A Waste of Time

Chapter 130: Phantom Codex

Daemon’s table didn’t stay empty for long.

Slaves gathered around him—men and women, young and old—forming a loose ring as though pulled by the same invisible thread. A few of the smaller ones hid timidly behind broader backs, peeking out with wide eyes, but every face carried the same look of curiosity.

They watched him quietly as he ate, trays clutched close, their gazes darting from the boy to one another. It was as though they were waiting—waiting for the bolder voices among them to speak, to break the silence with the questions burning on all their tongues.

“Are you really joining the Sect-Competition?” the scarred man asked at last, fingers dragging nervously across the old lines etched into his arms.

“Can I… can I join your team?” The cropped-haired girl blurted out, then quickly adjusted her fringe to cover her face, as if hiding could erase the desperation trembling in her voice.

Another man leaned forward, voice tight but determined. “How are you able to use so many Elements? Could you… could you give me some guidance?”

That broke the dam.

Suddenly the hall was alive, voices rising in a cascade of questions.

“What’s your cultivation level really?”

“Is it true you fought Elder Ping?”

“Do you know any special techniques?”

“Will you teach us?”

The crowd pressed closer, all clamoring at once, but Daemon only kept eating. He smiled faintly between bites, nodding here, humming softly there, his calm at odds with the frenzy surrounding him.

Finally, when there was a lull between their voices, he set down his chopsticks and looked around the ring of expectant faces.

“Why don’t you tell me first,” he said evenly, “what kind of competition this is going to be? I’ve no idea what you mean by teams and otherwise. As for sparring and comparing notes…” His smile sharpened into something genuine. “I don’t see any reason we can’t help each other out.”

The girl with cropped hair cleared her throat, eyes darting nervously around the table before settling on Daemon. “I… I can explain,” she offered.

She straightened her back, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. “The Sect-Competition… it’s the path for us to climb. Slaves like us, if we prove ourselves, we can rise to become Applicants. And from there, if fortune and strength allow, even Outer Disciples.”

Daemon listened intently, chopsticks paused over his bowl.

“The competition always begins with group battles,” she went on, “thousands of Applicants clashing at once—like armies colliding on the battlefield. These armies are always a mix. Former slaves who clawed their way up… and those who passed the Sect-Entrance Examination but couldn’t rise any further. They’re the dregs, really. Accumulated year after year, stuck beneath the ceiling they can’t break.”

Her tone hardened, just for a breath. “But when the Sect-Competition comes, everyone has another chance. A chance to prove their worth, to leap higher in one stroke.”

Daemon leaned back slightly, considering her words.

“The organizers watch carefully,” she added, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “It’s not just to give us hope. It’s their way of filtering the ranks, making sure no one unworthy slips upward, and no rotten apples linger among the Disciples. For every one who rises… someone at the bottom of the next rank is dragged down to replace them. Always a swap. Up and down. That’s how the Mountain keeps its order.”

The table had grown quiet again. All eyes turned to Daemon, waiting for his reaction.

“What’s your name?” Daemon asked at last, his eyes settling on the girl with cropped hair.

She blinked, caught off guard, but straightened under his gaze.

Then Daemon shifted, glancing at the scarred man who had first asked if he would join the Sect-Competition. His attention moved again, this time to the man who had timidly asked for guidance.

He didn’t need to speak. The meaning was clear in his gaze.

“What’s your name?” Daemon asked, turning first to the girl with cropped hair.

She stiffened, then dipped her head. “Fa Mei,” she answered quickly, her voice steadier than before now that he had given her attention.

Daemon shifted his gaze to the scarred man. The old wounds along his arms twitched as he scratched them absently. “Luo Han,” he said gruffly.

Finally, Daemon turned toward the third—the man who had asked him for guidance. The youth swallowed before speaking. “Sun Kai.”

Daemon gave a small nod, then glanced around the table at the crowd pressing in from every side. “Sit,” he said calmly, “or go back for now. The hall’s too crowded already, and I don’t want to be seen as the one causing trouble my first day here.”

The firmness in his tone carried weight. Some hesitated, then shuffled away. Others, Zhou Mei and the two men included, pulled closer to the table but settled properly into their seats, their eagerness tempered by respect.

“You’re planning to join the ranks of the Applicants’ Armies, huh?” Daemon’s faint smile returned. He laced his fingers together, rested his chin atop them, elbows propped on the table. His black eyes swept across the three in turn.

“I still have no idea how you’re going to manage it. All I know is this: the Sect-Competition begins with the Outer Disciples surviving a series of trials. The top one-thousand earn the right to enter the Inner ranks. From there, the fighting turns one on one. The Inner Disciples battle for position, and the strongest hundred earn the chance to challenge the Core Disciples. Win, and you replace the loser. That’s how you climb.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice low but steady. “At least until the next Sect-Competition comes.”

Luo Han exchanged a look with Fa Mei and Sun Kai before leaning forward. His scarred fingers twitched against the table, but his voice was steady. “It’s true—we were planning to climb into the Applicants’ Armies even before we met you. But with your help… I believe we can take a step further. We could become Outer Disciples for sure.”

Daemon’s faint smile vanished. “Why would I do that?”

Luo Han opened his mouth to reply, but Daemon raised a hand, palm out, cutting him off.

“Let me stop you there.”

The three froze, their expressions shifting openly—hope and eagerness arrested mid-breath, uncertainty seeping in. Around them, the excitement that had been buzzing through the eating hall collapsed like a punctured drum. A collective sigh rippled across the room.

Daemon, however, continued as though nothing had changed. His voice was calm, even, but it carried weight with every word.

“Let’s be clear about something. First, nobody can help you if you aren’t willing to go through hell to help yourselves. Second, I never make promises unless I’m certain I can keep them. Third, I don’t have the faintest idea what hoops slaves need to jump through to rise and earn the rank of Applicant. And fourth—” he leaned forward, black eyes sharp, “—I’ll never allow anyone to climb over my back for free. The useless can forget about it. The useful, though…” His lips curved faintly again. “…they’re welcome to take advantage of me however they like.”

The hall buzzed with unease after Daemon’s words.

Many of the slaves were shocked by his boldness, the sheer transparency with which he laid out his terms. Yet not all. Those who had some faint understanding of what it meant for a Body-Refiner to have stepped into the Eight-Palaces Realm merely exchanged knowing glances. They weren’t surprised. A cultivator at his level could crush a group of them without even breaking rhythm—could toy with hundreds until they broke their backs trying and failing to land a blow.

In truth, slaves like them were considered veterans at best when compared to the Applicants drawn in through the Sect’s Entrance Examination. And the gap only grew wider with time. Applicants trained daily in facilities built for them, nourished by resources slaves could only dream of. Slaves, by contrast, worked their bodies to exhaustion before being granted scraps.

It had always been the same problem: quality versus quantity. Even now, within the Applicants’ barracks, there was division. Promoted slaves were forced to band together in small clusters, clinging to one another just to endure the pressure of the true geniuses—youthful, gifted, and backed by the wealth and influence of their Clans.

Luo Han understood then why Daemon hadn’t agreed to their request outright. The boy wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t eager to throw himself into flames without thinking. He was deliberate, cautious. This child… he’s showing the signs of a natural-born leader, Luo Han thought, his fingers dragging unconsciously across the scars on his arms.

Still, he needed to test that theory.

“Let me explain how things work in the Slaves’ Combs first,” Luo Han said, voice carrying in the quiet that had settled. He jabbed a finger toward the ground. “The Outer Circle of the Mountain has three layers: the Slaves’ Combs, the Applicants’ Barracks, and the Outer Disciples’ Roosters.

“We rank last. As slaves, we carry the heaviest burdens, and the Mountain allocates us the fewest resources. It’s a bottleneck left intentionally narrow—but not closed. There’s always a way through, if you’ve got the strength to seize it.”

He began counting off on his scarred fingers. “Here in the Kitchens’ Comb, we’re only one among many. The Mines’ Comb holds the largest number of slaves, the Gardens’ Comb comes next. Then there’s the Feeders’ Comb, where they raise and tend to the Sect’s beasts. The Servants’ Comb handles odd jobs, cleaning, keeping order. The Builders’ Comb… and lastly, the Helpers’ Comb.”

His tone darkened. “But don’t envy them. The mortality rate in the Helpers’ Comb is the highest. They’re used as sparring partners for Outer Disciples. A few resources in return for a broken body, if they’re lucky enough to survive.”

Luo Han fell silent, the weight of his explanation hanging over the group.

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