A Waste of Time

Chapter 133: Dusky Alignments

Cuifen’s meditation ended with the fall of night. Her mood was sour, her steps restless. She could feel it—that stubborn bottleneck barring her from stepping into the Second Stage of Foundation Establishment. Every motion of her Sword Dance at the waterfall’s heart shaved it thinner, easing the pressure little by little. The breakthrough was close—so close she could taste it. Yet she held it back. Duty first. Her role as judge and supervisor of the struggle between Slaves and Applicants bound her here.

She was a small woman, her frame delicate, her chest and hips modest compared to the voluptuous beauties that often turned heads. But her face… it was angelic, glowing with a kind of lively purity. Her green eyes shone bright, like twin forests caught in sunlight. Red hair, braided simply, fell like a rope of flame down her back to her waist. Against the muted grey of her robe, it looked as though a molten vein of fire had replaced her spine.

At her belt hung a silver, reed-thin scabbard. From its mouth jutted only a finger-width black handle, looking more like a twig than a Sword’s hilt.

Her lips twisted in an expression of almost adorable discomfort as she approached the training hill. The sight awaiting her should not have been surprising. The seven Slaves’ Combs were always at each other’s throats—alliances, rivalries, betrayals. She had expected chaos, bickering, and delay.

Instead, her step faltered. She gawked.

Below her stretched not chaos but order. A boy—small, garped in slave' robes—stood at the front, with nine Comb leaders aligned behind him. And behind them? Rows upon rows of slaves, standing in neat formation. Disciplined. Straight-backed. Files and ranks that would have put the Barracks’ Applicants to shame.

The boy stepped forward, cupping his fist with a polite bow. His voice was steady, confident. “We’re ready to challenge the Applicants. Please lead the way, Elder.”

Behind him, the hundreds bowed slightly in unison, a ripple of respect rolling outward.

Cuifen blinked, regained her composure, and forced her lips into their natural cheerful curve. She let her voice ring light and clear, like a lark at dawn. “Follow me.”

At least he’s not wasting my time. She thought, though her heart remained tight. She kept her distance, every muscle taut. She knew enough of this boy to understand—he was dangerous. Dangerous in a way that could rival, perhaps surpass, her fellow Elders.

He noticed her wariness. He also noticed the sweep of her senses as it brushed against him, probing. It prickled uncomfortably across his skin, and Daemon frowned. Then, with a flicker of impishness, he turned his own newborn sense outward—aiming it squarely at her rear.

“Who—?!”

Cuifen stiffened instantly, dropping into a low stance, hand on the twig-like Sword at her belt. Her emerald eyes snapped wide, scanning every face in the crowd of slaves as her breath caught. Pain flashed across her perfect features—sharp, humiliating, unmistakable.

Daemon raised an eyebrow. Strange. I can sense her easily, but she can’t sense me the same way. Her sweep was just annoying… but mine actually hurt her?

Cuifen’s expression darkened, a storm of anger and humiliation twisting her angelic features.

Daemon quickly looked away, mimicking the others, eyes sweeping the grounds as though searching for ghosts. Fun’s over. Best lay low before she decides to carve me apart just to soothe her pride.

“Bfft…”

Mo Qiuya tried—and failed—to smother her amusement, a quiet giggle slipping out when she saw the silly girl doing everything but ignore the boy who had so brazenly offended her.

Cough.

Across from her, Shen Duan nearly choked on his tea. The Disciplinary Chief had been in mid-sip when the scene unfolded. He couldn’t spit it out—certainly not here, not in front of the Grand Elder—so he forced it down, suppressing the natural gag. But the liquid still itched at the back of his throat, and his cough broke the silence like a small crack in a frozen lake.

This brat is a nasty fellow, Shen Duan thought, narrowing his eyes at the boy. Little Cuifen swept him a few times with her Spirit Sense, and he had the gall to target her with his Third-Eye! Someone needs to teach him proper manners.

And yet, even as irritation simmered, another thought rose, sharper than the first. Still… to wield such a technique so easily, when he only solidified his First Palace yesterday—that’s impressive. Far too impressive.

He shifted his gaze toward Mo Qiuya, his stern look carrying more weight than any reprimand he might have spoken aloud. The Grand Elder only twisted her lips in annoyance, forcing herself to silence, though her eyes still glimmered with poorly hidden mirth.

In the background, Elder Zhou Liang remained quiet as stone. The Outer Elder busied himself with the duties of a servant—pouring, refilling, setting out the cups at just the right time—his silence a shield. He did not speak, did not interrupt, did not so much as sigh. He merely waited, hands folded behind his back when they were not serving, ready to answer an order that might never come from the two titans seated beneath the oak.

The episode of Elder Cuifen’s tigress-gaze soon became clear to everyone watching. Her body was coiled like a spring, ready to pounce and retaliate if that offender dared target her again. But the second strike never came. Relief dulled the sting of humiliation, though annoyance lingered sharp as a thorn in her chest. This insult won’t pass without conclusion. I’ll swing until my arms fall off if I must. That pervert should be fed to the dogs! She puckered her strawberry lips, cheeks faintly pink with suppressed rage.

Daemon, meanwhile, carried on with an air of innocence, ignoring the sweeps of her Spirit Sense as though nothing had happened. Yet he was not blind. He noticed two other presences hidden beneath her probing, both emanating from the same direction Su An and the two Law Enforcers had escorted him yesterday—where old man Zhou Liang had tried to cheer him up with his story of once being a slave. I don’t know who else is watching, but I’ll find out soon enough.

The dirt path widened as the group passed through the stone wall linking two mountains. On the other side, fog lingered low, veiling the flat meadows. There, the constructs of this part of the Outer Circle revealed themselves.

Eight Keeps rose like jagged teeth, some set against the wall connecting the mountains, others carved directly into its flanks and deep into the Mountain-walls. And at the center there's a hill, looming higher than the rest, a ninth construct towered over them all—a castle of black stone, its dark walls adorned with beast skulls, ivory, and bones that gleamed pale in the morning light.

White-robed disciples manned the walls, their figures standing stiff and proud.

Cuifen’s voice cut through the air, sharp and stern. “This round is a Siege Battle. Act within the rules. Avoid crippling your opponents if possible.” Her green eyes swept over the gathered slaves, and her tone hardened.

“The punishment for killing is one year in the cold cellars. Intentional maiming or crippling earns no less than three months of service in the Third Layer of the Beast Lairs. Remember this—fight however you wish, but within the rules.”

Daemon and his leaders nodded in unison. With a wave of her hand, Elder Cuifen declared, “Begin!”

Instantly the field was alive with noise.

“Quickly, come here! We’ll protect you!”

“Don’t fall for their lies!”

“Join us—you’ll be stabbed in the back with them!”

“Cowards, the lot of you Snail-faction scum!”

“Better cowards than Wolf bastards who only bully the weak!”

Daemon rolled his eyes. The scene mirrored the chaos of the Slaves’ Combs just earlier—bickering, boasting, none of it amounting to order. The eight Keeps clamored for their allegiance, shouting insults at one another, eager to draw the newcomers into their ranks.

All except the ninth castle.

Those on its walls remained silent, gazes sharp and filled with ridicule, as though untouchable—above the squabbles of lesser factions.

So those are the true Applicants, Daemon thought. He gestured for his nine leaders to follow, ignoring the bickering Keeps and leading his gathered force straight toward the narrow path up the hill which lead to the black-stone walls of this Castle.

The Applicants manning the Keeps sneered as they watched. “Ha! Let them go to their deaths,” one jeered. “The moment they touch those geniuses, they’ll be chewed apart.”

At the castle wall, a young man stepped forward. Three black lines ran across his forehead like tattoos, his lips curling in disdain. “Brat! Take your pack of strays and scram. Force us to come down, and we’ll break every leg you have.”

Daemon blinked innocently, then turned his wide black eyes toward Elder Cuifen, his childish expression touched with fear. “Elder! Did you hear him? He threatened to break our legs. Isn’t that against your rules?”

Gasps broke out behind him, but Daemon pressed on, his voice laced with mocking sweetness. “Are you going to rebel against the Sect? We came here to challenge, isn’t that allowed? What’s wrong with that?” He tilted his head, face twisting into exaggerated disgust. “And really, that frown makes you look like a pickle. A cucumber! How could anyone be afraid of a cucumber?”

Laughter rippled through the keeps, while the young man’s face darkened with rage. His jaw clenched so tightly his teeth seemed on the verge of cracking.

“Beat them all down!” he roared, pointing at the crowd of slaves. “Leave the brat to me. He’s mine.”

With a dramatic leap, he descended the wall, using the skulls and bones jutting from the black stone as stepping points before landing smoothly before the castle gate. His followers poured down from the opening gate behind him like a white tide.

Daemon sighed. Even the way he gives orders is just like Ai Biyu’s. Such predictable behavior is kind of unsightly really!

His voice carried calmly over the gathering chaos. “Don’t face them alone. Leaders fight one on one. Everyone else—groups of two or more. Forget fairness. Strip them of their white robes, their Space-Pouches, everything. And don’t let them fully organize—when half are down, we press from the front and flanks. Push them, trap them. Anyone who slips through…” He smirked. “You’ll answer to my belt instead of Mei’s delicate hand. And I promise—I won’t be merciful.”

“Yes, young master Daemon!”

The slaves tensed, their formation tightening, their eyes burning with eagerness.

Across the field, the eight Keeps fell into stunned silence. Even the Applicants descending from the black castle faltered, whispering among themselves.

Who did they say is this boy? they thought, shaken by the brazenness of his command and the realization of his identity. No wonder he dares to shout his plans out loud.

“Quickly! Go back! Retreat!”

The young leader’s shout cracked the air, his voice stripped of its earlier arrogance. For one frozen heartbeat, he stood there—paralyzed between his towering pride and the creeping terror gnawing at his gut. Then instinct won over bravado.

He spun on his heel and bolted, shoving his own followers aside in his scramble for the gate. The same men and women he had just led down with grand gestures were now little more than obstacles in his frantic rush for safety. His arms flailed, pushing bodies left and right, his desperate strides trampling those too slow to clear his path.

Gone was the smug expression, the posturing confidence. Now his face was pale, twisted with panic, every step screaming regret. Why did I come down? Why did I leave the wall? The thought flickered in his eyes as he fought to reach the safety of the black castle’s walls. All this just to flex in front of the other factions… just to teach that brat a lesson!

Behind him, chaos erupted. His followers stumbled, disorganized, their lines broken by his cowardly retreat. Some tried to hold their ground, but the tide of Daemon’s slaves surged forward like wolves scenting blood. Others turned to follow their leader, panic spreading as quickly as flame in dry grass.

And at the center of it all, Daemon stood calm and still, hands laced behind his head, black eyes tracking the man’s pitiful flight with a faint, mocking smile.

Too late to run now little sheep

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