A Waste of Time

Chapter 136: Glazed Whim

“You better not land on my side of the bracket next, you little shit!”

Old man Kang spat the words at Wei Shun as he handed Daemon the book. Its greenish-black leather was cracked, the corners frayed, but the old brute had cared for it well—pages clean, edges straight, no matter how many years had worn it.

Wei Shun smiled sheepishly, edging back just out of the old man’s reach. He was careful never to leave Daemon’s small figure between them—his only shield. Kang looked like the kind who would jump him the moment the chance presented itself.

“Let’s hope we never meet again, old Kang,” Wei Shun said lightly, lifting a hand in mock farewell.

Daemon, however, had already flipped through the entire Iron Root Foundation Method. His black eyes lifted from the final page to the wide-chested elder. “What’s the hurry? Join us if you’d like. Who knows, maybe if our talks are interesting enough…” He glanced sidelong at Wei Shun. “…I’ll even let you spar with him from time to time.”

Kang froze as Daemon pushed the Manual back into his hands. He had expected it gone forever, swallowed by the boy’s greed, not returned so casually.

“I’ve read it,” Daemon said frankly. “It was interesting. Which means I owe you something in return. So…” He pricked his fingertip with a nail, crimson welling at the edge, “…I’ll give you a choice. But whether you refuse or not, you’re still getting this. You’re the first I’ve met walking the same path as me. My only regret,” the boy smirked faintly, “is that you’re male. I’d have much preferred a young beauty with a smile brighter than morning sunlight.”

Before Kang could protest, Daemon flicked his finger. A bead of blood streaked through the air, slipping between the old man’s gaping lips.

Gulp.

Sixty-five men and women swallowed hard in unison as Kang Lai swallowed that single drop. The taste of iron and vitality lingered on their own tongues just from watching.

Kang didn’t collapse into lotus position immediately. He stared at Daemon instead, his face flushed, voice stuttering. “W-why? You… you read it? When? Have you seen this Manual before?”

Daemon frowned, unimpressed. “No. First time. What’s wrong with you, old man? Slow in the head? Really wish you were a babe instead.”

Kang barked into laughter, rough and full. Tears ran from the corners of his eyes. “Hah! A babe with wide hips, ready to bear a dozen monstrous brats like you, eh?”

Daemon waved him off, pinching his nose against the sour stink rising as Kang’s skin turned lobster-red, sweat pouring in sheets. “Whatever. Just stay away until it’s done. You reek.” He gestured toward a few water cultivators in his group. “He’s your problem now. Keep him clean, or I’ll cook your asses.”

The crowd chuckled at the boy’s casual tone. The tension bled from their shoulders, replaced by laughter and nods.

Fa Mei slipped closer, brushing hair across one eye. “You… really read all of it?” Her doubt was plain.

Before Daemon could answer, Ai Biyu swayed up, every step measured to flaunt. Her smile was honeyed, lips curved like a blossom opening. “So you wished that old fool was a woman, hmm? I never took you for a romantic. What a line—‘a smile brighter than morning sunlight.’” She giggled lightly, breasts rising with the sound. “For a second, even my heart fluttered.”

Fa Mei’s lips pressed thin in envy.

Daemon gave Ai Biyu a long, flat look. She had assets, yes—but he’d seen greater, on Earth and in this world both. The great-majority of female Cultivators carried wealth in every curve, whether they tried to display their treasures or keep them hidden below modest clothing.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he said dryly. “I’ll recommend your ‘service’ to Kai. He’d probably appreciate you.” Then he wrinkled his nose as Kang’s impurities steamed thicker into the air. “And you—wash that filth off before you come near me again. Gods, you stink.”

Laughter rippled through the group. Ai Biyu’s smile stiffened, her charm wasted, while Fa Mei’s envy softened into quiet satisfaction.

Daemon turned back to her, ignoring the other woman completely. “Yes. I read it. Memorized it. What, you Cultivators aren’t supposed to be able to quickly memorize things?” He tapped her forehead lightly, drawing a pout from her lips.

“Of course we can memorize,” Fa Mei said, flustered, “but I saw some of the diagrams while you flipped through. The pathways, the acupoints… they were so dense, so complicated. Just looking at them left my head buzzing.”

She faltered, but Wei Shun smoothly picked up. “Exactly. That book would make any of us dizzy. The fact that you memorized it so quickly…”

Luo Han and Sun Kai both nodded, their stares growing sharper.

The rest exchanged odd looks, unease mingling with awe.

Daemon rested his chin in one palm, drumming his jaw with a finger. So if I told them I understood everything in that book, they’d all just freak out, huh?

A clear, crystalline note split the air.

Elder Cuifen floated gracefully down from the wall, the tiny Copper Bell she had drawn from her Space Ring gleaming in her hand. That one light shake had birthed a peal so sharp and commanding it silenced the meadow at once. Every Slave, every Applicant, every battered fighter stilled where they stood, their hearts caught in its ring.

“To all the former Slaves who succeeded in the Siege-Battle,” Cuifen’s voice rang out, soft yet impossible to ignore, “you are now promoted to the rank of Applicants. Congratulations.”

Her descent was like a flower petal riding the wind—petite, poised, impossibly composed. She landed lightly before the gathered fighters, her green eyes sweeping over them with a mix of warmth and authority.

“Those who do not wish to continue participating in the Sect-Competition,” she continued, her tone carrying the finality of judgment, “you may withdraw now. Visit the administrative hall to exchange your attire, then join the garrisons of any Fortress or Castle willing to accept you.”

The newly promoted ex-Slaves shifted uneasily, their black-and-white robes still streaked with blood and dust. Some already glanced toward the distant Keeps, weighing safety against ambition.

“For those who wish to continue…” Cuifen’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes sharpened. “Join your fellow Applicants in the center.”

The Copper Bell trembled again between her fingers, this time the sound much softer—yet it carried like a thread of silk through every ear. “And hear me well. Slaves who have become Applicants but choose to remain in the Sect-Competition are forbidden to exchange their attire until you are knocked out… or until the Competition concludes.”

Her gaze swept across the wounded and the weary, pausing a fraction longer on Daemon’s small figure standing at the head of his group. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her expression before she continued:

“All Slaves who failed to earn promotion, and Applicants who failed to defend their rank,” her tone hardened slightly, “quickly gather your belongings. Whatever you lost in the battle, claim it now—before you leave this place.”

The meadow stirred again, fighters moving with a strange new order. Those victorious raised their heads, pride and relief mixing in their eyes. Those defeated bent low, scooping weapons and torn scraps from the ground with trembling fingers, shame burning across their faces.

Daemon only folded his arms, black eyes calm as ever.

Kang Lai was the only blemish in an otherwise striking sight.

All around him, the Applicants wore crisp white robes, their postures proud despite bruises and blood. Yet his stood out—grey, stained, and reeking faintly as if he were a pretender impersonating an Elder’s identity. Earlier, when Daemon’s Life-Blood had forced his physique through assimilation, his skin had bled black with impurities, seeping filth until his pores ran dry. His robe had soaked it all in, and though several had tried cleansing it with their Water Qi, they could not scrub it clean. The fibers remained dulled, stubbornly grey, a permanent scar of the transformation he’d undergone.

He looked like a blot on the page, but no one mocked him. None dared. His aura was changed now, hardened by the weight of what he’d survived.

Led by Elder Cuifen, Daemon’s group merged with the rest of the successful Applicants—thousands strong, their ranks swelling until the meadow seemed to empty itself into a tide of white-robes with a sparse few black and white robes in the mix.

Even Daemon, small and calm at the front, felt it. Pressure. It rolled over him in waves, the collective presence of so many Cultivators pressed together. Individually they were weak—mere juniors, still climbing the ladder—but gathered in such numbers, they carried an intimidating weight. His instincts sharpened of their own accord, blood urging vigilance, as though danger might surge from within their very ranks.

The meadow gave way to stone, the path widening deliberately to funnel the mass forward. Every step carried them higher, the incline gradual but steady until the road bent around a slope and opened into the shadow of a mountain.

And waiting there, beneath its looming cliffs, was an army.

They stood in neat formation, their robes ash-colored and uniform, a wall of gazes turning as one toward the oncoming crowd. The Applicants faltered for half a breath, their chatter thinning, because the pressure that poured from these figures made their own collective aura feel like nothing more than pebbles.

This was a boulder. A mountain pressing down upon them.

Daemon’s black eyes narrowed faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging in a near-smile. His instincts screamed to stay on guard, but his heart only beat steadier.

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