The Zealot guarding the entrance to the Underground Farm was cultivating in darkness when he heard hushed steps from his left side.

  A second later, his instincts screamed, alerting him of the incoming attack.

  Hastily, he moved his arm, intending to bring the pipe he was holding to his mouth and alert the others before dealing with the intruders.

  But when he tried to blow the pipe, he found only a bloody stump.

  The color drained from his face as his brain finally processed the pain of having his hand cut off.

  Before he could scream, a sharp white light burrowed into his eye, and a small explosion turned his brain into mush.

  Zamian pulled his essence-coated finger from the dead Zealot’s eye and shook off the blood.

  ‘I gained speed and control… but lost strength,’ he frowned, glancing at the Zealot’s head and the bloody stump where the man’s hand had been.

  Zamian had already killed a few Zealots, but most of them when he used the Beginning of the Cycle technique. His strength in that form was so ridiculous that he had even used it to fight against a Chosen.

  It was even a draw, kind of.

  The point was, now that he had better control over the white essence, even without cultivating it, he was learning something concerning.

  ‘It will be difficult to fight a Chosen like this,’ he scowled, moving along the dark corridor while listening to his instincts for how to stay stealthy and lessen the noises he made.

  As he pressed forward, he smelled a musty, almost sharp scent, which he quickly recognized.

  ‘Blood,’ he scowled. ‘Even when killing those Great Warriors underground or beating that vermin Ruen, I didn’t smell blood this strongly.’

  Without needing his instincts to tell him, Zamian tapped a wall on the right side, where the smell was coming from.

  He kept tapping.

  And tapping.

  ‘Oh, blighted thing,’ he cursed inwardly. ‘Didn’t those books tell about hidden doors? Where is it?’

  As he kept searching for a hidden entrance, he sensed a presence at the end of the hallway, coming from the opposite direction of the stairway he had used to enter.

  Zamian scanned for a place to hide, but there was none.

  ‘I can’t cause a mess,’ his mind raced as he hastily backed toward the dead Zealot’s position. ‘If I fight like I usually do, there’s a great chance a lot of commoners are going to die.’

  Not once did Zamian think he was in danger.

  It wasn’t just ego or arrogance. It was simply the fact that no Zealot he had met so far could even make his instincts yawn, let alone scream in warning. At best, they whispered about twigs in his path.

  However, he wasn’t delusional. He knew his fighting style was gruesome, and his surroundings were always left in ruin after a battle.

  Zamian grabbed the Zealot’s body and dragged him aside. The man’s armor hadn’t decomposed, as the dead held no Nature’s essence to dismiss the technique.

  Then, as he took the guard’s position, he finally saw the owner of the presence he had been sensing.

  Guiding herself along the walls, a woman clad in wooden armor walked with her eyes shining a green light.

  Zamian glanced at the green text above her head:

  [LEVEL 3 - MORTAL TIER - CREATION PATHWAY]

  Observing her slow pace, Zamian widened his eyes, remembering something. ‘There is no light here, idiot. They can’t see you easily.’

  “Mark, time to wake up,” the woman called out. “You and Brick need to go up. The ones responsible for receiving today’s batches didn’t show.”

  As she approached her friend’s usual spot, Zamian silently sent white essence to his index finger and jabbed it into her left eye.

  She immediately flared green, her eyes searching for the attacker as she stumbled back, attempting to summon a wooden weapon.

  But she reacted too late.

  Zamian had ultimate control of his body.

  There had been no breathing. No heartbeat. No essence gathering.

  No trace at all until he decided to strike.

  As his finger pierced her eye, he condensed the essence in a similar way to when he conjured the Seed of Creation but hastily let it go, causing a small explosion that destroyed her brain.

  This way, he didn’t have to use too much essence and could also practice the unhinged technique.

  As the Zealot woman dropped dead to the ground, Zamian hastily moved in the direction she had come from.

  Sure enough, he soon found a wooden door.

  ‘No secret entrance, just a room on the other side,’ he thought, a little embarrassed.

  Approaching the door, he opened it cautiously.

  A stairway led further down. Silently, he followed it and soon saw scattered white leaves embedded in the ceilings and walls.

  Then, reaching an opening to the next room, he finally got a full view of it.

  ‘This can’t be called a room…’

  It was high enough to occupy two floors—the one he had just left and this one.

  And wide enough to fit dozens of gardens.

  A strong mix of vegetables, mush, earth, and blood filled his nose.

  Hundreds of commoners were tirelessly moving around, planting seeds, harvesting crops, and carrying buckets of water and food.

  A few Enlightened walked among them, kicking those who didn’t move fast enough or appeared to be resting.

  Far away, Zamian spotted a wooden house, where buckets and boxes of food were stacked by the door. A Zealot stood guard, barking commands as other commoners hauled the supplies inside.

  ‘More people than I can count,’ he thought, his gaze coldly analyzing the situation. ‘But fewer people than what should be.’

  At least two more Zealots were here according to his findings, but he didn’t care too much about the number of cultivators outside.

  “Too few commoners… Did the rest die?” he whispered under his breath, crouching down.

  Zamian then saw a few Enlightened talking amongst themselves, forming a small circle. There were maybe five or seven, and he guessed at least one of them would notice him if he left the entrance.

  For now, he was simply too far and in a poorly lit place, making it impossible for a commoner or most cultivators to spot him easily if he stayed still.

  ‘White Dot,’ Zamian thought. ‘Any quests to spice the moment?’

  Receiving no response, he clicked his tongue.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  ‘Then show me my stats, blighted thing.’

  PERSONAL INFORMATION

  Name: Zamian Greenfield

  Level: 3 [25%]

  Tier: Mortal

  Main Pathway: Knowledge

  Title: None

  STATS

  Body: 2700/3000

  Mind: 2300/3200

  Soul: 3000/3000

  Dismissing the white text, he complained inwardly. ‘One day, I’ll force you to give me better explanations. Like, couldn’t you tell me every time I spend one percent of cultivation? Or when I lose my points? Come on, we should be a team. I’m almost as pale as you. Like a cousin.’

  As Zamian continued to jest with his own thoughts, he scanned the place from his current position and arrived at a conclusion. ‘Being a blighted hero isn’t as easy or as good as in mother’s stories… There’s no way all these people will leave here safe and well.’

  He could leave, gather more people, maybe talk with Yokki and the other Chosen, and set up a better ambush to capture or kill the culprits while reducing the odds of a battle breaking out.

  But he didn’t want to.

  ‘No time to waste. These people are already dying,’ he concluded. ‘I might owe the kids a favor because of that book coincidentally giving me an idea, but no way am I some good guy who saves strangers. These slavers didn’t even catch them at the end of the day, so their grudge isn’t all that big.’

  Smirking, he left his crouched position, stood up, and walked inside.

  As he expected, the group of Enlightened near the entrance noticed him, and one of them shouted, “Hey, who are you? Are you with Mark?”

  Zamian could lie and pretend to be on their side.

  But he didn’t want to waste more cultivation time on this.

  With his eyes shining white, he ignored the Enlightened and rushed toward the wooden house at the center of the underground farm!

  Dodging commoners, trampling crops, and knocking out a few Enlightened along the way, Zamian reached his destination in five seconds.

  It was enough time for the Zealot guarding the place to shout for help and conjure a wooden spear, thrusting it at Zamian.

  The young cultivator easily dodged the spear and struck the Zealot with a palm attack to the nose. Then, he grabbed his head, twisted his neck, and threw the body to the ground before kicking the door to the deposit open.

  Zamian sighed, his eyes shifting between sadness, cold rage, and indifference, as his emotions clashed heavily.

  He saw two Zealots staring at him, eyes wide with shock. One of them was sweating and panting, green essence surrounding him as his wooden armor was still forming.

  On the floor, dozens of women huddled together. Some were crying, some frozen in confusion, but all wearing either tattered clothes or nothing.

  Both Zealots held spears, their tips pressing against the necks of two women, drawing thin lines of blood.

  “What are you doing here?” the panting Zealot asked, still catching his breath from his previous activities.

  “Keep your spear on her, Chuck!” the other snapped, glancing at his friend before turning his furious, fearful gaze back to Zamian. “You! Don’t come any closer, or we will kill them!”

  Zamian barely spared him a glance, instead scanning each woman.

  Misunderstanding his silence, the fearful Zealot grinned. “Yes, let’s talk. You’re Dante’s son, right? I heard you were a Zealot too. These people here are just lowly commoners, and we have Chosen Fern’s permission to—”

  His words cut off the moment he saw Zamian shine with white light and rush at him.

  Panicked, the Zealot moved his spear, slicing the woman’s neck as he tried to block the incoming attack.

  But he failed.

  Realizing his instincts weren’t warning him of any attack, he jumped to the side, only to see Zamian had kicked his friend’s spear away and was jabbing two fingers at the man’s eyes.

  Seeing Chuck’s condition, the Zealot surged with green essence, reinforcing his body, as Zamian’s body flashed with white light once more.

  This time, the Zealot’s instincts screamed at him.

  Zamian rushed his remaining enemy, easily dodging the man’s spear before gripping his throat with his right hand and slamming him to the ground.

  With his left fist, Zamian struck the Zealot’s face.

  And again.

  And again.

  With the fourth punch, the Zealot’s head cracked the floor beneath them.

  Wiping his bloodstained hands on his already bloodied brown shirt, Zamian stood and looked behind him.

  Zealot Chuck was trying to flee.

  Zamian grabbed the fallen wooden spear beside him and hurled it at his target.

  It zoomed through the air, missing, smashing through the wall, and burying itself deep in the ground outside.

  Clicking his tongue, Zamian rushed after his fleeing target.

  “Don’t kill me! Please! Please!” the man pleaded, sensing Zamian closing in from behind.

  Uncaring, Zamian grabbed the man’s head and threw a punch at his ear, making him dizzy.

  He controlled his strength, however, avoiding damaging the man’s brain too much.

  Seeing the Enlightened rushing toward the scene and a few commoners getting trampled, he scowled and shouted, “This place is surrounded! Get on your knees, or you will die like the traitorous Zealots!”

  The Enlightened, seeing Zamian holding one of their leaders, hesitated before a few bolted toward the exit.

  After the first made their move, the rest followed.

  Zamian chuckled coldly. “Making me waste so much essence… I’ll kill you all.”

  He threw the Zealot he was holding to the ground and stomped on the man’s neck, making him pass out face-first in the dirt.

  Then, the chase began.

  The Enlightened’s bodies were far more fragile than a Zealot’s, and they couldn’t run nearly as fast.

  Zamian reached the first two, jumped, kicked each of their heads, and kept moving.

  Behind him, two bodies collapsed, their skulls shattered and spilling blood.

  ‘There are dozens of them,’ Zamian thought, punching another Enlightened’s head while continuing toward the exit. ‘I don’t know if I can catch them all…’

  Reaching another fleeing group, he saw an Enlightened woman holding a child as a hostage.

  As she opened her mouth to say something, Zamian simply slapped her face, snapping her head sideways.

  Before dying, she unconsciously moved her arm with enough strength to break the child’s shoulder. The little one screamed.

  Zamian barely spared the boy a glance before moving on to his next target.

  One by one, he cut them down as they fled through the dark hallway, now in shambles from the frantic escape. The Enlightened crashed into walls, shattering them. Some trampled over each other, while others abandoned the commoners they had been dragging for whatever nefarious reasons.

  The pale cultivator chased them all the way to the entrance above, watching as a handful managed to escape.

  ‘Those rotten fruits are going back to their tree, for sure,’ he thought grimly, walking back toward the underground farm, kicking dead bodies out of his way. ‘I need to get stronger before that viper Fern makes a move against me.’

  Arriving at the previous battlefield, now filled with bodies and trampled crops, Zamian saw a group of commoners gathered in small clusters, mostly crying and tending to wounded companions.

  They avoided the bodies of the Enlightened and Zealots like a plague.

  As a few noticed Zamian, they fell silent and instinctively stepped back, shielding the small children behind them.

  Most of the commoners were elderly and children, and a small amount out here were young or middle-aged women.

  The pale cultivator walked to the Zealot Chuck he had left alive and dragged the man by the hair toward the wooden house.

  There, he saw the women weeping silently, none of them having moved from their place.

  His cold gaze went to the dead one, then to the other hostage, who clutched her scratched neck.

  Looking back at the dead woman, Zamian approached and closed her eyes.

  The others flinched, not daring to speak or move away from him.

  Like they had been ordered to do thousands of times before.

  Zamian threw the Zealot onto the floor and stomped on his wooden armor until it cracked. As he did, the man’s eyes fluttered open, but a kick to the head sent him back into unconsciousness.

  After breaking the Zealot’s armor, Zamian slowly walked to retrieve the spear he had thrown earlier.

  Standing over the passed-out man once more, he played with the weapon and curiously thought, ‘My instincts aren’t teaching me how to use this blighted thing.’

  Waving it through the air a few times and noticing his instincts remained silent, he made a mental note, flipped the spear downward, and drove the blade into the man’s groin.

  Chuck woke up screaming, and Zamian swiftly kicked him again.

  The man’s body glowed green as he enhanced himself, resisting the kick, but after another blow, he was out once more.

  Having no skill with the blade, Zamian sluggishly cut through the man’s arms and legs, ripping them out of his torso.

  ‘Good that he isn’t waking up so easily anymore,’ he noted, watching as the man bled on the floor, his body and essence desperately fighting to keep him alive.

  Finishing what he was doing, he stomped the man’s belly a few times, bruising it badly and crushing some of his organs.

  Then, he looked at the terrified women, all deathly silent, their shaken eyes fixed on him, and offered them the spear he was holding.

  “Come,” he said coldly. “Pierce him with this, like he did to you.”

  None of the women moved, their gazes flickering between him and the Zealot, all trembling.

  “You,” Zamian whispered, looking at the woman clutching her neck. “He was about to kill you. Don’t you want revenge? If not for that… for any other reason?”

  The woman cried, hugging her knees but not daring to move from her place.

  Seeing that none of them had the courage to step forward, Zamian’s cold eyes softened slightly.

  “Every day, since you were born, you heard how cultivators were blessed by the Verdant God,” he muttered. “How they were stronger, the protectors of the Sanctuary, the ones you should never disrespect.”

  They listened to his voice, but more than that, they watched his movements.

  Zamian noticed how their eyes darted from side to side, waiting for him to do something.

  Waiting for another cultivator to do whatever he wanted.

  “You are weak,” he sighed. “Of body, of mind. You don’t even dare to attack this dying, blighted, nameless piece of rotten bark.”

  Seeing no reaction, he placed the spear on the floor.

  “But it’s not your fault,” Zamian shook his head, turning away. “And it isn’t my fault either. So do whatever you want, but I won’t help you anymore.”

  Walking away, Zamian headed toward the underground farm’s entrance.

  As commoners stayed out of his path, a small part of him thought, ‘Approach me. Ask for help. Try it.’

  He kept walking.

  He left the farm.

  He left the dark hallway.

  He opened the wooden door to the alley and stepped out, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

  As Zamian walked back to the main building, cultivators and commoners stared at his bloodied clothes in fear. Most recognized Dante’s son and didn’t dare to come close.

  The few who didn’t recognize him were quickly stopped by others, whispering his father’s name.

  From the underground farm to the main building, no one dared to approach him.

  Nodding at the Enlightened guarding the entrance while ignoring their formal greetings, Zamian grabbed a handful of paper, ink, and writing leaves, then made his way to his cultivation room.

  His mind was empty. Cultivating was his only goal.

  Entering his room, he felt both sadness and relief at not seeing Tulip waiting for him.

  Closing the door, he took off his clothes, stashed away the materials he had brought, and stepped into the stream.

  He looked at the white leaves above, then at the blood being washed away from his body.

  ‘Maybe life is like a stream, and we are the bloodstains on nature’s body,’ he closed his eyes, and let himself float on the water.