And just like that, Damian followed him.

  At first, neither of them spoke. They crossed the sect grounds in silence, passing lantern-lit courtyards and empty walkways until Lee turned down a narrow side path tucked behind a storage building. It wasn’t dirty or abandoned, just a forgotten supply walkway used for deliveries. Quiet. Out of the way.

  Perfect.

  Lee stopped as if he’d reached an invisible mark, then turned with that mild librarian smile still sitting on his face.

  “How surprising,” Lee said casually, “that a member of the Fallen Moon family would be standing in front of me.”

  Damian’s body went rigid.

  For half a heartbeat, instinct screamed at him to move. To reach into his ring, to pull out the strongest artifact he owned, to shatter an Immortal Tear if that was what it took. But reason pinned him in place. He didn’t know what Lee really was, and if Lee was strong enough to speak that name out loud with this much calm, then drawing attention would only get Damian killed faster.

  Fallen Moon.

  He hadn’t heard that name since he was a child.

  His original surname. His father’s. His grandfather’s. Once, it had been a demonic sect of sword cultivators—then it fractured, bled, and became a family clinging to whatever pieces survived. Whether the Fallen Moon still existed somewhere, or whether it had been rebuilt on the corpses of his relatives, Damian didn’t know.

  He forced air into his lungs.

  Then, with a crooked grin that was half mockery and half warning, he answered, “In the flesh.”

  Lee didn’t laugh. He stepped closer, smile unchanged.

  “I’ve heard stories about your grandfather,” Lee said. “In his prime, he was terrifying. A true sword cultivator. I was present—well, nearby—during the ambush on your family.”

  “Enough,” Damian cut in, calm as stone.

  Lee paused.

  Damian held his gaze without blinking. “I know that’s not why you brought me here. So let’s move on.”

  For a moment, Lee only studied him. Then he tilted his head slightly, amused in a way that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “You’re right,” Lee said. “No point dwelling on other people’s downfalls while trying to build a future.”

  Lee glanced once at the roofline, then pulled a talisman from his sleeve and flicked it upward.

  The talisman rose above them and shattered without a sound.

  Damian felt it immediately. The air changed. Not physically—no wind, no pressure—but the space itself tightened, like the world had closed a door. The alley felt sealed off from reality. Isolated. Wrong.

  Before Damian could react, Lee spoke again.

  “Relax. It’s a privacy field. To the outside world, this area doesn’t exist. We can’t be seen. We can’t be heard. And unless one of us does something particularly foolish, no one is getting hurt.”

  Lee leaned back against the wall and folded his arms like they were discussing weather.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s get down to business.”

  Damian stayed silent, jaw tight.

  “I imagine your little conversation in the library was you probing me,” Lee continued with a soft chuckle. “First, yes—your grandfather still has connections. Even at his age.”

  His eyes sharpened a fraction.

  “Second—yes, I am a demonic cultivator.”

  Damian’s heart tightened, but his face didn’t move.

  “But no,” Lee added casually, “I am not a demonic sorcerer.”

  Damian’s breath caught despite himself.

  Lee watched it happen and smiled like he’d just confirmed a suspicion.

  “Let’s be clear,” he said. “I’m not a spy. You could say I’m… semi-retired.” He laughed lightly. “And yes—the principal knows exactly who I am.”

  That landed harder than everything else.

  Damian’s thoughts stumbled for a second. A Nascent Soul cultivator letting a demonic cultivator sit in the heart of the sect, running the library like it was nothing?

  Lee tapped the side of his glasses, as if teaching a child.

  “Once you reach the Core Realm, hiding demonic qi becomes difficult. Without a suppressing artifact or a specialized technique, it’s nearly impossible to do cleanly. And even with one, no sane sect master accepts someone without exhaustive background checks.”

  He shrugged.

  “As for sorcerers? They’re worse. The stench of death clings to them. Their presence reacts badly to detection arrays. It’s unmistakable.”

  Lee gestured to himself with mock pride.

  “As you can see, I may be old, but I’m still a handsome man. No rotting aura. No makeup required.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Damian stared at him, half stunned, half irritated that the logic actually made sense.

  Sneaking into a sect like this, long-term, would be absurd. Unless the principal allowed it. Or unless Lee was so dangerous the principal preferred him inside the walls, where he could be watched.

  Neither option was comforting.

  Silence held for a few breaths.

  Then Lee spoke again, softer.

  “Normally, I wouldn’t get involved,” he said. “But I see… potential.”

  Damian didn’t react.

  Lee’s gaze dipped briefly toward Damian’s chest, then returned to his eyes, as if he’d just weighed Damian’s worth and found it amusing.

  “Or rather,” Lee corrected smoothly, “I see temptation. I understand why you were curious. But demonic sorcery?” His chuckle turned faintly cruel. “That was a stupid decision.”

  Damian’s face stayed neutral, but something hot sparked under his ribs.

  “What did you think would happen?” Lee went on, voice casual, dismissive. “You’d learn a technique or two and bypass your need to form a core? It’s almost laughable.”

  Every instinct Damian had screamed to strike. To reach for an artifact. To tear the smugness off Lee’s face even if it got Damian killed immediately after.

  He swallowed it.

  Instead, he let a crooked, irritated smirk rise.

  “You’re right,” Damian said evenly. “Na?ve. My grandfather’s experience with sorcery was limited—mostly battlefield encounters. My family was demonic, but we were still a sword family. Our information was… incomplete.”

  He shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

  “And you’re right again,” he added. “I’m average. At best.” His eyes sharpened. “But clearly there’s a reason you’re standing in front of me.”

  For the first time, Lee pushed off the wall.

  He walked forward.

  Each step sounded heavier than it should have in a space this quiet. His smile didn’t fade. It sharpened.

  “Don’t misunderstand,” Lee said calmly. “You’re not special. Average spirit roots. No body constitution. Damaged meridians.”

  Another step.

  “A fallen family,” he continued. “Tied by marriage to artifact crafters. A father crippled beyond recovery.”

  Another.

  “Nothing about you suggests any path was a good idea.”

  Another.

  “And then,” Lee added, amused, “you considered becoming a sorcerer.”

  He stopped five feet away.

  “A demonic cultivator alone is already a death sentence for someone like you,” Lee said quietly. “A demonic sorcerer?” He shook his head. “Unless you planned to turn thousands of people into pills, you wouldn’t even last long enough to solve your core problem.”

  His voice was calm. Clinical. Like he was describing the weather.

  “Before you got there, a great clan would hunt you. Or some ambitious nobody would kill you for reputation. More likely you’d be betrayed by another demonic cultivator.” He paused. “Definitely by a sorcerer.”

  Lee smiled.

  “And then you’d be forgotten.”

  The words hung in the air like a verdict.

  “But,” Lee said suddenly, “you’re lucky.”

  Damian’s eyes narrowed.

  “I do have an opportunity,” Lee continued. “Interesting. Unfortunate. But real.”

  He leaned in slightly.

  “I need a disciple. Someone to carry a legacy.” His gaze bored into Damian’s. “One that bypasses your core issue.”

  Damian’s pulse thudded once, hard.

  “But that’s not the real question,” Lee said, stepping closer until they were nearly face-to-face. “The real question is—”

  His smile widened just a fraction.

  “Would you survive long enough to take it?”

  Damian let out a slow breath through his nose.

  Survive. Vague. Convenient. The kind of word people used when they didn’t want to say , or , or .

  His lips curled into a faint sneer.

  “So, Mr. Lee,” Damian said lightly, sarcasm dripping, “you know my meridians are damaged. You know my chances of ever surpassing Qi Refinement are slim. Honestly, even reaching that stage would be a miracle.”

  He spread his hands slightly, as if presenting his own limitations for inspection.

  “And you know I picked a spiritual technique for my foundation, and I’m already struggling. So forgive me for being confused about why you’d want me as your disciple for… whatever it is you’re offering.”

  “A trick?” Lee repeated, amused.

  He chuckled softly. “To be honest, I’d be suspicious too. If the sect librarian suddenly offered me an opportunity, I’d assume there was a catch.”

  He leaned in just a little.

  “But don’t misunderstand,” Lee said. “I’m not doing this because I pity you. And it’s certainly not because you’re some hidden genius.”

  Damian didn’t blink.

  “It’s because your mind barely meets the minimum requirement,” Lee continued. “At least you still think like a cultivator. You’re still trying to be one.”

  A faint smirk touched his mouth.

  Then Lee placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder.

  Damian’s body froze.

  It wasn’t pain.

  Not force.

  Authority.

  A subtle suppression that locked muscle and breath in place like an invisible command.

  “Mindset, huh?” Damian muttered through clenched teeth. “Let’s stop flattering each other and get to the point.”

  Lee withdrew his hand, clearly entertained.

  “We’ll finish this conversation tonight,” he said calmly. “Come back to the library after dark.”

  Damian frowned. Something about Lee’s smile unsettled him more now than before.

  Before Damian could respond, Lee snapped his fingers.

  The privacy field shattered like glass.

  The world rushed back in.

  Sound. Air. Space. Normality.

  “Don’t be late,” Lee added, waving him off like an appointment had been scheduled.

  Damian didn’t hesitate. The moment he was free, he turned and left at a brisk pace. His heart pounded—not from fear alone, but from anticipation.

  Excitement and dread tangled in his chest.

  Whatever was coming tonight… he couldn’t avoid it now.

  The alley remained silent.

  For several seconds.

  Then a figure dropped from the rooftop above.

  Elder Duan landed without a sound, robe fluttering in the faint breeze. One eye remained permanently closed, marked by a long sword scar. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade.

  Silent fury burned in his gaze.

  “I don’t recall the head granting you permission to take a disciple,” Duan said coldly. “You shouldn’t even be cultivating.”

  The air grew heavy. Breathing became difficult, not because of a privacy field, but because a Core Formation sword cultivator was letting his displeasure leak through.

  Any ordinary cultivator would’ve collapsed just from standing too close.

  Lee only laughed quietly.

  “Make no mistake,” Lee replied, “I don’t need your permission. Or any other elder’s.”

  He adjusted his glasses. “The head and I have an understanding.”

  Duan’s expression darkened.

  “And don’t forget,” Lee continued lazily, “you are not my peer. If circumstances were different, I wouldn’t waste time arguing with someone of your level.”

  His smile sharpened.

  “Especially a washed-up cultivator remembered only for losing to someone more popular.”

  The words cut deep enough to draw blood without a blade.

  Elder Duan’s aura surged.

  Violence flashed across the ground like a wave. The stone beneath his feet trembled. His grip tightened on his sword, knuckles pale.

  The mention of the Immortal Sword had found the nerve immediately.

  For a moment, it looked like he would draw.

  Then Duan exhaled slowly.

  Control returned, but the fury stayed behind his eye like a flame.

  He spat onto the ground.

  “I hope this is a mistake,” Duan said quietly. “And that one day, the principal gives me permission to remove your head.”

  With that, he vanished in a blur, leaving only the lingering bite of sword qi in the air.

  Lee remained alone.

  He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  For an instant, faint traces of purple light flickered within them.

  Then he smiled.

  “Oh, Principal,” Lee murmured softly. “You were right.”

  “This place is going to be entertaining.”

  He slipped his glasses back on, smoothed his expression into harmless calm, and strolled toward the library—humming quietly, like a man walking back to a job he didn’t deserve.

  By the time Damian reached his room, the sky had fully darkened.

  He shut the door and let out a slow breath. It was still early. He had time.

  And he had no excuses.

  He stripped off his robe, sat in the center of the room, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes.

  He steadied his breathing.

  Forced his mind to quiet.

  It was time to focus.

  Time to grow stronger.

  Time to meditate.

  Whatever awaited him tonight—

  He would face it prepared.