385: Chapter 385 Mo Yuan's Conspiracy, Quietly Brewing

The morning light had just slipped over the ridge of the Main Peak in the Eastern Wasteland. The fires in the Artifact Refining Workshop had not yet died out, the residual heat of the projection Formation on the training grounds had not dissipated, and the children were still mimicking the Formations of mechs, their laughter never ceasing.

Yet, a thousand miles away, in an abandoned observation tower on the border of the Eastern Wasteland, the wind was cold.

Only half of the tower's top remained. The Spirit Mirror was cracked, as if struck by some hard object, with dried black stains clinging to its edges.

A figure stood before the broken mirror, fingers tapping lightly against a metal faceplate, producing a "tap, tap, tap" sound. The rhythm was slow, yet it made the air feel tight.

"Another cheap carnival," he said in a low voice, his tone sounding as if it were being squeezed out of an iron pipe. "Mortals daring to simulate the Heavenly Dao with gears?"

The image in the mirror was blurry and wavering, but one could clearly see the direction of the Head of the Chen Family's Main Peak—the high platform had been dismantled, and the crowds had dispersed, yet the lights remained bright. Patrol mechs traced regular trajectories, the sound of forging continued within the Artifact Refining Workshop, and even over at the Medicinal Field, clansmen were leveling the ground and setting up sheds. It was a scene full of vitality.

He stared at that patch of brightness, his mechanical pupils slightly contracting, and a cold laugh rolled from his throat: "Three hundred years ago, I knelt before the abyss and heard a whisper: 'Those who touch technology shall be devoured.'"

His knuckles suddenly applied force, striking the mirror frame with a "snap," causing gravel to fall in a rustle.

"Yet, not only were you not destroyed... you are thriving even more?" His voice dropped, becoming almost a whisper, "The stronger you are... the more you deserve to die."

As his words fell, he took a step back. A dark-patterned chip slid from his sleeve, and with a flick of his fingertip, the chip embedded itself into an invisible interface in the air.

With a hum, the star-communication channel opened quietly.

Three encrypted signals shot out simultaneously, projecting toward three directions—the bandit stronghold in the Northern Territory, the frontier trade alliance of the Western Star, and the ancient Cultivator branch in the Southern Border.

Each message included a forged video: Chen Wuwang stood on the high platform, his expression cold and stern, his voice resolute: "The future only recognizes cyber Cultivators; traditional practitioners are all trash."

The video ended, and a line of text appeared: "What you hate is not the Chen Family, but their qualification to rewrite the rules." "And I can turn that qualification into ashes."

The signal transmission was complete; he cut the connection, and the chip spontaneously ignited into ash.

A few breaths later, the first reply arrived.

"Who are you? Why should I trust you?" The bandit leader "Broken Tooth" transmitted back with a rough, skeptical tone, "Last time someone tried to get us to fight the Chen Family, the moment the mechs came out, three hundred brothers were blown to bits in a pit!"

He didn't rush to respond, waiting for a moment before replying with a distorted voice: "After breaking into the Artifact Refining Workshop, all the mech blueprints will be yours. You can build ten thousand of them and drive them into the main halls of every Sect."

There was silence on the other end.

The second reply came from the trade alliance deacon: "The Chen Family controls the trade hub; we can't even transport a single Spirit Stone into the Eastern Wasteland. If you truly have the means, first show us a gap in the flow of goods."

He chuckled and replied: "You set the tax rate. As long as the Chen Family falls, the trade routes of the entire Eastern Wasteland will be decided by me."

The third was from an ancient Cultivator Elder, his tone gloomy: "Cyber Cultivation is a blasphemy against the Heavenly Dao. But we are a weak and isolated branch; what can we use to resist their flood of mechs?"

"Restore the ancient system of methods," he said slowly. "Eradicate the cyber Evil Path. I will make those who rely on chips to attain the Dao kneel and tear out their own Meridians one by one."

Three letters, three kinds of greed; he struck each one of them.

He did not show his face, did not appear, and did not even leak a shred of his aura. He simply sat in the darkness, listening to the replies arriving one after another, the corners of his mouth slowly curling upward.

"I do not seek fame or fortune," he said to the final reply, his voice as low as a murmur. "I only seek to see with my own eyes—that madman called Chen Wuwang, kneeling in the ruins, watching everything he created collapse, inch by inch."

As the words fell, all communication was cut off.

He stood up and walked out of the observation tower, crushing gravel silently beneath his feet. The night wind whipped up sand and dust, rushing toward him. He waved his hand, and the space in front of him twisted, a Void Realm rift slowly opening.

He stepped into it.

Northern Territory, bandit stronghold. Broken Tooth sat on a tattered throne, clutching the newly received star-communication phantom image, watching it back and forth three times. Behind him stood seven or eight burly subordinates with fierce faces.

"Boss, is this news reliable?" a one-eyed man asked.

"It cannot be fake," Broken Tooth narrowed his eyes. "The Chen Wuwang in that image, his manner of speaking, is exactly the same as three years ago. And... the blueprints he mentioned are our only chance to turn things around."

"But the mechs are too ruthless; it's hard for us to even get close."

"That is why he promised to 'break into the Artifact Refining Workshop'," Broken Tooth sneered. "As long as someone acts from the inside, and we attack from the outside, a pincer attack, it might just work."

He stood up abruptly: "Pass the order down: assemble the elites, prepare to repair the battle armor, and set out within three days!"

Western Star, frontier trade alliance secret chamber. The deacon projected the content of the star-communication onto the wall, and his subordinates gathered in a circle.

"The tax rate is decided by him?" one person frowned. "Who does he think he is?"

"But the tax rate in the Eastern Wasteland right now is set by the Chen Family," another sneered. "We pay thirty percent of our profits every year, only to get blockades and audits in return. If we can really break the monopoly... even if he is a liar, it is worth a gamble."

"Then let's gamble," the deacon nodded. "Send a secret envoy to contact this person. I want to know his bottom line, and also—whether he has the ability to open the Eastern Wasteland checkpoints."

"Should we notify the other trade alliances?"

"Don't tell them," the deacon shook his head. "Once the news spreads, the Chen Family will immediately notice. We must move quietly; wait until the boat is in the water before making waves."

Southern Border, ancient Cultivator branch ancestral hall. The white-haired Elder finished reading the star-communication and remained silent for a long time. The young Disciples behind him, however, could no longer restrain themselves.

"Revered Master, this is an opportunity!" a young man said excitedly. "The Chen Family is running some automated assembly line, claiming 'everyone can Cultivate,' but all they give us are discarded old talisman boards! They don't treat us like people at all!"

"Shut up," the Elder barked. "Do you know what the consequences of inciting rebellion are? A single order from the Chen Family can have ten mechs trample our Sect gate flat."

"But are we just going to endure this?" another roared. "The Body Refining techniques passed down by our ancestors are now not even recognized in the entrance examination! They say we are 'inefficient'!"

The Elder closed his eyes, and after a long time, he slowly opened his mouth: "Pass on my order: summon the representatives of the seven branches; tomorrow at noon, we will secretly discuss 'purging the heresy'."

The Disciples were stunned, and then flames of excitement ignited in their eyes.

"Yes!"

Deep in the Void Realm, on a floating piece of wreckage. Twelve mechanical Puppets stood silently in a circle, like iron guards protecting a tomb.

The person in the center removed his mask, revealing half of a rotting face, with black threads faintly wriggling under the skin. He looked up toward the distance, in the direction of the Eastern Wasteland, where the lights were like stars.

"Celebrate while you can," he said softly, his voice sounding as if it were crawling out from the underground. "When the night falls, I will make the entire Eastern Wasteland be buried with your pride."

The wind rose, and his robes fluttered. He slowly raised his hand, and the twelve Puppets raised their arms in synchronization, their palms aimed at the Void Realm.

A ghostly light flashed, and space rippled like the surface of water. He stepped in, and his figure sank completely into the darkness.

On the wreckage, only wind and sand drifted through, as if no one had ever been there.

And further away, a black warship quietly changed its course, its bow engraved with a broken rune totem; in an underground market, a Chen Family mech blueprint was posted on a bounty board, with "Heavy reward for a live capture" written next to it; in the Sect main hall of a remote planet, an Elder held a command flag, ordering his Disciples to prepare for departure.

No one knew who had ignited this fire. But the spark had been sown. It only awaited the rising wind.