A Waste of Time

Chapter 69: Dimmed Pathway

Daemon found himself once more on the oceanic path, but this time, on his second visit, a cold clarity settled over his mind — he was floating nearly a hundred meters beneath the surface. The same dark-blue tiles lined the gently ascending path ahead, beckoning him toward faint glimmers of distant light. Yet behind him, the yawning mouth of the abyss loomed larger than before, its pitch-black tiles spiraling downward into unknowable depths. An oppressive sense of dread pulsed from that darkness, as if something ancient and hungry waited just beyond sight, daring him to look back.

He glanced down at his right hand, where the head-sized red-and-white Dice clung to his palm as if fused to his skin. All around him, a breathtaking swirl of marine life drifted through the crystalline waters — schools of shimmering fish, drifting corals, and distant shadows that danced like living dreams. For a fleeting moment, he felt the pull to lose himself here, to drift and marvel at this hidden sanctuary beneath the waves. But the thought passed as quickly as it came — there were more pressing matters waiting beyond this submerged realm. Exhaling sharply, Daemon tightened his grip and muttered, “Roll.” The Dice dissolved into nothingness at his command, and a moment later, the System’s cold certainty delivered the result: 6 (White) — [Free Roll].

Daemon frowned, watching the Dice flicker between its red and white faces in his palm. Am I getting a free roll because it landed on six… or because it showed the white face instead of red? He scoffed under his breath, recalling the sting of his last penalty — dragged three tiles back toward that suffocating abyss. Now I’m not only getting six steps forward, but a chance to roll again for free?

“Roll,” he muttered again, voice low and sharp.

The Dice spun once more, its glow deepening — then settled on a glaring red five. Instantly, he felt the drag: an unseen force yanked him backward five tiles. He staggered as the path shifted beneath him, leaving him only a single step ahead of where he’d first arrived.

“Man! This is some bullshit! You’re doing me dirty!” he spat at the watery void, his voice swallowed by the weight of the deep. Without another word, Daemon vanished from the path of gleaming tiles, slipping back into the real world — leaving behind only a frustrated echo in the ocean’s endless dark.

Inside the Smithy, Daemon’s awareness snapped back to reality as he severed his link to the vast, shifting realms of the System. The weight of exhaustion returned at once, settling deep in his bones. Even with both his Vitality and Stamina Attributes comfortably above ten, his body hadn’t recovered from the punishing hours he and Jia had poured into forging the Sword now resting in Ru’s careful grip.

He exhaled a weary sigh, thankful at least that the Hourly-Roll hadn’t cost him more than a heartbeat in the real world. Every second inside the System leaves me wide open… A vulnerability he never fully got used to.

But the danger here was just as real. Ten young Cultivators from the Ten-Thousand Beasts Mountain Sect crowded the Smithy now, eyes glinting with greed and wounded pride — here to snatch the fruit of his labor and repay him for humiliating Qi Ying. A message to any fool who might dare slight their Sect.

Yet Daemon wasn’t without protection. Ru stood close, blade in hand, a silent promise of blood. Beside him, Jia fought to steady her breath, nearly spent of Fire Qi yet still ready to stand her ground. Kirin lingered in the shadows behind Daemon, coiled tension given form. Overhead, the massive Eagle’s piercing eyes watched every twitch inside the Smithy — an apex predator poised to strike at the first sign of threat.

A heavy hush clung to the forge, broken only by the hiss of steam rising from the Sword and the faint crackle of lingering Lightning.

One of the bolder Inner Disciples stepped forward, boots scraping across the stone floor — eyes fixed on the new, incomplete Spiritual Treasure cradled in Ru’s hands.

“Fellow Cultivator Ru,” he began, dipping his head just enough to mimic respect. “Forgive me if this causes offense — I hold your skill and standing in high regard. But surely you understand: a Weapon of such exquisite make should not pass into mortal hands. And regrettably, since it was forged within our Mountain’s territory without proper sanction or tribute, it stands in breach of our Sect’s statutes. I’m afraid I must insist — this Sword must be surrendered to our treasury, where its worth will be honored and its safekeeping assured.”

Ru did not shift. He turned the Sword just enough for its spiritual edge to catch the forge light — the bright arc flaring against the disciple’s eyes.

“This Sword belongs to the one who forged it — and to the one he gave it to,” Ru said calmly. “Step closer if you wish to seize it. Let’s see if you’re fast enough to take it… or if I draw first blood.”

The disciple froze mid-step, words caught in his throat — until Daemon’s low, humorless laugh cut through the tension.

Daemon leaned on the anvil, arms crossed over his chest, chin tipped up just enough to show the exhaustion that hadn’t dulled the gleam in his eyes.

“What’s wrong, little Immortal cubs? Thought I’d order my man to hand it over? Did you expect me to kneel and offer you my neck too? If you want it, take it. Ru could use the practice. But if you dare start anything here and ruin Nie’s Smithy…” He paused, voice dropping into a dangerous calm. …I’ll break your bones just to vent my frustration.

A ripple ran through the Nie men behind him — half a grunt, half a laugh of approval. Elder Ping’s face twitched, but her voice stayed level.

“Inner Disciples, restrain yourselves. If you cause wanton destruction over a half-born blade, you shame not only our Sect but my name as well.”

She flicked her sleeve, hiding the subtle twitch of her fingers — a warning that any brawl would not vanish from her record so easily.

Daemon pushed off the anvil, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his soot-smeared wrist.

“Good Elder,” he drawled, voice edged with mock courtesy, “your cubs came uninvited. They’ll leave the same — once they’re done counting how many of their teeth still rattle.”

A cold smile tugged at Ru’s lips. He lifted the Sword just enough to feel its promise of violence hum through his bones.

“Young Master,” he said, eyes locked on Daemon’s grin, “how many do you want left standing?”

Daemon only chuckled, jerking his head toward the yard beyond the forge. “Let’s go find out the answer to that question.” With that, he swaggered toward the backyard, his hand lazily entwined with Jia’s — as if the enemies behind him were already forgotten.

Outside the forge, the villagers pressed closer, whispers crackling like dry twigs in the wind. The merchants lingered by their wagons, torn between fleeing before swords flashed or staying to witness a tale they’d sell ten towns over.

Kirin’s shriek split the hush — a promise rising to the clouds that if Steel fell, feathers would too.

The hush snapped. The game was set. Players braced. Eyes watched. The clash was inevitable.

Once his young master Daemon stepped out of Nie’s Smithy and crossed into the clearing before the treeline, he climbed onto Kirin’s massive talon and settled himself down as if he were about to watch a show rather than a brawl.

Ru stood alone facing the young men and women, all about the same age as his little sister Jia. A cruel smile tugged at his lips, and deep in his eyes glimmered the cold gleam of someone who had spent nearly two decades living and killing in the shadows. The fight ahead stirred something in him — this would be his first time crossing blades with Cultivators, an experience Daemon already tasted a few days ago when he humiliated Qi Ying.

“Ru. No killing or crippling,” Daemon called out lazily from his perch. “This is a learning experience for both sides. They’re too prideful to admit it, but we’ll send them home with enough bruises to remind them not to pick a fight with me without proper preparation.”

The swordsman’s grip tightened around the unfinished hilt of his blade — little more than bare metal without even a wooden wrap — then he dipped his head once, that cold smile widening just enough to show his teeth.

“Understood, Young Master Daemon. I’ll bloody their noses and ring their heads like bells.”

The boy clapped his hands together, a grin breaking across his face. “Good. Let the fight begin!”

He leaned back comfortably on Kirin’s massive talon as his maid stepped forward, retrieving a water container from her Space-Pouch — the very same pouch Daemon had seized from the Sect disciple who’d come to challenge the kid before these ten yellow-robed youngsters. Seeing that only darkened their expressions further.

Since when did anyone get to act so high and mighty in front of us? He was supposed to be a mortal — freakishly strong, sure, according to the report, but still just a mortal. They, on the other hand, were Cultivators — Inner Sect Disciples, not trash like Qi Ying who’d barely scraped his way into the Outer Sect. Brute strength could only get one so far. Each of them had techniques enough to neutralize a single reckless mortal.

They just had to get past his two servants — both walking the Path of Immortality, just like them.

A subtle tension rippled through the ten as six young men and four young women exchanged glances, silent words passing in a heartbeat. Who would step forward first to test this so-called Swordsman’s edge?

Outer Elder Ping — the woman clad in a tight-fitting black dress — drifted forward in that same hovering manner, her feet never once touching the ground as she closed the distance to the boy perched on Kirin’s talon.

Kirin shot her a glare, but even the Soul-Snatcher Eagle — head perched high a dozen meters above — ruffled its feathers uneasily. Some primal instinct told the Ferocious-Creature just how dangerous this woman truly was.

Beside Daemon, Jia tensed at the sight of this mature beauty with curves that made any woman envious, but Daemon only patted her hand lightly, his eyes still on Ping as if none of it bothered him in the slightest.

“Do we have anything sweet left?” he asked her casually, as if he were asking about the weather. Then, with a lazy grin, he added, “And don’t forget — show some proper hospitality to our honored guest.”

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