Eternal Machinations

The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the alcove in Serpent's Hollow where Zephyr rested, the faint hum of spiritual energy seeping from the stone walls. His pack lay beside him, heavier with the spoils of the three cultivators he'd dispatched—six spirit stones, a pouch of dried herbs, and a cracked jade slip pulsing with a basic qi-sensing art. The serpent's core and fangs from earlier joined them, each item a cold tally of his gains. His qi thrummed at the fourth level of Qi Condensation, steady and unhurried, a foundation he'd built with care. He chewed a herb, its bitter tang fueling a slow trickle into his meridians, and let his mind drift to the map he'd claimed: Coiling Depths, a name that promised power hidden deeper in the Hollow.

The mortal world beyond these tunnels was a vast, tangled web, its edges lost to rumor. Most folk he'd met—Greenleaf's villagers, the bandits' prey—were mundane, their lives untouched by spiritual qi. Cultivators were rare, a whisper among the masses, and Zephyr knew why: not everyone bore the roots to drink the world's energy. The testing stone had called his Earth-grade, mid-tier, but as he flexed his qi, a faint ripple stirred—cool and fluid, unlike the solid weight he'd expected. Earth alone didn't fit. The stone had been old, its veins cracked; perhaps it had misread him. Water, maybe, coiled alongside Earth in his core. He filed the thought away, a puzzle to probe later. Roots mattered, but survival trumped all.

He rose, stowing the jade slip after a brief skim—its qi-sensing art would sharpen his instincts, given time. The ring from the rusted chest pulsed faintly on his finger, its purpose still a mystery, but he'd unravel it when it suited him. The Coiling Depths beckoned, and he moved toward the passage, his steps silent on the damp stone.

The tunnel twisted downward, the air growing thick with moisture. Faint echoes reached him—dripping water, the skitter of small creatures, and a new sound: the clatter of wood on stone. Zephyr slowed, his dagger a cold weight in his hand. Mortals, not cultivators—their presence lacked the subtle hum of qi. He crept forward, the tunnel opening into a wider cavern lit by crude torches.

Five figures labored near a crumbling wall, their clothes patched and dusty—miners, by the picks and sacks at their feet. A sixth man, older and hunched, barked orders, his voice rough. "Dig faster, you slugs! The ore's here—boss'll pay good if we hit it."

Zephyr watched from the shadows, his sharp eyes dissecting the scene. No spiritual roots among them; their movements were heavy, mundane. The ore they sought glinted faintly in the torchlight—spirit ore, low-grade but valuable to cultivators. These fools likely worked for some petty merchant, scavenging the Hollow's edges for scraps. Their sacks held shards, enough to trade but not to cultivate with directly.

The older man turned, spotting him, and squinted. "Oi, who're you? This is our claim!"

Zephyr stepped into the light, his posture relaxed, his tone smooth. "Just passing through. That ore—spirit-grade?"

The man puffed up, clutching a rusty knife. "Aye, and it's ours. Back off, or—"

Zephyr's hand flashed, the dagger slicing the man's throat before he finished. Blood sprayed, and he crumpled, the miners gasping. One swung a pick, wild and clumsy, but Zephyr sidestepped, driving his blade into the man's chest. The others froze, terror rooting them, and he moved like a shadow—two quick slashes, two more bodies. The last, a boy barely sixteen, dropped his tool and bolted, sobbing.

Zephyr pursued, his steps measured. The boy tripped, sprawling in the dirt, and Zephyr ended him with a thrust to the back. Silence fell, broken only by the drip of water. He searched the sacks—ten shards of spirit ore, brittle but potent—and the old man's pouch, yielding a crude map of the Hollow's outer tunnels. No spirit stones, no cultivators. Just mortals, too weak to matter.

He piled the bodies against the wall, their blood pooling, and moved on. The ore weighed his pack down, a resource for trade or refinement. Killing them had been simple necessity—loose tongues drew attention, and he'd not risk it. Earth's boardrooms had taught him: silence threats before they grow.

The Coiling Depths lay ahead, the map guiding him through a maze of passages. The air grew colder, the stone slick with condensation. Faint claw marks marred the walls—spirit beasts, recent enough to warrant caution. Zephyr's qi-sensing art flickered, a vague pulse at the edge of his mind, untrained but promising. He'd refine it later; for now, his eyes and ears sufficed.

The tunnel opened into a cavern vast enough to swallow Greenleaf whole. Stalactites hung like jagged teeth, their tips glistening with moisture. A faint glow pulsed from the far end—a spirit vein, its energy seeping into the air, too dilute to absorb directly but a sign of greater power. Zephyr's pulse quickened, not from excitement but calculation. A vein meant cores, herbs, beasts—resources to fuel his ascent.

He approached, noting tracks in the dirt—human, not beast. Voices drifted from behind a rock formation, low and tense. Zephyr crouched, peering around the stone. Two figures stood near the vein—a man and a woman, their robes faded but marked with a coiled serpent emblem. Their qi hovered at the third level of Qi Condensation, weaker than his but steady. Cultivators, not miners.

"...vein's guarded," the woman muttered, clutching a staff. "Fang wolves, at least three. We need more hands."

The man scowled, fingering a short sword. "No time. The Hollow's crawling with scavengers—mortals and worse. We take it now or lose it."

Zephyr's lips curved faintly. Cultivators with roots—likely mid-tier, like his own, given their cautious tones. The serpent emblem matched his token; they might be tied to this place's legacy. Fang wolves complicated things—third-level beasts, pack hunters. He could fight, but numbers tipped the odds. Better to let them bleed first.

He retreated, circling to a vantage point atop a ledge. The vein's glow drew the wolves soon enough—three, their fur gray and matted, their qi sharp. They snarled, lunging at the pair. The woman's staff flared, a burst of wind scattering one wolf, while the man's sword slashed another's flank. Blood sprayed, but the third wolf leapt, claws raking the man's arm. He cursed, stumbling, and the woman fell back, her qi faltering.

Zephyr watched, his dagger ready. The wolves were winning—two still stood, the third limping but alive. The man rallied, stabbing a wolf's throat, but the woman took a claw to the leg, crumpling. One beast remained, circling its prey. Perfect.

He descended, silent as death, and struck the wolf from behind, his dagger piercing its spine. It yelped, collapsing, and the cultivators spun, eyes wide. The man raised his sword, blood dripping from his arm, while the woman clutched her staff, panting.

"Who—" the man started, but Zephyr cut him off, his tone soft.

"Saved you. That vein's worth splitting, no?"

The woman narrowed her eyes, her voice hoarse. "You're no altruist. What's your price?"

Zephyr smiled thinly. "Information. You wear the serpent—tell me what it means."

The man hesitated, then lowered his sword. "Serpent's Fang Clan. Small sect, outer edge of the Verdant range. This Hollow's ours by old claim—vein included."

Zephyr nodded, filing it away. A sect meant structure, resources—threats and opportunities. He stepped closer, as if to inspect the vein, then struck. His dagger slashed the man's chest, blood gushing as he fell. The woman swung her staff, but he ducked, driving his blade into her side. She gasped, collapsing beside her partner.

He searched them swiftly—eight spirit stones, a jade pendant with the serpent emblem, and a scroll fragment hinting at a movement art. The vein yielded little directly, but he carved out a small spirit core embedded in the rock—a faint orb, potent enough to aid his cultivation later. He burned the bodies, their emblems with them, and moved on. Trust was a blade he'd never grasp; their deaths ensured silence.

Night deepened as he found a sheltered nook, the core's energy seeping into his qi as he rested. The Serpent's Fang Clan loomed in his mind—a thread to pull later. His roots—Earth and Water, if the stone's fault held—promised more than he'd thought, but he'd test them in time. The Hollow's depths stretched ahead, and the mortal world beyond whispered of greater stakes. Zephyr cared for nothing but the path—each step a cold, calculated advance toward immortality.

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