“Chao Qinzi, you fiend, reveal yourself!”

  Mo Jian’s voice, enhanced with qi, thundered across the island, stirring the winds into a frenzy. Gales whipped through the mountains, and rocks tumbled into the valleys below. Even the surrounding sea seemed to shudder, its surface rippling under the force of his voice.

  It was all for nothing.

  Chao Qinzi wasn’t there.

  Suppressing a sigh, Mo Jian felt the beginnings of a headache bloom behind his eyes. This was the fourth island he’d searched this month, each one a dead end. The trail was growing colder by the day, and the ever-elusive Chao Qinzi continued to evade him like smoke in the wind.

  High in the pre-dawn sky, Mo Jian hovered, his spiritual sense stretched to its limits, probing every crevice of the island. And still—nothing. He had no choice but to accept the truth: this lead was yet another failure.

  It was time to give up. He didn’t like the thought. After nearly two years of hunting, the idea of quitting left a bitter taste in his mouth. But he had to face reality. Whatever hole Chao Qinzi had crawled into, it was beyond Mo Jian’s reach.

  Pressing his lips together, he cast one last look at the island below before turning away, flying off into the distance.

  It wasn’t just Chao Qinzi’s uncanny ability to disappear that unsettled him. It was whether that ability was his to begin with or not. In the original story, Chao Qinzi had barely been mentioned. He’d made a single appearance, his name little more than a footnote. Later, in a throwaway line buried deep in the chapters, it was stated that Bai Ning had eventually tracked him down and avenged her fallen sect. And that was it.

  Gone.

  So, Mo Jian’s failure to find him raised an uncomfortable question: did Chao Qinzi even exist?

  It was an absurd thought—but so was everything else. After all, he had been transmigrated into the world of a book he’d once read. He was long past the threshold of absurdity. Could it be that Chao Qinzi’s role in the story had ended... and with it, his existence?

  Mo Jian didn’t actually believe that—or, more accurately, he didn’t want to. If the world truly ran on narrative force, where characters ceased to matter once their arc concluded, it was a horrifying thought. Especially for him. He, too, had been a villain. A secondary antagonist, doomed by plot.

  He shook the thought away, refusing to spiral. More likely, Chao Qinzi was simply hiding well, lying low to avoid the revenge he knew was coming. A perfectly mundane explanation. And yet, the idea of being subject to the whims of the story lingered like a shadow in the back of his mind.

  He hoped that wasn’t the case.

  Three years had passed since he took Bai Ning in as his disciple. His life now was almost unrecognizable. Not that he’d had much of a routine before—he’d been newly transmigrated then, still trying to find his footing—but this certainly wasn’t where he’d expected to end up.

  Still, it was hard to say he regretted it. Teaching could be unexpectedly fulfilling, even if it was equally frustrating and exhausting. The role surprised him, constantly.

  But maybe that was just the nature of the future. No one could predict it with certainty.

  As he flew, Mo Jian mentally composed a voice transmission talisman, rehearsing the message before finally releasing it in a burst of red light. The talisman sped toward the horizon, carrying his words to Fan Mei.

  Nothing new—he was simply informing her the lead she’d found had come to nothing. Still, he thanked her for her efforts and let her know he’d meet her at the Seaborne Moon Market in two hours to complete their transaction.

  With the message sent, Mo Jian set his course for Sea Moon Island, home to the market. This hunt had taken him to the Tail Fin Islands—the farthest west one could travel within the Thousand Shattered Islands and still be among them. His home lay near the archipelago’s center, with Sea Moon Island roughly between the two points, and it would take hours of nonstop flight to reach there, crossing vast stretches of open sea dotted with other islands along the way. He might also have to detour around the Red Dragon’s Eye, depending on how calm—or furious—that gigantic whirlpool churned today. Unwary cultivators risked being sucked into its dark spiral if they dared cross it on stormy days.

  The sharp sea air sent the sleeves of his robes fluttering and tousled his hair. The endless expanse of water below was familiar to anyone living in the Thousand Shattered Islands, yet Mo Jian still found a strange comfort in it. Above, the sky stretched clear except for the occasional cloud scudding swiftly by, while the distant horizon shimmered with restless heat—like a mirage just out of reach. The faint cries of seabirds drifted on the breeze, a fitting soundtrack to the vast solitude around him.

  As he flew, his thoughts drifted back to Bai Ning. She’d begged to accompany him today—believing he was hunting a fifth-rank demonic beast, and not doing something dangerous. Though he’d refused, his excuses were wearing thin. Bai Ning was skilled enough not to be a burden, and such an excursion could benefit her cultivation. She was pressing against the edge of her realm, and new struggles were a time-honored way to break through bottlenecks. He really should take her on a hunt soon.

  Yet, he didn’t want her to know the truth—that he was hunting Chao Qinzi. How would she react? He wasn’t sure, and it was better this way. Besides, the man was still a Core Formation cultivator, and there was no telling how he’d respond to someone he had once targeted coming after him. It was a burden Mo Jian preferred to bear alone.

  The hours stretched as he pressed onward, the Seaborne Moon Market inching closer with every passing li. The sun continued its slow climb, bleeding streaks of lavender and rose across the sky, softening the deep indigo of dawn into lighter hues. Though the sky brightened, a crisp chill lingered in the air, a reminder that the season was turning. It was another hour before Sea Moon Island finally emerged on the horizon. By then, the sun had climbed nearly overhead, its merciless rays beating down on the back of Mo Jian’s neck. Yet the warmth was welcome—comforting, even—at this time of year.

  The island stretched below him like a crescent moon, cradled by still, tranquil waters of deepest blue. White sands lined the beaches, smooth and unbroken, while the island’s surface was mostly flat, punctuated only by the occasional rocky outcropping. Broad-leafed trees dotted the center, their dense canopies a vibrant green, while along the edges slender pine like trees reached skyward. Their leaves were caught in autumn’s embrace—flames of red, bursts of orange, and patches of gold shifting with the gentle breeze.

  Nestled at the midpoint of the crescent, tucked inside its curve, a sprawling marketplace unfurled like a living tapestry. Stalls and kiosks, rungs and ramshackle booths stretched in a wild, haphazard array. Unlike the orderly, sedate cultivator marketplaces Mo Jian was used to, this bazaar pulsed with life and color.

  Cultivators hawked their wares directly from the rugs they sat upon, or floated leisurely on magic tools, goods scattered carelessly around them. A pill merchant sat beside a man butchering a freshly caught spirit beast, who in turn was next to a painted-faced woman expertly maneuvering puppets in a lively street show. Even a few mortals mingled among the crowd, though cultivators were the overwhelming majority. Most hovered around the Qi Condensation realm, with a smattering of Foundation Establishment figures standing out like peaks in a forest.

  Mo Jian had veiled his cultivation level, masking himself as a peak Qi Condensation cultivator to avoid unwanted attention. With his qi disguised, he descended and alighted on the bustling main thoroughfare. The street was packed—dense with bodies hurrying to and fro—and he found himself constantly elbowing through the throng just to make steady progress. Fan Mei’s message had said she would wait for him at a restaurant called “Kiyao’s Chowmein,” so he kept his eyes peeled for its sign amid the chaos.

  Everywhere he looked, there was something vying for his attention. An inscriptor demonstrated complex formations and talismans, competing for customers against a jade slip vendor. A man wielding a massive fan performed skillful displays, drawing a crowd eager to admire his prowess. Nearby, a table piled high with cultivation manuals sat beside another offering secret techniques and rare knowledge. Cages filled with low-ranked spirit beasts dangled from poles outside a food and restriction talisman stall designed for beast-rearing.

  It was all, of course, trash—at least to him. Perhaps that was uncharitable, but the market catered mostly to Qi Condensation cultivators. Even Bai Ning’s collection surpassed most of this. For a Core Formation cultivator like Mo Jian, the novelty was the only thing holding his interest. He doubted anything of true value could be found here.

  A scantily clad woman brushed past him, and Mo Jian’s eyes flickered away, his cheeks flushing faintly. This too was new. Most cultivators he knew—from the Thousand Shattered Islands or the mainland—wore flowing robes and full-length garments, modest and functional. Not here. The crowd favored loose, open clothes: chest wraps, sarongs, and bare arms and legs on full display. The woman who’d passed wore her rich dark skin like a banner. She caught his glance with an insouciant wink, half amused, half teasing. Mo Jian’s cheeks deepened to a bright scarlet as she laughed softly and drifted away.

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  He was glad Bai Ning hadn’t come along. If she picked up any fashion ideas here, her mother would likely try to kill him.

  Mo Jian stuck out in the crowd too—his pale skin and formal robes marking him as an outsider. Most here had sun-kissed complexions and wore relaxed, colorful clothes. He felt like a businessman in a full suit at a beach party, awkward but determined.

  Still, he pressed on, hunting for the shop Fan Mei had named. The cacophony of the marketplace swelled around Mo Jian—voices bartering in a dozen tongues, the clang of metal, the rustle of silk, and the low hum of magic weaving through the air like an invisible current. Lanterns of every shape and color hung overhead, swaying gently despite the stillness of the midday breeze, casting kaleidoscopic shadows across the crowded street.

  As Mo Jian moved deeper into the maze of stalls, the scent of exotic spices mingled with the salty tang of the sea. Steam rose from carts selling savory broths, while fragrant smoke curled from grilled spirit beast meat roasting over open flames. The air was thick with life, vibrant and chaotic—everything the ordered cultivator markets were not.

  He passed a group of children darting through the crowd, their laughter piercing above the din. Nearby, a grizzled merchant shouted over the clamor, advertising a rare formation talisman said to ward off the fiercest curses. Mo Jian’s eyes scanned the signs until he spotted it: the faded wooden board emblazoned with bold, brush-stroked characters—“Kiyao’s Chowmein.”

  Inside, the restaurant was a modest affair—rough-hewn tables and wooden stools, smoke-darkened walls adorned with old calligraphy and faded paintings. The chatter here was quieter, the clientele a mix of weary travelers and local cultivators stealing a moment’s respite.

  Fan Mei sat near the back, her sharp eyes lifting as he entered. She wore a simple robe, but today had added a shawl—a glittering red and gold wrap studded with seashells and pearls—in a nod to the local fashion. It clashed horribly with her embroidered robes and no-nonsense demeanor, lending her an unexpectedly flamboyant air. The corners of her mouth lifted in a brief, knowing smile as she beckoned him over.

  “Brother Mo,” she greeted, her voice low but clear, “I was beginning to worry you’d gotten lost.” She studied him for a moment before continuing, “Another dead end?”

  He slid into the seat opposite her, the noise of the market dimming to a dull roar. “Yes,” he admitted, voice tight. “The fourth so far. Chao Qinzi remains a ghost.”

  She nodded in commiseration, her expression no happier than his. Mo Jian knew she grasped the gravity of the situation as well as he did—she was the only outsider he’d trusted with the full details about Bai Ning and his past encounter with Chao Qinzi.

  For a moment, Mo Jian studied his friend. Fan Mei was a striking woman, though by conventional standards not a great beauty. Her straight black hair framed a face that was largely plain but marked by sharp eyebrows and quiet intelligence. She and the original Mo Jian had become friendly nearly half a century ago, both newcomers to the Thousand Shattered Islands at the time. Both Core Formation cultivators and naturally reclusive, their paths crossed repeatedly until mere acquaintanceship evolved into a burgeoning friendship.

  Their lives diverged had sharply after that, though. Mo Jian had remained a solitary wanderer, eventually rising to the rank of external elder in the Greater Dharma Sect but never shedding his solitary nature. Fan Mei, by contrast, became the concubine of Ancestor Qing—one of the three Nascent Soul cultivators of the Thousand Shattered Islands—elevating her to a position of considerable influence and renown. Mo Jian suspected their relationship was less born of love and more of mutual benefit and pragmatism. After all, Ancestor Qing was known to have a hundred brides, and Fan Mei retained a large degree of freedom, bolstered by the powerful faction behind her.

  Mo Jian had reached out to her three years ago, based on the memories he had inherited, and over time, their collaboration deepened from familiarity into genuine friendship. He’d initially captured her interest with fragments of future knowledge—buried treasures he knew the story’s hero would uncover, hidden opportunities waiting to be seized—but he also knew Fan Mei harbored a soft spot for young girls targeted by demonic cultivators.

  Fan Mei’s own bloodline—the Absolute Yin Marrow Physique—had marked her as a target in her youth, before she grew powerful enough to defend herself. Mo Jian suspected this bloodline was part of why she ended up as Ancestor Qing’s concubine, a necessary alliance for protection amid the dangerous currents of the cultivation world.

  “Do you intend to stay here and search for more clues, then?” Fan Mei asked casually, selecting a slice of fruit from the half-empty bowl between them.

  Mo Jian shook his head. “No. I think it’s time to admit defeat. Honestly, the lead you gave me was the most promising one I’ve come across in the past two years, and even that turned up nothing. At this point, I’m not sure there’s any point in chasing shadows. It might be wiser to focus on Bai Ning’s growth rather than hunt a threat that refuses to be found. If she keeps progressing at her current pace, Chao Qinzi may become irrelevant in a few years anyway.”

  Fan Mei nodded thoughtfully as she chewed, then swallowed and gave him a sly smile. “And how is your apprentice these days? I noticed you didn’t bring her along.”

  Mo Jian sighed, suppressing the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He knew she was teasing. Fan Mei and Bai Ning didn’t exactly get along—a fact that Fan Mei found endlessly entertaining. She never missed a chance to prod at it, gently needling the girl whenever they met. Mo Jian had no one to blame but himself. He never should have introduced Fan Mei to Bai Ning as one of the potential mentors he was considering handing her over to. That entire fiasco had been... memorable.

  “And thank the heavens for that,” Mo Jian muttered. “You know how free-spirited she is. If I’d brought her here, she might’ve decided to move in permanently. I already have to invent a thousand excuses for her behavior every time I visit her parents. I shudder to think what they’d say if she came back talking about open markets, puppet shows, and half-naked sword dancers.”

  Fan Mei’s grin widened, the amusement now plain on her face. “I’m afraid I can’t empathize with you, Brother Mo. Girls her age should be free to explore and reinvent themselves however they like. Regardless of their prudish masters.”

  She was openly enjoying herself now, and Mo Jian rolled his eyes.

  He wasn’t prudish—thank you very much—even if Fan Mei had clearly caught his reactions to the local fashion. She was just stirring up trouble, as usual, and he did his best to ignore her, or at least pretend he was succeeding.

  “She can reinvent herself all she likes once she reaches Core Formation,” he said dryly. “For now, I’ve left her in my cave residence to master a new technique, and I’m already dreading what I’ll come home to. Last time I left her alone for half a day, I came back to a hole in the ceiling—and her, grinning like she’d just discovered the secret to immortality.”

  That hole was now a skylight, permanently enshrined in the cave’s architecture after he patched the defenses with a formation. As punishment, he’d made her clean the entire place with the “Shed Mortal Dust” spell she was supposed to have been practicing. Of course, she had ignored it in favor of learning to cast fireballs.

  Fan Mei laughed outright now. “So she’s got spirit. Sounds like a proper disciple to me.”

  Mo Jian shook his head at that, though he couldn’t entirely suppress his amusement. If nothing else, Bai Ning was never dull—a constant storm in the quiet of his life.

  “About your payment,” he said, shifting the conversation, and with a flick of his fingers, a jade slip shot out from his storage pouch and landed on the table with a soft click. “The location of the Nine Essence Lotus is recorded on that. Be cautious, though—it’s only sprouted eight petals so far. It’ll take at least another decade before it reaches full maturity. Plucking it early would damage its essence and make it nearly useless.”

  The Nine Essence Lotus was an extraordinary spiritual plant, one that could greatly enhance the distance that a cultivator’s spiritual sense could travel. In the original story, the hero, Ye Chen, had stumbled upon it in a forgotten cave—by sheer narrative luck, of course—at the perfect moment, when the lotus was in full bloom. Mo Jian, armed with knowledge the world wasn’t meant to have, had gone to confirm the plant’s existence himself. It was there, just as he remembered—but the timing, as always, favored the protagonist.

  Fan Mei’s eyes brightened as she took the slip, holding it to her forehead as she scanned its contents with her spiritual sense. A moment later, she let out a long, appreciative breath and leaned back in her chair, awed.

  “A genuine Nine Essence Lotus…” she murmured. “I never thought I’d encounter one in my lifetime. To think I’m receiving this for a lead that went nowhere—Brother Mo, I feel like a fraud accepting it.”

  Mo Jian waved her concern away with a flick of his hand. “We agreed on the price beforehand, and I don’t renegotiate after a deal is struck. Besides, it’ll be more useful to you than to me.”

  That much was true. Fan Mei’s natal artifact—an intricate guzheng forged from thousand-year shadow-wood—was heavily dependent on the strength of her spiritual sense and deepening her connection to it would only elevate her power further. For him, the lotus was just one of many hidden treasures he remembered from the book’s world. Rare, yes, but not irreplaceable.

  He recalled dozens more—some hidden in forgotten ruins, others buried beneath sects that hadn’t yet risen to prominence. Compared to those, the Nine Essence Lotus was only moderately valuable. Still, it had served its purpose.

  Even if the lead hadn’t panned out, the price had been worth paying—for the chance, and the closure.

  Fan Mei tucked the jade slip away into her sleeve, her expression still tinged with wonder. “You’re a strange man, Brother Mo,” she said after a pause. “Most cultivators would hoard knowledge like this until their dying breath.”

  Mo Jian stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. “Most cultivators are too busy chasing another life to actually live the one they do have. I have no intention of ending up like that. A treasure I can’t use in exchange for helping out both my disciple and my friend, simultaneously? It is a more than fair bargain to me.”

  She tilted her head slightly, studying him with a sharp, unreadable gaze, the same one she’d always had when they had met initially. “If you ever do need help—real help—you know where to find me.”

  He nodded once. “I do.”

  They exited the restaurant together, stepping back into the swirling chaos of the market. The noise hit like a wave—voices, scents, color, movement—life in its most vivid form. For a moment, they stood side by side, watching it all pass them by.

  “Well then,” Fan Mei said, turning toward the western path. “I’ll make my way back to Coral Hollow. I’ll start digging again, see if anything new turns up. And don’t let that apprentice of yours burn down your mountain, will you?”

  Mo Jian gave a dry smile. “No promises.”

  She laughed, waved, and disappeared into the crowd, her glittering shawl catching the light as she moved.

  Mo Jian lingered a moment longer before lifting into the air, robes flaring in the wind as he rose above the market. Below him, Sea Moon Island stretched out in its crescent shape, vibrant and chaotic. Without another glance, he turned and soared eastward—toward home.