Cultivation starts with picking up attributes-Chapter 58: Ch-: Hiding

The city of Lianmu was the outermost gate of the Central Region—a place where countless travelers, merchants, and cultivators passed through daily.

With tall stone walls, heavily-guarded checkpoints, and a skyline of intricate temples and bustling markets, it was a melting pot of ambition, secrecy, and danger.

Tian Shen and Feng Yin stood at the crest of a hill overlooking the southern entrance. The chaos of the previous battle still echoed in their bones, but they could waste no time.

"We’ll have to enter separately."

Feng Yin said, adjusting the hood of her cloak.

"They’ll be searching for signs of us—together, we’re too recognizable."

Tian Shen nodded, his gaze sweeping across the caravan lines forming outside the gates.

"You go first. I’ll follow half a bell later."

With a final glance, Feng Yin slipped into the crowd, disappearing like mist into the waves of travelers.

Tian Shen watched her go, then turned and made his way down a different slope.

Half an hour later, Tian Shen entered Lianmu wearing a simple set of traveler’s robes, his once-brilliant sword sealed within a spatial pouch.

His face was smeared with dust, his hair tied in a low knot.

He looked like any other wandering cultivator down on his luck.

The guards barely glanced at him.

Once inside, the city overwhelmed him. Shouts of hawkers selling spirit elixirs, medicinal herbs, and beast cores filled the streets.

Lanterns swayed from bamboo poles, casting colored shadows on cobbled roads.

Every alley buzzed with movement, and the scent of grilled meat mixed with incense and roasted spirit rice.

He didn’t stop to marvel.

Instead, he made his way to the eastern district—a quieter part of Lianmu, where the buildings were older and less grand, and where information was harder to trace.

There, in a tucked-away neighborhood near an abandoned lotus pond, he found Feng Yin waiting at a modest teahouse.

She smiled when he entered, setting down a steaming cup.

"You’re late."

"Had to make sure no one followed."

Tian Shen muttered, pulling his hood down and taking a seat. He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.

"Any luck with a place to stay?"

Feng Yin nodded.

"There’s an old herbalist who rents out the top floor of her shop. It’s cheap and doesn’t ask questions. I’ve already paid for a month."

"Good."

He took a sip from her cup.

"We will lie low until the trail goes cold."

Their new home was humble—a creaky wooden room above a shop that smelled of ginseng and dried petals.

The windows overlooked a forgotten garden where weeds tangled around broken stone lanterns.

A small stove crackled in one corner, and faded paper talismans fluttered on the walls.

It was perfect.

For the next few days, they slipped into a quiet rhythm.

Feng Yin disguised herself as the herbalist’s assistant, helping grind powders and brew teas.

Her hands, once fierce in battle, now measured roots with care and dispensed cures to coughing elders.

Tian Shen worked at the local forge—to repair farming tools and occasionally sharpen spirit weapons for wandering adventurers.

He became known as Shen, the silent apprentice with a strong back and tired eyes.

They did not spoke of their fight with Zhao Lan.

Evenings were spent quietly, sharing simple meals by lamplight.

Feng Yin would read cultivation texts scavenged from the teahouse’s lending shelf, while Tian Shen sharpened his blade in silence.

Sometimes, they trained in the abandoned garden behind the shop, always with their senses alert, always ready to flee.

And yet, beneath the calm, something strange began to bloom.

There were no more blood-soaked battles, no explosions of Qi or screams in the air. Just... silence. Warmth. The clink of tea cups and the rustle of books. A life they’d never known.

One night, Tian Shen found Feng Yin sitting alone by the pond, her reflection wavering in the water.

"You miss it?"

He asked softly.

"The fighting?"

She shook her head.

"No. But I worry we’re only pretending this peace is real."

He sat beside her, the moonlight brushing his face.

"It’s a mask. But sometimes, wearing the mask teaches you what your real face looks like."

She turned, watching him with searching eyes.

And for a moment, the world stilled.

...

A week passed.

Word reached them in murmurs and fragments—Zhao Lan’s death had thrown the Evil Serpent Sect into chaos.

Rumors abounded that he’d died fighting a rogue cultivator, that he’d unleashed a forbidden technique and perished, that a hidden faction was purging the sect from within.

More importantly, there were no names mentioned. No bounties issued.

They had covered their tracks well.

Still, Tian Shen remained cautious.

One morning, while walking through a narrow alley near the bazaar, he noticed someone following him.

The figure was small, cloaked in patchwork robes, and limping slightly.

Tian Shen ducked into a side street, vanishing behind a cart of spirit melons.

When the figure turned the corner, he moved fast—grabbing them by the wrist and slamming them against the wall.

"Who sent you?"

He demanded.

The hood fell back to reveal a young boy, no older than twelve, with dirt-smudged cheeks and wide, terrified eyes.

"I-I wasn’t... I was just..."

The boy stammered, flinching.

Tian Shen’s grip loosened.

"What are you doing following me?"

"I saw you at the forge," the boy muttered. "I thought you might be strong enough to help."

"Help with what?"

The boy hesitated.

"My sister. She... she angered a cultivator. He took her. He said she will pay off our family debt."

Tian Shen cursed under his breath.

"Who?"

"A merchant named Wen Li. He runs the Red Lantern Gambling Hall near the docks."

Tian Shen clenched his fists.

He had promised himself he wouldn’t draw attention—not yet.

But some things couldn’t be ignored.

That night, he and Feng Yin stood on the roof across from the Red Lantern.

"You sure about this?"

She asked.

"It’s just one man. No sect ties. I’ll be in and out."

Feng Yin smirked.

"You always say that."

With silent steps, Tian Shen infiltrated the compound. The guards were sloppy, their senses dulled by drink and coin.

He moved like a shadow, disabling them with swift strikes. Inside, the building reeked of incense and stale wine.

He found the girl locked in a cellar—barely conscious, but alive.

Wen Li, unfortunately, chose that moment to enter.

"What the hell—!"

Tian Shen didn’t speak.

One punch shattered the merchant’s jaw. A second caved in his ribs.

By dawn, the girl was back with her brother.

They never asked Tian Shen’s name.

Two days later, an old beggar arrived at the herbalist’s shop.

He left a note folded inside a lotus petal.

"The flames have not forgotten. We are watching. Stay hidden."

Feng Yin read it thrice, then burned it in silence.

"They’re sniffing around," she said. "But they don’t know where we are. Not yet."

Tian Shen stood by the window, watching the mist roll over the city.

"Then we stay quiet a little longer."

"But not forever."

"No," he agreed. "Not forever."

The next morning, the sky was gray with hanging mist. Rain had begun to fall in a quiet drizzle, softening the streets and washing the grime from the city walls.

Tian Shen sat beneath the eaves of the herbalist’s rooftop, legs crossed, eyes closed in meditation.

His senses were sharp, Qi circulating in slow waves through his meridians. But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Ever since receiving the lotus-petal warning, the unease had returned. As though eyes were watching from shadows just out of reach.

Feng Yin approached, carrying a tray with two bowls of sweet lotus porridge.

"You haven’t eaten, eat this."

She said simply.

Tian Shen opened his eyes.

"Can’t eat if I can’t relax."

"You’ll starve before your enemies ever find you, at this rate."

She sat beside him, placing the tray between them.

He gave a small smile, taking the bowl.

"You’re getting better at this."

"At what?"

"Being normal."

She raised a brow.

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"A compliment. Normal suits you."

She paused, then smiled faintly.

"It doesn’t feel real, sometimes. Like it’s all just... borrowed time."

He nodded slowly.

"That’s what makes it precious."

For a while, they ate in silence, the sound of rain masking the distant city noise. Then Feng Yin spoke again.

"I heard something strange at the market today. A pair of cultivators from the Northern Sky Sect were asking around, they are looking for a young male cultivator."

Tian Shen froze, spoon halfway to his lips.

"Me?"

"I told you your stunt with Zhao Lan wouldn’t go unnoticed."

"I had no choice."

"I know. But the longer we stay here, the more chance we’ll be exposed."

He set his bowl down and stood.

"Then we prepare to move."

The next day, they made arrangements. Quiet ones.

Feng Yin sold off half the herbs she’d harvested to a passing caravan headed north.

Tian Shen exchanged a forged hunting token for passage papers with a back-alley scribe.

Slowly, they unwound their presence from Lianmu, untangling themselves from the roots they’d just begun to grow.

But before they could leave, fate intervened.

That night, just before the herbalist closed her shop, a visitor came calling.

He was old, hunched with age, but the moment he stepped through the threshold, both Tian Shen and Feng Yin felt it—the oppressive weight of suppressed power, coiled like a serpent.