The cool stream water soothed the raw gash on Lin Mo’s shoulder, the faint burn of the Spirit-Eating Beast’s claw fading as he pressed a healing herb—plucked from the cave’s bioluminescent flora—against the wound. His breathing steadied, the lingering tremor of the chaotic battle fading from his limbs. The Spirit Vein Concealment Art hummed steadily in his dantian, his cultivation aura locked firmly at mid-stage Qi Refining, a fragile shield against the threats lurking in the Misty Forest. He counted the demonic beast cores in his pouch once more: seven smooth, glowing orbs, each pulsing with the faint power of the beasts he’d slain or claimed. Three more to reach the trial’s maximum quota, but the numbers no longer felt like the true goal. The pull from the forest’s central mountain peak, sharp and unyielding, tugged at his Six Paths Immortal Root, a silent call that drowned out the fear of Elder Wang’s assassins.

Lin Mo tucked the healing herb away, his hand brushing the cloud-patterned token at his chest. It had gone quiet since Elder Qing’s urgent warning, the elder’s spiritual energy dimmed to a faint thrum—likely masking his own presence to avoid Elder Wang’s scrutiny. A flicker of gratitude warmed Lin Mo’s chest; in a sect rife with treachery, Elder Qing was his only ally. But he could not rely on others forever. He tightened the pouch at his waist, the Foundation Establishment Elixir and the tattered scroll of the forbidden art pressing against his side, reminders of the power he now held, and the danger it brought.

With quiet, deliberate steps, he set off toward the central peak, his Body Lightening Step carrying him over fallen logs and tangled roots without a sound. The mist grew thinner as he ascended, the air crisp with pure spiritual energy that made his dantian tingle. Unlike the dense, oppressive aura of the forest’s lower depths, this energy was gentle yet vast, like the breath of an ancient immortal. He passed crumbling stone statues half-buried in moss, their faces worn smooth by time, each carved with the same runes he’d seen on the hidden grove’s tablet—runes of protection, of sealing, of ancient power. The trial, he realized, was never just about collecting cores. It was a test of wit, courage, and the ability to uncover secrets the outer sect elders had long buried.

An hour later, he crested a small ridge and froze. Below him lay a vast, circular plateau, at its center a towering stone altar carved from black jade, reaching toward the sky. The altar pulsed with a golden light, the same hue as the subterranean spring’s liquid, and at its top floated a wisp of glowing spiritual energy, swirling like a tiny star. Surrounding the plateau, hidden in the shadows of jagged rocks, were figures—outer sect disciples, but not the random stragglers he’d encountered before. These were organized, split into small groups, each bearing the crest of a major faction: Li, Zhang, and a handful of remaining Wang disciples, their faces grim as they eyed one another. The factional strife he’d glimpsed earlier had exploded into a full standoff, all drawn here by the peak’s hidden treasure.

“They’re fighting over the altar’s core,” Lin Mo whispered, ducking behind a boulder. He could feel the power radiating from the golden wisp—far stronger than any demonic beast core, a spiritual essence that could boost cultivation speed by leaps and bounds, even lay the foundation for an early breakthrough to Foundation Establishment. It was the trial’s true reward, the secret every elder had hinted at but never named.

Before he could move to get closer, a cold, silent killing intent sliced through the air, so sharp it made his skin prickle. Lin Mo’s blood turned to ice. Not demonic beast aura. Not faction disciple hostility. This was the cold, calculated intent of a trained killer.

Shadow assassins.

He dropped to the ground, rolling behind a thick tree trunk just as a black dagger sliced through the space where his neck had been, the blade glinting with a poisonous green light. Two figures emerged from the mist, their bodies wrapped in black cloaks that blended into the shadows, their faces hidden by hoods. They moved without a sound, their spiritual energy completely masked—elite assassins, dispatched directly by Elder Wang, far more dangerous than the inner sect disciples and Spirit-Eating Beast before.

“Hand over the treasures you stole from the hidden cave, and we’ll make your death quick,” one assassin hissed, his voice like gravel. They knew about the elixir, the forbidden scroll—Elder Wang’s spies had been watching all along.

Lin Mo said nothing, his hand curling into a fist. The Concealment Art still held, but these assassins were trained to track by killing intent, not cultivation aura. He could not hide from them. Behind him, the faction disciples on the plateau had noticed the commotion, their heads turning toward the ridge. The Li faction’s sca