210. First Sect Mission

When Alistair returned to the outside world after taking on Ashendar, he realized something was off. It wasn’t obvious right away, though as he looked at the Soulnet and messages from both Evangeline, Pristine, Fuhao, Thalen, and Severus, he figured things out.

He had been walking in the Ancestral Grounds for two straight days.

That left him with two days to the first combat lesson with Elder Aylesfort, four days left until his next remedial lesson with Elder Fanghorn, and five days until his duel with Xiao Zhenyu.

And he had missed two days of sparring with Red.

The two missions he had selected were in danger of expiring. Alistair jumped in the water, torpedoing through the water. It wasn’t as if they were going to be taken from him in the next minute, he just wanted to get things done as fast as possible.

Merit points were everything at the Clear Water Sect, and his ranking had slipped to #9,543 just from merely two days of inactivity.

The sparring situation sorted itself out for him, as when he was halfway to the Contribution Hall, he realized there was another presence.

In one seamless motion, Alistair broke the surface, head tilting back as his hair whipped through the air. Water fanned out in glistening sheets, scattering like sparks in the sunlight.

“Red?” he asked. His aura was unfathomably absent, as always—he had only detected his roommate via the sounds of water splashing.

For a few seconds, Alistair caught a glimpse of Red’s swimming. [Adaptive Kinesthesia] in tow, he realized how many small errors he was making.

“Alistair,” Red said. “You’ve missed two days of sparring.”

“I’m sorry,” Alistair said. “I wasn’t taking it lightly at all, I was in the Ancestral Grounds for two days without even realizing. Let’s exchange Soulnet info so we can tell each other if we’re going to be busy.”

After they touched bracelets, Red offered the sparring then and there. “We’re far enough away from everyone here. Let’s practice now. I’ll make sure we don’t sink from the water.”

Alistair looked at his two missions. One hour wouldn’t make a difference. “Let’s do it.”

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Alistair ended the sparring period with severe bruising over his entire body.

His opponent was unscathed.

At many times during their exchanges, he wanted to randomly add Spiritual Fighter’s Echo to catch his roommate off guard. It would have been hilarious.

He didn’t, partially because he somehow believed that Red would have dodged or parried it anyway, only making him look stupid.

Yet with each practice, Alistair could feel himself growing stronger. It wasn’t enough to cause a new deepening of his Dao of the Fist, but it almost felt deeper than that, if that made any sense.

Thankfully, Red didn’t impart his Dao within his strikes. Dragon’s Blood Mastery knitted his wounds together just fine. His control over the characteristic of his bloodline was far superior after his practice on Nuevo Invierno. His Mana pool was enormous at 9,263, so drawing a tiny amount to heal himself was nothing.

“What were you in such a hurry to?” Red questioned after they had finished their training and rested on the nearest stillwater bridge.

“I have a mission I have to do,” Alistair said, omitting Dev'rox’s role in the affair. “Merit points are everything.”

“Huh,” Red said. “I think I’ll join you.”

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Alistair explained to Red on the way that it didn’t work like that. You didn’t get more points for splitting the mission between multiple people. The owner of the mission always got the points for the completion, as judged by the Contribution Hall.

There were three Elders of the Contribution Hall, which was tied for the most of any individual division of the Clear Water Sect—that was its level of importance.

While Elder Aylesfort was especially known for his fairness and good judgment, his subordinate elders, Elder Zhen and Obsidian, were not far behind. Trying to steal missions or utilizing other underhanded measures was solved with extreme prejudice.

Alistair had his two missions. The first was a beast pack subjugation for a town on the very outskirts of the continent, a million miles away.

The second was a collection of infused bluegrass at a reef near the sect. Alistair would handle the first, worth 250 merit points with a danger rating of Middle Adept, while Dev'rox would do the second, worth 120 merit points with a danger rating of Foundation.

“Hey!” a voice called out. “Fancy seeing you here.”

As they walked into the Contribution Hall, their former tour guide strode in with them, waving.

“Good to see you, Norman,” Alistair said. “I’m about to go on my first mission right now.”

“I remember my own so well,” Norman said, tapping on his solid gold hair. “Almost lost a chunk of my beautiful locks from an overgrown shark. I’d bitten off a little more than I could chew at the time.”

While they walked in, a gorgeous pink-haired lady shoulder-checked Norman ever so slightly, walking up to the mission hub as if nothing had happened.

The newcomer had the gold trim of an inner disciple, and just by her walk, Alistair knew she was a big shot. Her stride was confident and elegant, reflecting growth and decay.

“The great-great-granddaughter of Prince Hoen Tiarvon, Nyssara,” Norman whispered in Alistair’s ear. “If you’ve seen the Letter of Fostering with Noble Clan, there is rampant speculation that the mysterious clan is the Tiarvon because she became an honorary inner disciple just a few days ago.”

Oh, no.

Alistair didn’t know if he and the red-haired prodigy could be called friends yet. His heart told him that Red wasn’t a bad guy; he was just a little weird. Maybe more than a little.

So when Red calmly surpassed a lineal descendant of one of the most powerful clans in the Empire, missing a collision with her shoulder by less than a quarter of an inch, Alistair cringed for his new friend.

There was a profound moment of silence. Not even Norman Goldhair, #8 inner disciple and a Middle Profound, made a move.

Red, for his part, acted with not a care in the world, rummaging through the motes of light.

Nyssara stared at the newcomer. She raised an arm, and Alistair knew if she tried to kill his roommate, there wasn’t a single thing he could do to stop her.

Thankfully, the raised arm was just to scratch her head, and she went to the other side of the spiraling column of water to look for other missions.

“May the Emperor have mercy on us all,” Norman said. “Your friend is lucky.”

The inner disciple went to go search for a mission of his own, with Red giving Alistair a thumbs up as the two went through the tubes to the Teleportation Circles above.

“As I suspected,” Red said through his collar. Somehow, he had gotten his sect robes adjusted so a silver collar covered up his mouth. “Your mission has a twin.”

Red pointed out that there was another combat mission at the same location. With a danger rating of Late Adept, this mission was worth 1,000 merit points. The task: take out the Beast Ruler who was causing the frenzy amongst the sea snakes.

“Look at the danger rating,” Alistair said. “I know you’re pretty strong for your level, but you know what that means, right?”

“It means that a Late Adept would be able to complete the mission without serious injury, implying that a Middle Adept would be able to complete it with great difficulty, or something of that nature. That was why you chose a Middle Adept mission yourself, is it not? All a Middle Adept means is that they’ve condensed their Mana to liquid form and formed a First Law. That is all.”

That is all? The condensation means a Middle Adept should have around four times the aura of an Early Adept, and a First Law is nothing to scoff at. It might even be bigger than the aura.

Alistair remembered the non-combat Middle Adept food-server who had a weaker aura than him. Likely he had some kind of Chef Class. Even with Alistair’s ridiculous stats, it would be rare for a Middle Adept with a combat Class to have less aura than him. He could maybe beat a level 130-140 in a fight through hacks or possibly a deeper understanding of the Dao, but not in aura.

A Late Adept? It was out of the question at his level.

“It’s your life,” Alistair said. “I’ll trust you know your limits.”

A glimmer formed in Red’s gray eyes. “So you trust me?”

“Uh. Not really.”

“But you just said so?” Red adjusted his collar. “I have an idea. You accept the Lord of the Sea Snakes Elimination mission, and then we’ll do it together, but you’ll get all the merit points.”

Alistair looked at the man with an utterly blank face. “What?”

“It’s as I said. You cannot possibly refuse; it’s a perfect arrangement for you.”

“I understand that. What I don’t understand is why you’d do this. You know how important merit points are? You have a five-year grace period, yeah, but don’t you want to move up in the sect? I’m aiming for inner disciple in a year.”

“Inner disciple in a year, eh?” Red raised an eyebrow, though it looked unnatural on him, like he had learned to do it from observing others. “That’s a great idea. But Alistair, you don’t have to worry about me. Merit points or not, everything will be okay. I don’t need any trinkets or classes for now. I’d rather have fun slaying beasts, and if you need points, then why should I not give them to you? We’re friends, after all.”

“Hmph,” Alistair said, then he raised his arm for a handshake to his new friend. “You’re right. I guess that’s just what friends do?”

Red smiled, and this time, it made even his dull eyes gleam for a moment.

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Dev'rox took the Teleportation Circle to his destination, and Alistair and Red to theirs. He was hesitant to take the mission, but Red’s reasoning was compelling.

Alistair could punch up to Middle Adepts to some degree. Not one with a bunch of inborn advantages or a very high pedigree lineage, but you got the point.

If a Middle Adept could complete a Late Adept danger rating mission while potentially suffering serious injuries, then Red, who was stronger than him, should be able to as well, since his true strength was already in that Middle Adept range, by Alistair’s speculation.

That was the theory. It was time to test it out.

They arrived at the town on the outskirts of Selvitari. In fact, it was so close to the edge that they could make out a drop-off on the horizon where the planetary-sized continent ended, perhaps twenty miles out.

If only a flat Earther could see this, Alistair chuckled to himself. He waited for a sly comment from Dev'rox. Oh, yeah.

Communication with Ashendar proved fruitless.

Wailing Siren was a medium-sized town of 40 thousand citizens. They were a fishing village, located in one of the few places where there were actual rocky islands in the world, near the edges. Because of the recent sea serpent infestation, their livelihood was being decimated.

The mayor had petitioned his local lord for support over a year ago. That lord then petitioned his lord, and that lord his lady, until it somehow ended up at the Clear Water Sect as a task for outer disciples.

The economic devastation to Wailing Siren was obvious. The docks were mostly empty, boats moored and battered, salt-eaten ropes coiled like discarded snakes. Nets hung limp from posts, torn and unpatched. The market stalls were sparse—few fish, fewer customers. Even the air carried a strange hush, as if the town itself was holding its breath.

Alistair and Red walked side by side, the former scanning the surroundings with quiet focus while Red looked... mildly amused. His silver collar reflected stray beams of light, and his posture—hands in pockets, eyes listlessly moving only when they had to—was more that of a bored tourist than a warrior on a mission.

Also, hands in pockets? Red’s modifications to the standard outer disciple robes went too far.

“This place is running on fumes,” Alistair said under his breath.

Red shrugged in acknowledgment.

They spent a short while walking the perimeter of the docks and then the inner roads. Alistair spoke to a few guards posted outside the makeshift militia barracks. Most of them were older, past their prime, and visibly relieved that their plea had finally been responded to.

The villagers were only at the peak of Middle Foundation, level 59, a scant few in the 60s. For a Heavenly quality continent, that was low, as most average citizens would hit Peak Foundation at some point in their adult lives. This was the area of Selvitari of the lowest ambient Mana, however.

It sucked. Alistair had already gotten used to the environment of the sect, and now it was like he was breathing deoxygenated air.

He discovered this information because he used [Dharmic Gaze] to inspect them with impunity, since his Intelligence was far beyond the three times multiplier to give no hint of a scan.

A gaggle of children, teenagers, and even some adults had gathered to watch their procession through the town. With his 360-degree [Reality Sense], he saw many a lady look at Red in a certain manner, but some watched him like that, too.

Not bad, eh? Alistair asked Dev'rox, forgetting his absence once more.

Finally, the dam broke, and the first kid escaped his mother’s arms and ran up to them.

“Are you a real cultivator from the Clear Water Sect?” the boy, no more than eight years old, asked. He had shaggy hair, sun-browned skin, and a runny nose, and gazed up at him with wide, hopeful eyes.

Alistair smiled. “Yes, we are.”

Before the boy could say more, a woman—probably his mother—rushed up, grabbing him by the arm. “I’m so sorry, lord cultivator, he doesn’t know his place—”

“It’s fine,” Alistair said, crouching down to get eye-level with the kid. “Really. What’s your name?”

“Willo!” the boy chirped. “I wanna be strong like you! I can punch really hard already, watch—”

He punched the air with all the force of a kitten. Alistair laughed, genuinely.

“Nice form. You keep practicing like that, and one day, maybe you’ll be stronger than me.”

Willo’s eyes sparkled. “Really?”

“Really.”

Behind him, Red tilted his head and whispered, “Entertaining the dreams of fools.”

“Lighten up,” Alistair muttered.

Willo’s mother bowed quickly and hurried the boy away, but not before he turned and waved enthusiastically. “Good luck with the snakes!”

Alistair waved back, his expression soft.

Then it hardened. “Alright. Time to work.”

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There wasn’t any need for them to see any authorities of the town. They were the authorities. Not by their legal rank, but by their power. Alistair could have razed a town like Wailing Siren a hundred times over without breaking a sweat.

“They say the snakes strike at dusk,” Alistair said, as they jogged to a cave at the bottom of a cliff a few dozen miles away where the sea snakes were last spotted. They would have appeared as a blur to the villagers. “Disappear before dawn. No survivors. They’ve killed near two hundred people in this town in the last year alone, and it’s believed they’ve branched out to other towns.”

“The Beast Ruler likely has some semblance of intelligence,” Red said. “A mindless creature would have caused a beast tide by now. I bet it wants human soulcores.”

“What makes you say that?” Alistair asked. “The soulcore part.”

“Simple deduction,” Red answered. “Beasts on a world like this are for the most part wild animals. Humans are tough prey. They would eat other animals if they wanted sustenance. In the same way we use Beast Cores for our cultivation, a beast may use a human soulcore for their own.”

It was a grisly thought, though perhaps Alistair was being too biased toward humans. How many trillions of beasts throughout the multiverse were slaughtered every second to improve a young master’s cultivation?

The original mission was straightforward: eliminate five known branch dens of the sea snakes. A separate sect mission had accurately tracked down the location of all five over the past week—near coral formations, half-sunken caves, and other hard-to-reach spots along the jagged coastline.

The first den was in an unnamed cave under a cliff—at the end of a narrow inlet surrounded by treacherous rock.

“How do you want to go about this?” Alistair asked as they stood outside the dark entrance. The presence of a thick venom within the cave prevented his [Reality Sense] from penetrating too deep.

Red said nothing, keeping his hands within his pockets. He kicked at the sand lazily, though even that nonchalant strike was enough to send sand flying hundreds of feet into the air.

Alistair watched in confusion, applying [Dharmic Gaze] to [Reality Vision].

Red kicked once more, and he whistled softly through his silver collar, low and tuneless.

Then the ground began to tremble.

Alistair took on a fighting stance. Something was coming. He could feel it in the air. A pulsing, primal rhythm. The cave itself seemed to be breathing.

A wet hiss rolled out from the shadows.

The water in the inlet began to churn.

“Red,” Alistair said slowly, “what did you just do?”

“I knocked.”

The silence that followed lasted half a second. Then the ocean exploded.

Tens of thousands of serpentine bodies burst from both the cave and water, their shrieks shredding the air. The tide was alive—scaled and coiling, furious and endless, venom dripping from bared fangs.

Each serpent was over fifty feet long, with glistening indigo and blue scales patterned like cracked porcelain, their forms rippling with animalistic power.

They were all Beast Rulers.

As beasts, they had two stages for their equivalent of the Adept realm—none of sea snakes had reached their second evolution, where their lineage was bathed in the Dao, but their lethality was undeniable.

And they were coming straight for them.