6. The Ethics of Looting Your Seniors

I return to the sect as the sun sets, leading my new hires up the mountain path. Old Zhao moves slowly, leaning on his grandson’s shoulder with every step, but his eyes miss nothing: scanning the path, the rock formations, the mine entrance in the distance. Sharp as a blade, that gaze. Twenty years underground taught him to read stone like others read books.

The sect members eye the newcomers with curiosity as we pass through the gates, but no one asks questions. Mortal laborers come and go. It’s not unusual.

I settle Old Zhao and his crew into the servants’ quarters; they’ll start work tomorrow, exploring those side tunnels I’m so interested in. By the time dinner is served, no one thinks twice about the new faces.

That night, I sit in my quarters and prepare.

Exploration Preparations:

Spirit Stones: 20 low-grade (can’t risk more, need reserves for the sect)

Talismans: Fire talisman (low-grade), Healing talisman (low-grade)

Weapons: Basic flying sword (low-grade, reliable, named “Autumn Leaf” by the previous sect leader)

Formation Knowledge: Reviewed three texts from the library, basic understanding of detection arrays and how to bypass them

Escape Plan: If trapped, use fire talisman to collapse tunnel, blame mine accident. If pursued, fight only as last resort. If fatally wounded… don’t get fatally wounded.

I stare at the list for a long moment. It’s not much. Twenty stones, two talismans, one sword, and a hope that eight-hundred-year-old traps have decayed along with the formation.

It’ll have to be enough.

I’ll go tomorrow night, under cover of darkness. Tell the disciples I’m meditating. I often do overnight sessions when working through cultivation bottlenecks. No one will question it. Take only what I need. Leave nothing to chance.

If there’s a tomb, I’ll find it.

If there’s danger, I’ll face it.

If there’s treasure, it will be mine.

The moon hangs fat and silver over Coiling Dragon Mountain as I slip out of my quarters. The sect sleeps. Disciples in their crowded rooms, twelve bodies sharing three small spaces. Laborers in their drafty hall, Old Zhao among them now, probably dreaming of mines long past. Ling’er in the servants’ quarters, curled in some corner, dreaming of dragons and cosmic bones she doesn’t know she carries.

I carry a small lantern shrouded with cloth, enough light to see by, not enough to be seen from any distance. Twenty spirit stones clink softly in my robe pocket with each step. The fire talisman rests against my chest, warm from body heat, ready to be activated with a thought. My flying sword hangs at my waist, a plain, reliable blade named “Autumn Leaf” for its fall-colored gleam. Nothing special, but it’s been in the sect for generations, and it’s never failed. The path to the mine is familiar now. I’ve walked it twice in two days, but tonight feels different. Tonight, I’m not inspecting or planning. Tonight, I’m acting.

The mine entrance gapes dark ahead. A deeper black against the mountain’s shadow. No one guards it at night. There’s nothing left to steal, and no one would dare steal from a cultivator’s sect anyway. Mortal thieves have some sense of self-preservation. Inside, I move quickly, counting paces from memory. Past the main tunnel where the carts run. Past the side where miners work during the day, their tools leaning silent against the walls. Deeper into the unexplored darkness, where even Huo and his crew don’t venture.

The air grows still and cold. My lantern casts strange, jumping shadows on the rough-hewn walls. The only sounds are my footsteps and my breathing, both too loud in the absolute silence. Finally, the spot. Bare rock, indistinguishable from any other section of tunnel. But my spiritual sense, sharpened by the Gaze, feels the faint hum. Ancient power, worn thin by centuries, barely holding together. I press my palm to the stone and close my eyes.

The formation reveals itself to my senses; a web of old qi, nodes scattered across a twenty-foot radius, pathways between them almost faded to nothing. A Foundation Establishment cultivator can slip through if they’re careful. If they find the nodes. If they feed them spirit stones. If they move at exactly the right rhythm, disturbing nothing, triggering nothing.

I spend an hour doing exactly that.

Five nodes. Each one hidden behind rock that my Gaze reveals is slightly less dense than the surrounding stone; a tell, a clue, a deliberate weakness left by the original architect. I chip away carefully with my blade, revealing small depressions carved into the mountain itself. Smooth, circular, exactly the size of a low-grade spirit stone.

Into each, I place a single stone from my pouch.

The first four click into place with barely a whisper of sound. The formation hums slightly louder with each one, power returning to ancient channels.

The fifth stone clicks into place.

The wall shimmers.

Stone flows like water, rippling and parting to reveal a narrow passage sloping downward into absolute darkness. The opening is just wide enough for one person, just tall enough to stand. Ancient air wafts out. Dry, cold, sterile, smelling of dust and something else. Something old. Something that’s been waiting a very long time.

I stand at the threshold, heart pounding, lantern raised.

Beyond this passage lies a thousand years of secrets. A tomb. A refuge. A treasure vault. A prison. I don’t know which. I don’t know what I’ll find. I don’t know if I’ll come back.

But Ling’er is sleeping in the servants’ quarters, and she needs what might be down there. The sect needs it. I need it.

I step through.

The passage descends for what feels like a hundred feet, carved from living rock with impossible precision. The walls are smooth as glass, reflecting my lantern light in strange patterns that dance and shift as I move. No torches, no sconces, no signs of habitation. Just the tunnel, leading down into darkness.

And then it opens.

A chamber. Circular, maybe fifty feet across, domed ceiling rising thirty feet high. The walls are covered in faded murals; dragons twisting through clouds, phoenixes spreading wings of faded gold, scenes of battle and cultivation that must have been magnificent a thousand years ago.

In the center, on a raised stone platform, lies a skeleton.

It’s human-shaped but wrong somehow. The bones are too long, too graceful, faintly luminous even after centuries of stillness. Robes that might once have been magnificent now hang in tatters, faded silk crumbling where it lies, revealing the skeleton’s hands folded across its chest. On its fingers, rings glint with dull fire: spirit stones set in precious metals, still holding power after all this time. At its waist, a jade pouch hangs from a rotted belt, clearly untouched. Beside it, an ancient sword rests on the stone, its blade dark but unrusted, waiting for a hand that will never hold it again.

I don’t move.

The Gaze activates automatically as I focus on the skeleton.

Seven active traps. Twelve degraded. Three collapsed. Around a corpse that’s been sitting here for nearly a millennium.

I take a slow breath and force myself to think, not panic. The Gaze wouldn’t show me this if there wasn’t a way through. It’s a tool, not a torment. It wants me to succeed.

Probably.

I activate the Gaze again, sweeping it across the chamber in sections.

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