The smoke was visible from three miles away.
Long Wuqing crested the final ridge above Stonehaven Village just as the sun reached its zenith. What had once been a cluster of modest homes and golden wheat fields had been reduced to ruin — a painting rendered in blood, ash, and calculated violence.
Charred beams jutted from skeletal structures. Bodies lay scattered like discarded tools. The air reeked of scorched flesh, heavy and clinging.
What had once been his origin point was now an efficient culling.
No panic in execution. No chaos in pattern. Controlled sweeps. Coordinated formation. Cultivators — trained, disciplined, targeted.
His gaze settled on the blue-robed figures moving like a tide through the rubble.
Azure Sect.
Uniforms unmarred by blood. Movements synchronized. Formation unbroken, even after the massacre. Twenty-three in total. Leading them was a man whose sleeves shimmered with silver thread — likely an inner disciple. Qi signature: late Foundation Establishment. Possibly brushing Core Formation.
They came for the pearl.
Which meant this was only the beginning.
Wuqing crouched behind a boulder, his presence cloaked.
A lesser man might have mourned. Might have screamed, or attacked in grief.
But Long Wuqing was not lesser.
Emotion was indulgence.
And indulgence was inefficiency.
A shout rang out below.
"Senior Brother Wu!"
A disciple dragged an old man forward by the hair — Elder Chen, the village's nominal leader. His face was battered, one eye swollen shut, blood trailing from his cracked lips.
"This one claims ignorance," the disciple said. "But I sense deception."
The man named Wu stepped forward with a calm, deadly presence. Power radiated from him — not overwhelming, but precise. Like a blade honed for surgery, not war.
His tone was almost conversational.
"Tell me about the pearl, old man. Divination arrays flared three days ago. Don't insult me. You're not clever enough to lie convincingly."
Elder Chen stammered, broken.
"P-pearl? Cultivator, we're farmers. There's nothing here—"
Wu sighed.
He didn't yell. He didn't rage.
He simply began.
He broke fingers one by one, methodically. Between each snap, he asked the same question. There was no cruelty in his expression — only efficiency. As if dissecting a failed experiment.
By the time Elder Chen bit through his own tongue, Wu merely signaled for the next.
Wuqing watched.
He felt no anger. No sorrow.
Only a quiet appreciation for form.
Precision in pain. That's rare. Too many kill wastefully. This one extracts until there's nothing left. Resourceful. Dangerous.
Fifteen villagers later, Wu exhaled and waved his hand.
"Burn it all. If the artifact was here, it's gone. We'll request earth-piercing arrays from headquarters. Nothing more to gain."
As disciples obeyed, lighting torches and formation triggers, Long Wuqing moved.
But not toward them.
He slipped through the smoke like a shadow — his path not vengeance, but reclamation. Not to confront the murderers, but to harvest the dead.
The Pearl stirred within him — not visually, but inwardly.
A second heartbeat. A low drum of hunger. Synced with silence and smoke.
He knelt beside Village Chief Wang's corpse. A hand to the forehead.
Qi Condensation, third tier. Low essence density. But all energy had value.
The Dao of Consumption activated.
Power flowed. Not just energy — but memory, instinct, identity.
Fear. The urge to protect children. Worthless.
More useful: knowledge of the Iron Body technique. Three spiritual caches hidden under the granary, temple, and riverstone. Practical.
One corpse became two.
Then ten. Then sixty-seven.
Long Wuqing harvested with clinical calm — like a surgeon.
Each life stripped down to essence, made useful, processed.
By the time he stood, his cultivation had solidified at peak Qi Condensation — but that was irrelevant.
More valuable:
Seventy-three life experiences.
Thirty-seven minor techniques.
Tactical knowledge of sect supply routes.
Spiritual mapping of the region.
All absorbed. All processed.
"None of them knew about the pearl. Azure Sect is acting on fragmentary divination. Their methods are advanced, but incomplete. Their flaw: dependency on indirect data.
My advantage: direct access."
As the flames devoured the last hut, Long Wuqing turned toward the departing Azure cultivators. His shoulders sagged. His face twisted into grief. His eyes watered.
Performance activated.
He stepped into the path.
"Honored cultivators!" he cried out. "Please—what happened to my village?!"
Weapons came up instantly. Wu raised a hand.
"You are from Stonehaven?"
Wuqing nodded, trembling.
"I was in the eastern hills… gathering herbs. I saw the smoke… My family—are they—?"
"Dead," Wu said bluntly. "We questioned the survivors. They knew nothing. What about you? Any tales of treasure? Hidden caves?"
He's probing. Scanning. Matching me against artifact-trigger patterns.
Wuqing blinked, eyes wide, voice shaken.
"Treasure? No, honored one. Elder Chen's jade bracelet was our most valuable item, and it wasn't even worth ten spirit stones…"
Wu's spiritual sense swept through him — subtle, probing.
It found what it was meant to find: trauma-forged qi. No deeper secrets. No resistance.
"Trauma breakthrough," Wu muttered. "Plausible."
Then, a cold smile.
"What's your name?"
"Long Wuqing," he said, voice trembling. "Of Stonehaven."
"You have two choices," Wu offered. "Stay here and mourn. Or come with us. The Azure Sect values survivors. You've shown potential."
Wuqing bowed deeply.
"I have nothing left. If the sect will accept me, I will serve loyally."
Wu smiled again.
"We return to Azure Peak tomorrow. Don't disappoint me, Wuqing."
You will regret this, he thought, bowing lower.
But not yet.
He joined the formation, walking silently at the rear.
No emotion on his face. Only calm. Calculation.
Inside, the Pearl pulsed — not with hunger, but approval.
The harvest had only just begun.