Chương 9: How Did They Pass?

The quiet, sinister hiss of Grave-Rot fungus reacting with cold steel filled the ruined pagoda, a venomous whisper that crawled through the sulfur-thick air like a living thing.

Sitting cross-legged on a stone slab slick with condensation, the man now calling himself Shi Yan carefully painted the toxic, bioluminescent green slime across the edge of his chipped jian. Each stroke was deliberate, methodical—the muscle memory of a soldier maintaining his weapon before deployment. The fungus glowed faintly in the dark, casting sickly emerald shadows that writhed across his mud-caked knuckles and crept up the pitted steel of his vambrace like phosphorescent veins.

The acrid, earthy stench of the toxin mingled with the ever-present reek of mildew and bone-ash, sharp enough to sting the back of his throat.

A Tier-1 Peak opponent. An Obsidian-Frame...

His eyebrows furrowed—the only visible crack in his otherwise dead expression—as he recalled the scavenger leader's terrified confession. The words had come spilling out between gasps and sobs, each syllable weighted with primal fear. He glanced over at the corpse slumped in the shadows several feet away, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, the coarse hemp rope still embedded deep in bruised, discolored flesh.

The body had already begun to stiffen, one arm bent awkwardly beneath the torso, fingers curled like claws. A thin rivulet of drool had dried at the corner of the dead man's gaping mouth.

Big guy. Heavily mutated. Swings a halberd the size of a tree.

Shi Yan then began wiping the excess toxin onto a scrap of silk torn from the leader's ruined belt pouch, the fabric immediately darkening as it absorbed the luminous slime. His movements were economical, precise—no wasted motion.

Let's assume an Obsidian-Frame sits at the absolute ceiling of this Tier. That puts his core stats somewhere in the high thirties. That is three times my current baseline.

He smacked his lips, the acidic taste of sulfur and bone-ash ever-present on his tongue, coating his teeth and the roof of his mouth like a film of rancid oil. Racking his brain, he mapped out the engagement—sightlines, cover positions, kill zones, retreat paths—yet no matter how he calculated the variables, the conclusion remained unchanged.

It was basically a suicide run. A straight gamble. And a former soldier never gambled with his life.

Rule one of the infantry: If you find yourself in a fair fight, your tactics suck.

Thus… I need to manipulate the odds.

He set the poisoned blade aside on the stone slab, its edge still faintly luminous in the gloom, the eerie green glow reflecting off the wet surface like foxfire on a grave. With a thought, he summoned the transparent screen. The faint golden overlay flickered into existence before his stare, hovering in the air with a soft hum that resonated just below the threshold of hearing, its light casting pale amber highlights across the sharp planes of his gaunt, mud-streaked face.

[Host Entity:] Foreign Soul Merged [Heavenly Alignment:] NULL (Daoless) [Vessel Status:] STABLE. (Sieve Leak Active) [Dao Embers:] 310 [ATTRIBUTES] Physique: 12 [Tier-1 Baseline] Might: 12 [Tier-1 Baseline] Agility: 12 [Tier-1 Baseline] Spirit: 5 [Mortal] Anomaly: 5 [Daoless trait awakened] [MARTIAL ARTS] Black-Iron Body Art (Lvl 1): Temporarily doubles physical force. Max Operational Limit: 60 Seconds.

[SYSTEM DIRECTIVE] Vascular and muscular density acting as partial energy containment. However, Daoless physiology cannot naturally retain energy over time. Proceed to hunt to maintain Vessel stability.

He stared at the glowing number: 310 Dao Embers.

Three hundred and ten points of raw, evolutionary fuel.

Assuming that Overseer hits like a runaway freight train, raising Agility is mandatory.

He rested his chin on his knuckles, the rusted vambrace cold and heavy against his jaw, the corroded metal ridges pressing uncomfortably into the underside of his bone. The damp air made the steel feel like ice against his skin.

Drawing on his gaming knowledge and the web novels he'd read in the barracks during night watch—dog-eared paperbacks passed between soldiers, their pages stained with coffee rings and boot grime—the logic was simple: Evasion trumps mitigation.

If a boss is three times stronger than you, blocking its attack will still shatter your arms. The only way to survive is to never be where the blade lands.

He focused on the UI, the faint golden overlay shimmering in the damp air, its light dancing across the condensation beading on the stone walls around him.

System, calculate Agility upgrade to level 22.

[System Calculation:] [Agility: 12 -> 20 (Cost: 10 Embers per point = 80)] [Agility: 20 -> 22 (Cost: 25 Embers per point = 50)] [Total Deduction: 130 Dao Embers. Remaining: 180] [Confirm Allocation?] Yes.

Instantly, a sharp, electric pop snapped behind his kneecaps—like tendons severing and reattaching in rapid succession. He hissed through clenched teeth, gripping his legs with both hands as a rush of searing heat surged through his calves and thighs, the muscles beneath the skin writhing and contracting as if something living crawled beneath the surface.

It wasn't the agonizing rearrangement of broken bones this time—it was fine-tuning. His fast-twitch muscle fibers pulled taut, tightening like wire drawn across a frame, becoming incredibly dense but shockingly light, each strand humming with coiled potential.

The heat crawled upward, burrowing into his hip flexors with needle-sharp precision, then fading into a low, humming warmth that settled deep in his core. His breath came faster, shallow gasps fogging in the cold air.

When it stopped, he shifted his weight experimentally, fingers still pressed hard against his thighs. His body felt momentarily off-balance, as if gravity had slightly lessened its grip on him, the world around him suddenly sharper, more immediate. He rolled his shoulders, testing the new tension coiled in his joints, the ligaments snapping into place with satisfying clicks.

Well, it always feels amazing. My reaction time just halved. Good.

He smiled for a brief moment—a ghost of expression that barely reached his eyes, a thin curve of his cracked lips that vanished as quickly as it appeared—then looked at his remaining 180 Embers. His unblinking gaze weighed the remaining options, cold and calculating: Might, Physique, Spirit, or Anomaly?

Spirit was useless; he was Daoless and had no Qi to cast spells. Anomaly seemed related to his lack of Heavenly alignment, but it was too unpredictable for a physical boss fight—gambling on an unknown variable in a life-or-death situation was tactically unsound. That left Might (Offense) and Physique (Defense/Stamina).

Might is a trap, perhaps, he thought, flexing the fingers of his left arm slowly. The gnarly cords of scar tissue around the vambrace pulled taut, pale ridges of keloid flesh stretching across the steel reinforcement like roots gripping stone. I already have the Black-Iron Body Art.

It temporarily doubles my physical force. I don't need a higher base attack; I need the stamina to keep the Body Art turned on without my heart exploding, he reasoned, his jaw tightening as he worked through the logic tree.

Physique was the clear winner. It dictated the density of his energy-containment, his lung capacity, and his raw durability. Furthermore, he was a pragmatist.

Even a flawless soldier makes mistakes. If the Overseer's halberd grazed him, a low Physique meant instant death—organs ruptured, ribs splintered inward, bleeding out in seconds with no medic to patch him up.

But he couldn't spend all 180 Embers. In any operation, keeping a medical reserve is non-negotiable. If I break an arm mid-fight, I need fuel to instantly knit the bone.

He decided to hold exactly 50 Embers in reserve.

System, use 130 Embers to upgrade Physique as far as it goes.

[System Calculation:] [Physique: 12 -> 20 (Cost: 10 Embers per point = 80)] [Physique: 20 -> 22 (Cost: 25 Embers per point = 50)] [Total Deduction: 130 Dao Embers. Remaining Reserve: 50] [Confirm Allocation?] Yes. Do it.

A deep, hollow ache spread outward from his sternum, radiating through his ribs like pressure applied from the inside, as if invisible hands were gripping each bone and pulling it outward. His ribs expanded slightly, cracking and popping with wet, cartilaginous sounds as the bone density rapidly increased, calcium depositing in layers, marrow thickening. This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Ha... ha.... ha..." He took a heavy breath in, his eyes widening briefly as his lungs pulled in twice the volume of air they could a minute ago, the alveoli expanding like inflating balloons, his diaphragm dropping low into his abdomen. The faint, cold phantom-sensation of his energy leaking out—the Sieve effect—slowed down to a manageable, dull trickle, like water seeping through cloth instead of gushing through torn fabric.

He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening, tendons standing out in sharp relief against the backs of his hands. His body didn't magically bulk up like a mountain, but he felt profoundly anchored to the earth, as if someone had driven iron stakes through his heels into the stone below, rooting him in place with immovable weight.

[ATTRIBUTES UPDATED] Physique: 22 [Tier-1: Iron-Vein minor realm achieved] Might: 12 [Tier-1 Baseline] Agility: 22 [Tier-1: Iron-Vein minor realm achieved] [SYSTEM DIRECTIVE UPDATED] Host has breached intermediate Tier-1 parameters. Muscular density allows for sustained kinetic output. Sieve leak minimized but active. Combat window expanded.

"Excellent," he whispered, rolling his shoulders with slow, deliberate rotations. The scar tissue around his vambrace pulled tight but didn't tear, the skin stretching white at the edges but holding firm.

An Iron-Vein realm... that means, around 18-20 stats perhaps?

Then, he glanced at the dead scavenger leader slumped against the wall several feet away, the man's neck still bent at that obscene angle, head lolling against one shoulder like a broken puppet. The corpse's eyes had glazed over, reflecting nothing, pupils dilated wide and fixed on the cracked ceiling above.

Crouching down beside the body, boots squelching softly in the bone-ash sludge, Shi Yan stripped the heavy, overlapping straw rain cloak from the corpse with efficient tugs, the coarse fibers rasping against the dead man's cold, waxy skin. He threw it over his own broad shoulders with a practiced shrug, settling the weight across his back.

The woven straw was thick, smelling of damp earth and rot—a pungent, organic stench that clung to the nostrils—but it was incredibly warm, trapping body heat against his chest and cutting the bone-deep chill of the abyss.

More importantly, it successfully concealed his ruined white sect pants and his scarred chest beneath rugged, anonymous camouflage. He looked like any other corpse-handler now, just another faceless laborer in the industrial hell of the underworld.

Now fully prepared, he bound his loose leather belt with strips of torn silk to prevent any metallic clinking against his vambrace, wrapping the fabric tight and tucking the ends beneath the layers. Hidden beneath the heavy straw cloak—silent, venomous, and physically tuned—Shi Yan stepped out of the pagoda's dark archway, boots crunching softly on broken stone, and began his march toward the center of the abyss.

...

The path to the Ascension Array was a grim passage. He moved like a ghost through the absolute darkness of the Outer Marches, his breathing shallow and controlled, each inhalation measured, each exhalation soundless.

The terrain was treacherous—a nightmare of deep mud traps that sucked at his boots with wet, greedy sounds, jagged rusted weapons sticking out of the dirt like gravestones marking forgotten battles, and rolling hills of half-eaten corpses that exhaled the stench of wet rot into the sulfur-laced air. Flies—fat, bloated things with iridescent carapaces—swarmed in lazy clouds above the carrion, their droning hum a constant background noise.

He skirted around the edges of massive, collapsed sinkholes where the distant, wet tearing sounds of ungodly beasts echoed in the dark—something large ripping through flesh and bone, followed by guttural, satisfied growls that reverberated through the earth beneath his feet.

Heh, this is so easy.

With his [22 Agility], stepping over the unstable debris was effortless; his feet naturally found solid balance before his brain even registered the movement, weight shifting seamlessly from heel to toe across slick bone fragments and crumbling stone, his body adjusting to terrain changes with preternatural fluidity. He barely disturbed the loose gravel beneath his boots.

He traveled for two miles in total silence, counting his paces automatically, mapping the route in his mind with military precision—landmarks memorized, distances calculated, escape routes noted.

But halfway to his destination, his boots stopped dead.

His eyes narrowed. His body tensed automatically, every muscle coiling like compressed springs, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword with practiced speed. He scanned his surroundings, instinctively sliding backward behind the shell of a rusted alchemy furnace to find cover, the corroded metal shell towering above him like a hollow monument. The cold metal pressed against his shoulder blades as he crouched low, breath held, ears straining for any sound of pursuit or ambush.

Directly in front of him, the environment underwent a drastic, terrifying shift.

The normal, suffocating grey fog of the abyss was gone. It had been replaced by a dense, violently swirling crimson mist that hovered over the ground like blood in water, pulsing faintly with its own internal rhythm—a slow, heartbeat-like throb that seemed to resonate in his chest cavity. The mist didn't drift aimlessly; it moved with purpose, coiling and uncoiling like serpents circling prey.

What is this? A Spiritual Array trap? No... a high-level Demonic martial art?

He peered into the red fog, his stare cutting through the shifting haze with cold analytical focus. The logic of the world itself seemed to distort here, the fundamental rules of physics bending in ways that made his modern-trained mind recoil instinctively.

The trunks of the ancient dead trees within the mist weren't made of wood; they were twisted, weeping constructs that resembled bleeding, flayed flesh stretched taut over skeletal frames, sinew and muscle exposed, glistening wetly in the crimson light. The "bark" pulsed faintly, as if veins still carried sluggish blood through the abominations.

Ripped, yellowed talisman papers floated aimlessly in the air, seemingly detached from gravity, drifting in lazy spirals like autumn leaves caught in an updraft. Strange characters—ancient script he couldn't read—glowed faintly on their surfaces, flickering in and out of visibility.

But what shocked him the most was the rat.

A normal demonic rat, the size of a scavenger hound—its mangy fur matted with filth, yellow fangs protruding from its elongated snout—sprinted out from a nearby pile of bones, blindly rushing straight into the boundary of the crimson mist. Its claws scraped frantically against the stone as it crossed the threshold, the scraping sound echoing sharply in the stillness.

It made it exactly three steps.

The rat suddenly stopped, letting out a horrific screech—high-pitched and wet, like metal scraping across raw nerve endings—as its blood violently boiled from the inside out. Steam hissed from its eyes and nostrils in thin, pressurized jets, the sound like water hitting a hot skillet.

Within two seconds, its fur sloughed off in clumps like soggy paper peeling from a wall, revealing raw, reddened flesh beneath that immediately began to bubble and blister. The beast melted into a puddle of bubbling, visceral sludge on the stone floor, the liquefied remains spreading outward in a dark, steaming pool. The acidic stench hit him a moment later, sharp and overwhelming: burnt copper and rancid fat, the smell of a crematorium mixed with rotting offal.

Shi Yan's expression darkened drastically, his jaw tightening, eyes narrowing to slits.

A poison mist? No... that wasn't chemical. That was raw, atmospheric rejection. It melted flesh just for existing inside it.

He stared at the wide expanse of the Corrupted Zone blocking his path to the Ascension Array, his mind racing through possibilities and discarding them just as quickly.

The crimson fog stretched at least a hundred and fifty feet across, swirling lazily over the jagged terrain, obscuring whatever lay on the other side. There was no visible way around it—the sinkholes flanking either side were too deep, too unstable, their edges crumbling into bottomless darkness. Going over was impossible; the fog rose at least thirty feet high, roiling against the cavern ceiling like a blood-red thundercloud.

The math didn't add up.

If entering this mist melts living creatures... how did those low-level scavengers safely patrol past this area to find me?