Beggar Cultivation System

Apollo leaned back on his chair, arms folded, his brows knitting tighter as the weight of the revelation sank in.

Sir Guo is being hunted… by the Black Arts Sect?

He exhaled slowly, lips pressed into a thin line. That cursed name carried weight. The Black Arts Sect wasn't just some shady organization lurking in back alleys—they were a nightmare spoken of in hushed voices, infamous for their taboo cultivation methods and their merciless pursuit of forbidden knowledge.

He tapped his fingers against the table, deep in thought. The image of that old man, always cloaked and hidden under a bamboo hat, filled his mind. Sir Guo… what the hell did you get yourself into?

Apollo hadn't seen him since arriving in the city. They were supposed to meet here, but two had passed since they left, and there had been no word.

Something was wrong.

They'd entered Manida ahead of him. So where were they?

He's hiding, Apollo reasoned, his frown deepening. The city might be bustling, but for someone like Sir Guo, blending in was second nature. Still, the silence gnawed at Apollo. No signs. No signal. No Bubba.

That monkey…

A pang of irritation—and worry—hit his chest.

Bubba may be annoying, loud, and impossible to discipline, but he was still Apollo's companion. And if he was with Sir Guo when the Black Arts Sect was hunting them…

Apollo clenched his fists beneath the table.

He didn't want to get dragged into whatever chaos was brewing between Sir Guo and that sect. He had his own problems—his own path to walk. But he couldn't ignore this either. Not when Bubba was potentially caught in the middle of it.

"This is a headache," he muttered, eyes closing briefly.

He couldn't charge in blindly. That was suicide. What he needed now was information—details, movements, connections.

He opened his eyes and turned to the bar's entrance. The beggar who mentioned the rumor… there was something off about him. His voice, his composure—it didn't match his drunken act.

He knows more.

Apollo stood up quietly, slipping out of the bar without so much as a glance back. The noise faded behind him as he stepped into the damp alley, the setting sun washing over the cracked cobblestone.

Mira and Bran glanced at his direction before looking at each other.

"This kid is strange," Bran said, leaning back against his chair with a grunt. He took another swig from the chipped bottle in front of him, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Too calm. Too observant. And way too composed for someone his age."

Mira didn't respond right away. Her gaze lingered on the door he had exited through, her eyes thoughtful. The dim candlelight reflected in her pupils, flickering like the doubt in her mind.

"Hmm," she finally nodded, her lips pressing into a faint line. "But he doesn't feel dangerous."

Bran snorted. "That's what makes him dangerous."

Mira raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways. "What do you mean?"

Bran leaned in a bit, lowering his voice. "You didn't see how he handled the others earlier? He didn't react to the stares, the malice. Most people flinch. He didn't. That's not the behavior of a normal kid—or even a normal beggar."

Mira remained silent, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tapped her fingers against the table.

"He called himself a passerby, but I don't believe that," Bran continued. "He came here with purpose. You felt it too, didn't you?"

Mira nodded slowly. "He's watching something… or someone."

They both turned their attention toward the remaining beggars in the bar, most of whom had already resumed their drunken chatter, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around them. Yet a few glanced toward the door now and then, their expressions unreadable.

"Should we keep an eye on him?" Bran asked.

Mira took another sip of her drink, then set the cup down with a soft clink.

"No need," she said quietly. "He'll show us what he's after soon enough. Besides…" Her eyes narrowed, and the corner of her mouth tugged into a faint smirk. "I get the feeling we'll be seeing more of him."

Bran grunted in agreement and lifted his bottle in a mock toast toward the door where Apollo had vanished.

"To the strange beggar," he muttered. "May he not bring trouble down on our heads."

Mira said nothing this time, but deep inside, her instincts told her that trouble was exactly what that boy would bring—whether he meant to or not.

…

He moved with practiced ease, scaling a nearby building and perching on its roof like a shadow. From here, he had a clear view of the bar's door.

Minutes passed. Then, the "drunk" beggar stepped outside.

No sway. No stumble. No hiccup.

His back was straight, his steps swift.

Got you.

Apollo followed from above, staying low, his presence erased by refined footwork from the Simple Movement Technique and qi control. The man weaved through narrow alleyways, cutting behind abandoned buildings until he arrived at the crumbling shell of a warehouse.

Then someone else stepped out from the shadows.

A figure cloaked in black, robed from head to toe, face hidden beneath a seamless black mask. Not a single feature was visible, not even a slit for eyes.

Even the air around them seemed to grow colder.

The beggar bowed low. "I've spread the message. The lightning cultivator rumor is already circulating among the beggar circles."

"Good," the masked figure replied. The voice was neither male nor female—hollow, distorted, and utterly unreadable. "The trap is set. We wait."

"What about the others? What if they interfere?"

The masked figure tilted their head slightly. "Let them. The more tangled the threads, the easier they are to snap. Watch. Report. Do not act unless ordered."

Apollo remained motionless above, watching with narrowed eyes.

A trap. A rumor used as bait. And lightning cultivation wasn't exactly common.

They're hunting someone specific. And the clues pointed to one man.

Apollo's fists clenched tighter.

He didn't know the full story.

But what he did know—was that it just got personal.

Apollo remained perfectly still, his body cloaked by the subtle veil of his Water Attribute—an artful application of elemental concealment that masked his presence like a gentle ripple blending with still waters. His aura was suppressed, his breathing shallow, and not even the lightest whisper of movement betrayed his position.

Below, the masked figure and the informant parted ways without another word. The black-robed man vanished into the winding streets of Manida Land like a ghost, while the beggar slinked back toward the maze of alleys Apollo had just come from.

Apollo's eyes tracked both.

The man in black... Core Creation Stage. That much was obvious. His qi, although restrained, pulsed with a cold intensity—refined and dangerous. And yet, despite standing at a far lower cultivation level, Apollo knew he could kill him if he had to.

"4th-Step Qi Condensation?" Apollo scoffed silently. No. That's just what the world thinks I am. In truth, I'm far beyond that. I just haven't tested where the ceiling ends."

The black-robed man hadn't sensed him. A small, satisfying reminder that despite his chosen path as a beggar, Apollo was still someone who walked in realms most feared to tread.

His senses spread outward like threads cast over a tapestry. He followed the black-robed man through spiritual perception alone, keeping a mental note of his route and destination. At the same time, he traced the other figure—the so-called drunk beggar—who had seamlessly returned to the alleys as if nothing had happened.

But Apollo didn't pursue either of them.

Not yet.

"I've learned enough for now," he thought, slowly withdrawing his presence and melting back into the setting sun. If I push too far, I might lose everything I've gained. That man… that sect… they move with intention."

With the sun painting orange across the rooftops, Apollo turned and darted away, his steps light and soundless as mist. He made his way back to the alley where Don and Bluetooth were waiting. The air grew warmer the closer he got, the distant scent of leftover food and the damp mildew of the alley creeping into his senses.

It didn't take long before the sight of a pigeon-sized falcon twitching in his sleep and a dozing disciple leaning against a crate came into view.

Bluetooth lay on his side, a tiny bubble popping from his beak with every snore. His body occasionally shuddered—probably still feeling the aftershock from the Chili of Intelligence.

Don, meanwhile, had fallen asleep sitting cross-legged, a piece of dried bread on his lap and a noodle sticking from his mouth.

Apollo let out a soft sigh and leaned against the wall beside them.

Shaking his head, he started cultivating the Great Serpent Ascendant Transformation as the setting sun turned into night.