holding the paper, he thought, ‘However… to target kids like that…’

  The scheme was poorly thought out, only working because it targeted people no one was looking for while benefiting a select few.

  As time passed and the food initially taken by commoners and cultivators dwindled, a few Zealots took it upon themselves to manage the supplies.

  At first, they controlled the food in storage, distributing it to their families and friends. Then, they started handing it out only to those who could afford it—whether through clothes, carvings, imbued items, or their bodies.

  After all, food had to be given out while the plantations weren’t producing. But who got to eat? That was a decision left to the cultivators.

  People who resisted or tried to speak out disappeared, and soon, the rest learned to accept things as they were.

  Then, as the Camp grew and more people arrived—either from scout groups or after the wounded recovered enough to start working—the economy of the Camp of Salvation started to take shape.

  And along with it, a few Zealots, seven of them, saw an opportunity.

  ‘Those blighted, arrogant pieces of rotten root… Did they really think that by hoarding lowly resources, they could become Chosen or something?’ Zamian thought, stashing his manuscript, throwing the wooden cup away, and slipping into a hidden door in an alley, descending a staircase.

  He entered a corridor without white leaves, swallowed by darkness, and paused.

  'I can still see here,' he realized, glancing at the hand holding a pipe just a few steps away. As he stared, green text floated above it.

  [LEVEL 3 - MORTAL TIER - CREATION PATHWAY]

  Zamian blinked and crouched slowly, avoiding making a sound.

  ‘Let’s try to kill the culprits without hurting the commoners,’ he thought, his eyes flashing white as he rushed forward to break the Zealot’s hand. ‘These people suffered enough by becoming slaves.’