A Waste of Time

Chapter 135: Tenuous Mosaic

Ai Biyu panicked. Her perky buttocks trembled with each twitch of her legs, the memory of dawn’s public spanking still fresh in the flesh. Shame clung to her like a second robe, and it showed in the ripple of her movements, small betrayals of nerves that no amount of bravado could conceal.

Fa Mei noticed instantly. A wicked smile curved her lips as she rubbed her palms together, slow and deliberate, as though warming them for another round of punishment. Her eyes gleamed with envy and spite—envy for Biyu’s lush curves, spite for the humiliation that still clung to her rival like a brand.

The reaction of the rest was just as telling. The group shuffled aside in unison, a wall of silent rejection that left Ai Biyu and the man beside her suddenly isolated. None seemed to care that he was the strongest among them, that his Cultivation Base surpassed theirs. In truth, their bitterness ran deeper than any respect.

Most of these men and women had once followed him. They remembered too well the sting of betrayal. First, when he ordered them to abandon their secure advantage behind the Castle walls, squandering a position they might have held. And again, when he turned tail and fled for safety alone, leaving them to chaos and defeat. The grudge festered still, and now it colored every glance cast his way.

“Wei Shun was the one who contacted me,” Ai Biyu blurted suddenly, her voice cracking like porcelain under a hammer. The name fell into the silence, heavy and unfamiliar.

The men around her flinched—not at the name itself, but at the tone. Her words dripped weakness, soft and trembling, vulnerable in a way that stirred both pity and contempt.

Daemon tilted his head, his black eyes settling on the man. His lips quirked faintly upward. “Wei Shun, huh.” He raised an eyebrow, expression calm but cutting, as though weighing the name in his mind. “Not as good as the one I gave you, Mr. Pickle.”

A ripple of laughter broke the tension, quickly muffled when Daemon’s gaze swept past them.

His tone sharpened as he turned back to Ai Biyu. “And why,” he asked, every syllable deliberate, “would he do that exactly?”

Every ear strained for her answer. The field grew hushed, the crowd’s eyes fixed on her. They weren’t just waiting for the boy’s judgment—they were desperate to understand.

Why would Wei Shun, an Applicant, reach down into the Slaves’ ranks? And why Ai Biyu, of all the leaders, the one from the Feeders’ Comb?

Ai Biyu hesitated, her curvaceous form trembling slightly as though she still felt the sting from dawn’s humiliation. Her buttocks shifted with every nervous twitch of her legs. But when her eyes rose to meet Wei Shun’s, she managed a defiant glare.

“Wei Shun,” she said, her voice sharp, “be a man and own up to your actions. You’re the one who wanted that Foundation Method.”

She crossed an arm under her chest, unintentionally pushing her breasts forward, and tapped her temple with a manicured finger. “What was it called again… Metal-Rod… Steel-Shaft… ah, Iron-Root. That’s the one. Iron-Root, young master Daemon. Wei Shun wanted me to join old man Kang’s Keep during this Stage and seduce him. Steal the Manual. Deliver it to Wei Shun in exchange for a single drop of your Life-Blood.”

All eyes shifted to Wei Shen.

Daemon’s black gaze lingered on him for a breath, unreadable. His look wasn’t judgmental, not even disgusted by Ai Biyu’s willingness to barter her body — that alone made her shoulders sag in relief. The boy didn’t care for others’ vices; he had lived long enough to know humanity’s darkness could run deeper than any sect’s rules. What caught his interest instead was the Manual.

Iron-Root Foundation Method. Why would a cultivator like Wei Shun, strong, wealthy, and clearly resourceful, scheme to steal it? Daemon recalled how the man had pulled pill containers from his Space-Pouch without hesitation to heal his wounds, showing both confidence and means. Yet here he was, cornered.

Wei Shun scratched the back of his head, offering a sheepish grin as though the entire matter was no more than a minor misunderstanding. “Actually, it is like this…”

And then he laid everything bare.

He had schemed against old man Kang, intending for Ai Biyu to seduce him and steal the Iron-Root Foundation Method. His goal was simple: to present the Manual to Daemon, a show of fealty, in hopes of recruiting the boy once he rose to Outer Disciple. With Daemon’s strength, Wei Shun believed he could unify the Outer-Circle under his banner, consolidate power, and bide his time until the next Sect-Competition. From there, he would push into the Inner-Circle, break the factions one by one, then challenge the Core-Circle. Either he would rise… or break against the barrier.

As for Kang himself—his story was well known. During his journey from the Empire of Mist-Cliffs to the Mountain’s Entrance Examination, he had discovered a cave. Within lay the exoskeleton of a Blue-Winged Mantis, a skeleton, and a single prize: the Iron-Root Foundation Method. Kang exchanged the mantis parts for Spirit Resources and Contribution Points, but he kept the Manual. For an aspirant Body-Refiner, it was priceless.

He had witnessed the devastation a Body-Refiner could unleash — a Fourth-Star woman who broke bones with every strike, who endured heavy blows with ease while crippling three opponents in a single fight. From that day, Kang aspired to follow the same path.

Wei Shun had tried the straightforward way first. He offered to buy the Manual. Kang refused. Manuals of this sort were nearly impossible to come by. The Mountain’s Dao Repository held them, yes — but only in the top floors, accessible only to Elders and above. Even then, reading such texts was ruinously expensive. Cultivators preferred to spend their Contribution Points on practical arts: Techniques, Treasure Forging, Talismans, Alchemy, or Beast-Taming and Beast Husbandry.

Iron-Root was different. Simpler. Direct. The perfect tool to temper one’s physique into the Nine-Stars Realm. For Kang, it was irreplaceable.

When Wei Shun pushed further, suggesting a duel to settle it, he discovered the gap between them. Despite his advantage in Cultivation Base, Kang’s physique eclipsed his own. Their clash ended in a draw only because Kang held back. Still, Wei Shun had to part with a Spirit Stone as compensation just to walk away without further injury.

That humiliation festered.

And so the scheme was born — to exploit Kang’s well-known lust. A man infamous for bedding over a hundred slaves and more than a dozen Applicants in less than a year since joining the Mountain. A man who never seemed sated. If Ai Biyu could bait him, Wei Shun believed, the Manual would be his.

Daemon remained silent. The hall of noise that was battle all around seemed to fade into a dull hum in his ears.

The others, however, gawked openly. Their stares fixed on Wei Shun as though they’d never seen him before. Who could imagine that someone so young, a mere Applicant, could weave schemes with such depth?

Layer upon layer his plan unfolded.

—The secret pact with Ai Biyu.

—The seduction and theft from old man Kang in exchange for a drop of Daemon’s Life-Blood.

—The next step: bait Daemon with the Iron-Root Foundation Method, draw him in, and from there, unite the Outer-Circle under his banner.

—Consolidate power. Crush the Inner-Circle.

—And finally, storm the Core-Circle, where success or ruin mattered less than pushing upward, higher and higher, no matter the cost.

Ambition without bottom. Ruthlessness without shame.

Wei Shun shifted uneasily, the smirk that once played at his lips faltering as silence stretched. The boy before him, this “young master Daemon,” hadn’t given him a single expression to read. That was what made it unbearable—standing exposed, every card revealed, while the child he sought to use sat unreadable as stone.

At last, Daemon’s voice cracked the air like a whip.

“Who is Kang?”

The shout rolled across the meadow, drowning out the clamor of steel and curses from the nearby siege. His voice carried weight, as though the world itself tilted to listen. “Come out. Now.”

“Damn you, Wei Shun!”

A gruff roar answered. One of the Keeps fell silent as a burly figure leapt into view. He stood on the battlements, white robe hanging open to reveal a wide, hairy chest, loose trousers flapping around thick legs. His beard, salt-and-pepper and unkempt, spread like a lion’s mane across his face. His glare was fierce enough to cut.

“You bastard,” Kang spat, voice laden with fury. “I should’ve broken every bone in your body. Cut out your lying tongue while I had the chance.”

Wei Shun only smirked, retreating a step behind Daemon with mock casualness. “Maybe you should have. But you missed your chance. Now you’ll have to deal with young master Daemon.” He gestured lazily toward the child in black-and-white robes, as though presenting a blade sharper than any weapon.

Then he added, glancing sidelong at the battlefield where another Keep was moments from being overrun by the coalition of Slaves and Applicants, “If I were you, I’d hurry. This Stage of the Competition is nearly over.”

Kang’s expression twisted ugly. He cursed beneath his breath, fury warring with frustration, then leapt down from the wall. His landing cracked the earth, dirt spraying where his feet struck deep into the sod. Without hesitation, he straightened and charged straight toward the boy—toward Daemon—whose calm, black eyes followed his approach with unnerving stillness.

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