After entering Green City, the very first thing Grey did was to conceal himself among the commoners. Blending in wasn't difficult—most of the city's population consisted of ordinary cultivators whose levels ranged from the Second to the Sixth stage of Qi Accumulation. To them, he was just another wanderer seeking work or shelter.

Although Grey's cultivation had already reached the Ninth Level, a realm that would send shockwaves through the city if discovered, it wasn't something anyone could easily perceive. Only cultivators who were stronger than him—or those whose cultivation was close to his—could sense the true depth of his energy. The average townsfolk, no matter how observant, would never notice.

Grey had learned long ago how to suppress his aura with precision. He gathered his energy inward, compressing the violent currents of spirit power in his meridians until it dimmed, layer by layer, from the overwhelming Ninth Level to something far more ordinary—the Fourth Level. That was the limit of how much he could restrain it without injuring himself. But it was enough.

In a place like Green City, the Fourth Level was commonplace—neither too strong to attract attention nor too weak to appear vulnerable. He could move unhindered through the crowds, unseen and unbothered. Only those who reached the Fifth or Sixth Level tended to stand out, and they were the ones who held minor authority within the city.

If anyone were to find out that his cultivation had already reached the Ninth Level—barely a step away from Foundation Establishment—panic would spread like wildfire. Even the City Lord himself was said to be in the early stages of Foundation Establishment. For someone of nearly equal strength to appear out of nowhere, in a place as barren and remote as Green City, it would raise far too many questions and bring a lot of attention. Attention that Grey didn't want to receiveQuestions Grey wasn't ready to answer.

The Whistling Fields were not a place where powerhouses lingered. The land itself rejected strength. Above the Foundation Establishment realm, the quality of spirit energy in the air became an obstacle instead of nourishment. A Spirit Core Formation expert cultivating here would gain almost nothing—the spiritual essence was simply too thin and impure. For them, progress would crawl like a dying flame, requiring centuries just to condense even five percent of their Spirit Core.

However, in regions where the spirit energy was rich—medium or high grade—a cultivator could form their core within a decade, sometimes even less. That was why no Spirit Core or Nascent Soul experts ever stayed in the Whistling Fields for long. To them, this place was a wasteland. Even the few treasures hidden beneath its dunes were nothing but scraps—objects only Foundation or Qi Accumulation cultivators would deem valuable.

As for the chance of discovering something truly extraordinary, it was possible, but the odds were abysmally low. So low that even Grey, who had once defied death itself, didn't hold much hope for it.

His true reason for coming here was something else entirely—a golden liquid said to increase one's cultivation speed and ease breakthroughs between realms. A rare and precious substance known among the locals as Golden Syrup.

The liquid was not naturally named. Over the years, cultivators who stumbled upon it gave it that title after witnessing its shimmering glow beneath torchlight—like molten sunlight trapped within stone. According to what Grey had gathered, the Golden Syrup was formed deep underground, usually after periods of heavy rain.

At first glance, that sounded absurd. The Whistling Fields were, after all, a desert. But this desert wasn't born of ordinary earth—it was a twisted land shaped by divine catastrophe.

Ever since God's Descent, the fabric of the world had shifted. Life and death had mingled. The very foundation of the Whistling Fields had mutated. Its air carried traces of corrosive essence, its soil reeked faintly of iron and ash. Both the living and the lifeless had been changed beyond recognition.

Rain, in such a place, was just as unpredictable as everything else. Sometimes, months would pass without a single drop; other times, a storm would appear overnight, raging for days before vanishing without warning. After each downpour, the dunes would reshape, and the whistling gales that gave the desert its name would return—haunting and sharp, echoing through the night like a mournful flute.

Grey remembered what he had read while still in Sky Mist City:

"In Green City, rain falls at least once every two months. Sandstorms occur twice as often. The Fields breathe in chaos and exhale change."

It was said that if one observed long enough, a pattern could be discerned—something only those with patience and intellect could uncover.

Grey had prepared for this long before his journey began. Based on the information he purchased, this very month was the beginning of a rainy cycle. That meant heavy rainfall was due soon, and when that happened, underground caverns across the region would fill with new currents of energy. That was when the Golden Syrup was born.

He planned to locate one of those caverns and harvest enough of the liquid to aid his next breakthrough. If he succeeded, he would finally reach the Tenth Level—the threshold before Foundation Establishment. With the Soul Pill that Ange had given him before he left, his chances were even greater.

Grey could already imagine the surge of power, the feeling of the world bending slightly beneath his senses. For him, Foundation Establishment wasn't just another step forward—it was the beginning of true cultivation, the start of his journey to reshape fate itself.

But first, he needed information. Reliable, local information. And there was only one place where gossip flowed as freely as wine, the bars.

He entered one such place, a dimly lit tavern nestled between two sandstone buildings at the heart of Green City. A signboard creaked above the door, worn and sun-bleached from years of desert storms. Inside, the air smelled of cheap alcohol, sweat, and dust. Laughter and curses mingled with the dull clinking of cups.

Grey stepped in quietly, dressed in plain, travel-worn robes. His face—disguised by a middle-aged illusion technique—looked weary, sallow, and unimpressive. No one gave him a second glance.

He moved toward an empty table near a group of cultivators and sat down, his movements casual yet deliberate. The men beside him were already halfway drunk, their laughter loud and unrestrained. Perfect.

After ordering a small gourd of mild wine, Grey leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes halfway as though resting. In truth, his senses were sharp and alert.

At the Ninth Level, his spiritual perception could easily envelop the entire bar without being noticed. But using it would risk exposing his real cultivation, however slightly. He couldn't afford that—not here. So instead, he chose patience.

He tilted his chair just enough to seem careless, adjusted his posture to blend in, and simply listened.

The group beside him didn't bother keeping their voices down. They were talking about recent cave collapses near the western outskirts, about rumors of glowing sands seen after the last rainfall. Their words were disjointed, slurred by alcohol, but to Grey, every fragment mattered.

He took a slow sip of wine—its taste was bitter, almost metallic. Alcohol, even weak, still carried risk for cultivators. It dulled the senses, and though his body could withstand it, he had no intention of testing his tolerance. That was why he'd chosen something light.

After all, despite his appearance, Grey was still a boy, not even close to seventeen, burdened by the experience of someone twice his age.

His expression remained calm, detached, but within, his thoughts moved like hidden lightning. Each whisper, each laugh, and every careless statement the cultivators made could be a clue leading to the underground caverns.

And once he found the entrance… the real hunt would begin.

**☺️😉**

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