The first light of dawn seeped over the Azure Cloud Sect’s mountain ridges three days later, chasing away the last traces of night mist. Lin Mo roused himself from his night-long cultivation, his eyes clear and bright, devoid of any drowsiness. A full night of circulating the Heavenly Immortal Art had solidified his Qi Refining Great Perfection realm to an unshakable state; the spiritual energy in his dantian flowed like a placid lake, steady and boundless, and he could now manipulate even the tiniest wisp of spiritual energy with perfect precision. He touched the cloud-patterned wooden token tucked inside his robe, its warm aura a constant reassurance, and rose to his feet. Today was the day the outer sect’s Spirit Stone Pavilion distributed monthly spirit stones—the most basic cultivation resource for every outer disciple, and the first battleground Elder Wang had chosen to target him.

He stepped out of his hut, the outer sect already bustling with activity. Disciples hurried toward the Spirit Stone Pavilion, their faces eager, for spirit stones were the lifeblood of their cultivation; without them, progress would grind to a halt. Lin Mo blended into the crowd, his aura restrained, drawing no undue attention. He had no desire to stir up trouble before necessary, but he would not back down from what was rightfully his. The whispers that had followed him for days had quieted somewhat, as disciples grew used to his newfound strength, but sidelong glances still lingered, filled with curiosity and wariness. Lin Mo ignored them all, his steps firm as he made his way to the stone-built Spirit Stone Pavilion at the edge of the outer sect residential area.

The pavilion was a modest structure, its walls carved with simple spirit-gathering runes, and a long line of disciples snaked out from its entrance. At the head of the line stood the pavilion keeper, a middle-aged man with a stoic expression, dressed in a gray steward’s robe, and beside him loomed two burly outer sect disciples with cold, arrogant faces—both cousins of Wang Hu and Wang Chao, planted here by Elder Wang to block Lin Mo. As soon as Lin Mo entered the pavilion’s courtyard, their eyes locked onto him, malice flashing in their gazes.

The line moved slowly, and when it was finally Lin Mo’s turn, the two burly disciples stepped forward, blocking his path before he could speak to the keeper. “What do you think you’re doing, Lin Mo?” one of them snarled, his voice loud enough to draw the attention of every disciple in the courtyard. “Elder Wang has issued an order: you are a troublemaker who disrupts outer sect order, and you are barred from receiving this month’s spirit stones. Get out of here, and don’t make us force you to leave.”

Murmurs erupted among the surrounding disciples. They exchanged knowing glances, realizing this was the Wang family’s revenge. Most looked on with sympathy, but none dared to speak up—none wanted to incur the wrath of the powerful inner sect Elder Wang.

Lin Mo’s expression remained calm, not a flicker of anger on his face. He had anticipated this move, just as Elder Qing had warned. “The monthly spirit stones are the entitlement of every outer sect disciple who abides by the rules,” he stated clearly, his voice steady and unyielding. “I have committed no violation of sect laws. Elder Wang has no right to withhold my resources. Step aside.”

“Entitlement?” the second disciple laughed mockingly, stepping closer and puffing out his chest. “In the outer sect, Elder Wang’s words are the rules. You beat Wang Chao and Li Feng, so you deserve this. Now leave, or we’ll break your legs before throwing you out.”

The two disciples raised their fists, their faint mid-stage Qi Refining auras flaring, ready to attack. The crowd fell silent, waiting to see if Lin Mo would fight back or walk away. But Lin Mo did not move to attack. Instead, he reached into his robe and pulled out the wooden token carved with the cloud pattern, holding it up so that the pavilion keeper and the two disciples could clearly see the faint golden glow emanating from its surface.

The moment the token came into view, the arrogant smiles on the two disciples’ faces froze. The stoic pavilion keeper’s eyes widened sharply, and he immediately stood up from his seat, his expression turning respectful and solemn. He recognized the token at once—it was the personal token of the reclusive Scripture Hall Elder Qing, a figure even the sect’s highest elders treated with deference. Elder Wang might hold power in the inner sect, but no one dared to offend Elder Qing, whose cultivation and status were shrouded in mystery.

“You two, step back immediately,” the pavilion keeper snapped at the two disciples, his voice sharp with authority. “How dare you block a dis