The golden rays of dawn filtered through the thin curtains of my hotel room, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. I sat cross-legged on the bed, eyes closed, my breath steady as I channeled energy through my ridians. The ancient cultivation techniques flowed through like water finding its natural course.
After my confrontation with Desmond yesterday, I knew I needed every advantage I could get. The man's hatred was palpable, and his humiliation would only fuel his desire for revenge. I couldn't afford to be unprepared.
Hours passed as I refined my energy, strengthening my core and enhancing my spiritual sense. By midday, sweat beaded on my forehead, but I felt stronger, more centered. The knowledge from my mysterious inheritance continued to amaze —techniques that had been lost to ti now flowed through my mind with perfect clarity.
---
Across town, in a dimly lit private room of an upscale restaurant, Desmond Davenport nursed a glass of expensive whiskey. His knuckles were white around the crystal tumbler, his face twisted with rage.
"That bastard," he muttered, draining his glass in one gulp. "Who does he think he is?"
The humiliation from yesterday still burned in his gut. Being outsmarted by Liam Knight in front of the entire association was unacceptable. His reputation, built over decades, was being threatened by this... nobody.
Desmond's phone buzzed. He glanced at it briefly before standing. It was ti.
Twenty minutes later, he entered a nondescript building in the older part of the city. The guard at the door nodded respectfully, opening the heavy wooden door without a word. Desmond descended a narrow staircase into a basent office where a thin man with silver-streaked hair sat behind an ornate desk.
"Mr. Davenport," the man said without looking up from his papers. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Mr. Moore," Desmond replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "I have a situation that requires your... expertise."
Mr. Moore finally looked up, his eyes cold and calculating. "I'm listening."
Desmond placed a small wooden box on the desk. "This is a five-hundred-year-old wild Ganoderma. Worth more than most people earn in a lifeti."
Mr. Moore's eyebrows raised slightly as he opened the box, examining the rare dicinal fungus inside. "Impressive. And what would you like in return?"
"There's a man nad Liam Knight," Desmond said, his jaw tight. "He's participating in tomorrow's Traditional dicine Conference finals."
"You want him killed?" Mr. Moore asked casually, as if discussing the weather.
Desmond hesitated. "No... not killed. That would draw too much attention. I want him incapacitated. Unable to participate. Make it look like an accident or illness."
Mr. Moore closed the box with a soft click. "Consider it done. By tomorrow morning, your problem will no longer be able to compete."
Desmond allowed himself a small smile. "Perfect."
---
Late afternoon found walking down Cloud Street with Elder Harding, who had arrived in town earlier that day. The narrow street was famous for its traditional dicine shops and rare herbs.
"I appreciate the company," I told the older man as we navigated through the busy crowd. "Your knowledge of herbs is unparalleled."
Elder Harding chuckled, his wrinkled face creasing further. "Don't flatter an old man, Liam. We both know your knowledge has already surpassed mine."
I smiled but said nothing. It was true that my inherited knowledge was vast, but Elder Harding had sothing equally valuable—decades of practical experience.
We stopped at several shops, but I was disappointed by their offerings. Most items were common or of diocre quality, nothing that would help advance my cultivation or dical skills.
"The market isn't what it used to be," Elder Harding sighed. "Twenty years ago, you could find treasures on every corner of this street."
I was about to suggest we try another area when I noticed a familiar face in the crowd. My body tensed imdiately.
Alistair Northwood—right-hand man to Julian Hawthorne, one of my earliest enemies in this city. The last ti I'd seen him, he was fleeing after I'd humiliated his boss.
Our eyes t across the busy street. I shifted my stance subtly, ready for confrontation. Elder Harding sensed the change in my deanor.
"Problem?" he asked quietly.
"Possibly," I murmured. "That man works for soone who'd like to see dead."
To my surprise, instead of retreating or calling for backup, Alistair began walking directly toward . His expression was neutral, his hands visible and empty—not the approach of soone looking for a fight.
"Mr. Smith," he called, using the alias I'd gone by when we first t. He stopped a respectful distance away and, to my astonishnt, gave a small bow. "Or should I say, Mr. Knight? Your reputation has grown considerably since our last encounter."
I remained silent, watching him carefully.
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"I don't co seeking trouble," he continued, noticing my wariness. "Quite the opposite, in fact."
"What do you want then?" I asked bluntly.
Alistair glanced around, then lowered his voice. "Julian's influence has waned significantly since your... interaction with him. The power structure in this city is changing."
"And?"
"And those of us with sense can see which way the wind is blowing." He hesitated, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I just want to be friends with Mr. Smith."
I couldn't help the surprise that flickered across my face. This man, who had once sneered at as beneath contempt, was now offering friendship?
"Friends," I repeated skeptically. "Just like that?"
"Smart n adapt to changing circumstances," Alistair replied with a tight smile. "And I've always considered myself a smart man."
Elder Harding cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation sowhere less public?"
Alistair nodded. "I know a tea house nearby. Private rooms, excellent service, and no prying ears."
I studied him for a mont longer, weighing my options. This could be a trap, but my instincts told otherwise. Alistair looked genuinely nervous—not the deanor of soone planning an ambush.
"Lead the way," I finally said, curious about what information this unexpected olive branch might yield.
As we followed Alistair through the crowded street, I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck—the unmistakable feeling of being watched. I scanned the crowd discreetly but saw nothing suspicious. Still, the sensation persisted.
Soone was tracking , and they were good at it. Very good.
I kept my face neutral as we walked, not wanting to alert our potential shadow. Tomorrow's competition suddenly seed like the least of my worries. Desmond's humiliation had clearly led to more serious consequences than I'd anticipated.
The question now was: what exactly had he set in motion, and was I prepared to face it?
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