Life skills might sound boring and useless. Most cultivators, in their pursuit of strength, never waste ti on these mundane skills.
Who wants to waste ti on perfecting their ’Basic Walk’ when they could use that ti to master a movent skill?
The answer was simple: Rhys did.
In his previous life, he had understood the importance of a solid foundation in any endeavor. In this new life, where a single mistake could lead to a permanent end, that understanding was magnified a thousandfold.
A Heaven-Grade movent technique was useless if you tripped over a root at a critical mont because your basic balance was flawed.
A legendary sword art ant nothing if you didn’t know how to maintain your blade.
And a cultivator with a body capable of levelling mountains was just a brute if he couldn’t even properly process his own weight.
This was the lesson the Shadowcat had taught him. Power was a tool, but life skills were the knowledge of how to wield it.
His System could grant him perfect mastery, but he had to provide the initial spark of knowledge—the raw experience for it to refine.
His plan was to spend a month in Greenleaf and master as many lifeskills as he could.
He needed to learn every practical skill that might beco helpful in his journey as a cultivator: alchemy, formations,Enchantnts and first and foremost, the skill he had so embarrassingly lacked after his first hunt—butchering.
He left the inn and headed toward the industrial district of Greenleaf, a part of town most cultivators and wealthy rchants actively avoided.
The air here was thick with the slls of coal smoke, tanned leather, and sothing else—a coppery, visceral scent that grew stronger with every step.
He followed the sll to its source: a massive, warehouse-like building surrounded by a high wooden fence.
A large, crudely painted sign hung over the gate: "Greenleaf Monster Dismantling Center."
This was where the carcasses of spiritual beasts, hunted by adventurers and rcenary groups, were brought to be processed.
From here, the required materials were distributed to their respective industries.
The mont he stepped through the gates, the pungent sll of blood assaulted his nose.
The ground was a muddy mixture of dirt and dried blood, and the air was a cacophony of loud shouts, the rhythmic thud of heavy cleavers, and the grating sound of blades scraping against tough hides and bone.
Dozens of burly n, their bodies slick with sweat and gore, worked over the massive carcasses of various spiritual beasts laid out on huge stone tables.
It was a scene of neatly organised carnage.
Rhys navigated the chaotic yard, his eyes scanning for soone in charge. He spotted a man standing on a raised platform, shouting orders.
He was older than the rest, with a thick, grey-streaked beard and arms as thick as tree trunks. A long, jagged scar ran down his left eye, giving him a perpetually grim look.
He wore a leather apron stained with the blood of a thousand different beasts. This was clearly the foreman.
Rhys approached the platform. The man’s gaze fell upon him, his one good eye narrowing with skepticism.
He took in Rhys’s plain clothes, his unremarkable face, and the faint aura of a Body Tempering cultivator.
"What do you want, boy?" the foreman grunted, his voice a low rumble. "This isn’t a tourist attraction. Buy your parts at the front market or get lost."
"I’m looking for a job," Rhys said, his voice calm and even.
The foreman blinked, then let out a short, harsh laugh. The nearby workers who overheard also snickered.
"A job?" the foreman repeated, looking Rhys up and down with open disbelief.
"Here? Son, do you have any idea what we do? We break down monsters that would tear you in half without breaking a sweat.
It takes real strength to cut through a Stone-Hide Boar’s armour plate. It takes skill not to ruin a Wind Serpent’s venom sac.
It’s back-breaking, filthy work. That’s why we’re always short-staffed. Nobody with any sense wants this job."
"I’m strong enough," Rhys stated simply.
The foreman, whose na was Borin, scoffed.
"You’re a Body Tempering whelp. You probably haven’t even finished strengthening your bones. You’d break your arm trying to lift one of these cleavers, let alone swing it."
He intended to dismiss him, but sothing in Rhys’s calm, brown eyes gave him pause. There was no fear, no bravado, just a quiet, unnerving confidence.
Borin sighed, rubbing the scar by his eye. "Fine. You want to waste my ti, I’ll let you. See that thing over there?"
He pointed a thick thumb toward a massive, untouched carcass lying on a reinforced stone slab.
"That’s a Swamp-Scale Croc. A Stage 1 beast, but with a Feral bloodline."
Rhys’s eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the monster. It was easily fifteen feet long, its body covered in thick, overlapping scales that looked like muddy, hardened leather interwoven with what looked like rock.
Its hide was a testant to its power. He knew about bloodlines; it was a classification system for the innate power level of a monster.
The hierarchy was this: Ordinary, Feral, Elite, and Boss.
A Feral bloodline ant the beast was exponentially stronger, tougher, and more vicious than an Ordinary monster of the sa stage.
Monsters were genetically stronger than humans.
A Body Tempering cultivator could fight a Stage 2 monster, but winning would be difficult, as not everyone had the sa foundation as Rhys.
That’s why adventure teams were ford when hunting. An ordinary monster of the sa rank was already stronger, so one could only imagine a monster with a bloodline.
Even a team of cultivators couldn’t win against a monster with a bloodline, even if it was the sa rank as them.
Rhys vividly rembered the stories of how his father had died fighting a Stage 2 monster.
His father was in the Core Formation stage (Tier 3) before he died, a rank higher than the monster, yet he still lost, even with perfected skills in his arsenal.
The presence of this Stage 1 Feral Croc here made his skin tingle. Whisperwood wasn’t infested with monsters with bloodlines.
The appearance of one was rare. The last ti, an Elite monster led a dozen Feral monsters and almost wiped out the entire province.
’Don’t tell this is a hint of another beast tide,’ Rhys inwardly cursed. But he kept his expression unreadable as Borin began to speak.
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