Good Thing C1

Chapter 1 The Demonic Wasteland

Boom——

Dusk hung heavy, shrouded in mist. Crimson maples melted into the haze as a sudden gust stirred up a storm of dust. That dust carried a crushing force, toppling towering trees that blotted out the sky, scattering flocks of startled birds.

Meng Ping rose upon the wind, bow drawn, the Taiping Bow pulled taut as he loosed an arrow.

The arrow split the air and struck something within the dust.

A piercing shriek followed—then a colossal form crashed to the ground. From the settling dust floated out a seemingly ordinary stone.

Meng Ping descended lightly, seizing the stone in his palm. As his fingertips brushed across it, ancient and intricate sigils gleamed faintly.

“A spiritual-grade seal item—truly remarkable.”

Several disciples in the robes of the Xiaoya Peak descended from the sky, their voices bubbling over with flattery.

“Young Sect Master, your arrow pierces all creation!”

“What good fortune indeed!”

At their head stood an elder with hair as white as frost, leaning on his staff as he sighed. “With the beast tides at the Abyssal Tomb stirring restlessly, the new Demon Lord of the Demonic Wasteland is searching far and wide for seal items. With a spiritual-grade item such as this, if we present it to Lord Chen at the upcoming Penglai Conference, Xiaoya Peak may yet enjoy a century of peace.”

Meng Ping’s eyes darkened with displeasure. “The former Demon Lord is gravely wounded and in seclusion. Chen She has merely had a stroke of luck to temporarily preside over the Demonic Wasteland. Why must Xiaoya Peak abase itself to curry favor?”

The elder shook his head. “Chen She is not a man one should provoke.”

Meng Ping, annoyed, slipped the seal item into his sleeve.

If such a treasure could be used by him, he might soon break through to the Nascent Soul stage. Yet it would have to be handed away for nothing.

The ground beneath them trembled faintly, as though a monstrous force churned through the earth. Meng Ping’s brow creased as if remembering something.

“Where is Lingchan?”

At the mention of that name, one disciple snorted. “As soon as we entered the secret realm, he started clamoring about finding the zhutiao grass to rebuild his golden core.”

Another added mockingly, “With his meager Qi Refining cultivation, he’s probably already been digested in some beast’s belly.”

Meng Ping frowned and drew out a faintly glowing soul jade from his storage ring.

“He’s still alive. Go find him at once—”

Before he could finish, a thunderous roar tore through the haze in the distance.

A massive beast with blood-red eyes came bounding toward them, its claws like boulders. The very air seemed to collapse under its shadow.

Everyone froze. “A demonic beast?!”

“How can such a creature appear here?”

The monster was enormous enough that a single step could crush a row of men.

The elder shook his head at the panicked disciples, sighing helplessly.

Xiaoya Peak’s latest generation was disappointing indeed. Were it otherwise, the sect would not have to stoop so low as to seek peace with Kunfu Abyss.

Just as the elder was about to act, a streak of light came whistling through the crimson forest. Countless vine-like tendrils shot forth, binding the beast’s massive body, and flung it violently to the side.

Bang——

The impact sent up a gale that twisted the mist into a spiraling wind that brushed softly over their heads.

The disciples’ screams froze in their throats. They stared, dumbfounded.

The last rays of sunset bled through the fog, falling upon the subdued monster. And upon the half-zhang-long horn of the beast stood a single figure.

Dark ink-like aura coiled around him; the vines that bound the beast all gathered back into his palm.

He wore a fitted red robe embroidered with gold maple leaves, a golden tassel belt hung with ornaments, his long black hair tied high in a ponytail, the tips faintly curled and tinted with red—melding seamlessly with the scarlet maples.

Red robes and golden embroidery, the immortal artifact Xuanxiang Taishou glimmering faintly—

There was only one such person in the entire Celestial Alliance, once the pride of the Three Realms—

“U… Wu Lingchan?!”

Bathed in the warm glow of dusk, Wu Lingchan’s black hair cascaded like ink to his ankles, the light turning it into a soft orange hue. The golden trinkets at his waist chimed with each movement, yet he did not seem burdened.

He leapt lightly down from the beast’s horn, graceful as a drifting maple leaf, landing before them with a bright, easy smile.

“Oh my, the secret realm’s exit is about to close. What are you all still doing here?”

The disciples exchanged shocked glances, speechless.

Wasn’t Wu Lingchan’s golden core shattered, his cultivation irreparably crippled?

Only Meng Ping’s expression remained calm. His gaze flicked to the artifact clasped at Wu Lingchan’s wrist.

“Lingchan!” A young disciple burst out from the crowd, rushing up to him and checking him over anxiously. “You went to find zhutiao grass, didn’t you? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” Wu Lingchan pulled several spirit flowers from his sleeve, each petal glimmering like golden cicadas. His smile curved like a crescent moon. “The roots in the Fallen Lands were thick with spiritual energy. I dug up a few clusters—enough to rebuild my golden core and restore my cultivation.”

The disciples gaped. Zhutiao grass was an exceedingly rare treasure. How could it grow in abundance?

Even if it did, there should have been spirit beasts of at least spiritual rank guarding it. How could he have obtained it so easily?

Meng Ping’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Junior Brother U truly is Heaven’s favored child—fortune smiles upon you.”

Wu Lingchan blinked innocently. “What’s so hard about it? The path was clear, I just picked them. You all have trouble finding spirit herbs? Next time I’ll come help!”

Meng Ping: “……”

Everyone else: “……”

There’s no reasoning with Heaven’s chosen.

A year ago, Wu Lingchan was the envy of all.

The Celestial Alliance had never lacked for prodigies—each decade saw new names rise upon the Heavenly Rankings: sword geniuses, innate spiritual roots, peerless alchemists.

Yet compared to Wu Lingchan, they were all mundane.

Disciple of the Xiaoya Peak’s sect master, his talent even surpassed Meng Ping, the sect master’s own son. At only fourteen, he was the youngest Golden Core cultivator in the Three Realms, crowned first upon the Heavenly Rankings.

His life-bound weapon, Xuanxiang Taishou, ranked first among all armaments—envied by all.

But glory is fleeting.

On his fifteenth birthday, his golden core shattered without cause, his cultivation plummeted overnight—from the clouds to the dust. Within a year, he had fallen to the Qi Refining stage.

Even so, Xuanxiang Taishou, an immortal-grade weapon, still guarded him.

Meng Ping said curtly, “We’ll discuss the rest back at the sect.”

Wu Lingchan nodded cheerfully. “Okay!”

The secret realm trembled violently—walking was impossible, only flight.

But with merely Qi Refining first stage cultivation, Wu Lingchan couldn’t fly. Xuanxiang Taishou transformed into a band of ink wrapping his waist, flapping like wings to carry him through the air.

The moment the seal item was removed, the secret realm began collapsing.

Countless demonic beasts once sealed within broke free, roaring with fury. Those too slow to flee were torn apart before they could react, swallowed whole within moments.

The screams below were harrowing.

Flight was restricted within the realm; Meng Ping could not escape the sight of a fellow disciple in Xiaoya robes ripped open, intestines spilling, blood everywhere.

Even the proud Meng Ping went pale.

But then—Wu Lingchan was… eating?

Still boyish in face, he rested his chin in one palm, lazily watching the crumbling land below as he nibbled pieces of candied plum, eyes flicking over the carnage without a trace of fear, only mild interest.

Meng Ping: “……”

Wu Lingchan had always been like this.

A bewitching face paired with mannerisms completely unbecoming of a righteous cultivator.

Were it not for his unmatched talent, Xiaoya Peak would have expelled him long ago.

Talent.

Meng Ping’s gaze drifted toward the zhutiao grass peeking from Wu Lingchan’s sleeve, envy flickering in his eyes.

If the grass truly could restore his core, return him to his peak…

Just then, the ink band around Wu Lingchan’s waist tightened, yanking him back sharply. His candied plums tumbled through the air.

A voice echoed within his mind.

“Stop eating. Look.”

Startled, Wu Lingchan turned his gaze forward—

From the horizon surged a black line that shattered the sunset’s glow.

It wasn’t a line. It was an army—tens of thousands of demonic beasts, their murderous aura soaring to the heavens as they thundered toward the exit.

Meng Ping’s eyes widened. He immediately flew toward the nearby teleportation dais.

“Activating the array will take time—Lingchan, have Xuanxiang hold them for ten breaths!”

He and the others landed within the teleportation formation. Dozens of talismans burst into flame, the array beginning to awaken slowly.

The elder struck his staff to the ground, summoning a golden dome-shaped barrier to protect them.

Wu Lingchan nodded obediently. “All right.”

The inky wings at his back fluttered lightly. The youth in scarlet hovered midair, lazily plucking a golden hairpin from his hair, twirling it between his fingers until—

With a clear chime, it turned into a brush.

Wu Lingchan lifted it with a flick. “Mo Bao.”

The weapon’s spirit emerged—a man-shaped figure of living ink, his fingers like brush tips. He inclined his head coldly. “Xuanxiang.”

Boom, boom——

Wherever his brush passed, ink-born mountains surged from the ground, thick mist obscuring the skies, blocking the horde of beasts head-on.

The spirit lowered his arm, glaring when he saw Wu Lingchan still pretending to draw strokes without spiritual power. He grabbed the boy by the nape like a cat, his voice sharp as frost.

“Call me that again, and I’ll kill you.”

“What are you mad about?” Wu Lingchan’s tone drew out in a lazy singsong. “We got the zhutiao grass, didn’t we? Once my core’s rebuilt, you’ll be back at the top of the Armament Rankings! At the Penglai Conference three months from now, we’ll crush all those bastards who kicked us when we were down. Wouldn’t that be great?”

The spirit didn’t buy it. His cold smile was like the edge of a blade. “Do you ever say anything that isn’t nonsense? You’ve rebuilt your core seven times this year, and every attempt has failed. One more word and I’ll—”

Before he could finish, his dual-colored eyes, swirling like yin and yang, froze mid-turn. His face changed. He snatched Wu Lingchan up and shot toward the teleportation platform.

At the same moment, a column of light surged upward from the formation, inscribed with countless sigils.

The teleportation array—had activated.

Wu Lingchan dangled like a flag in the wind, wind filling his mouth as he yelled, “Once it starts, the barrier won’t fade for a quarter hour! We’ve got plenty of time!”

“A quarter hour?” the spirit said flatly. “That fine senior brother of yours doesn’t plan on taking you with him.”

Wu Lingchan blinked, then saw the truth—the array’s sigils were fading away.

They were leaving without him.

His eyes narrowed. In a flash, he recalled his weapon spirit into the ink at his wrist. His slender figure shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.

Draining the last dregs of his weapon’s power, he moved with blinding speed. In an instant, he reached the edge, his fingertips stretching toward the glowing runes—

But before he could touch them, a powerful arrow came screaming through the air.

“Lingchan!” roared the spirit.

Before Wu Lingchan could react, the spirit reformed before him, intercepting the arrow just in time.

The blow was devastating—it shattered the spirit into pieces. The arrow grazed Wu Lingchan’s neck as it detonated.

Blood spurted from his throat, the wound burning like fire.

“Mo…”

A second arrow followed immediately—each shot from the Taiping Bow carrying the force of a Deity Transformation cultivator.

At the last instant, Wu Lingchan twisted aside, avoiding his heart.

Even so, the arrow pierced through his shoulder, the impact slamming him dozens of feet backward—until he was nailed against a crimson maple tree.

Bang——

Blackness and light flickered before his eyes. Blood streamed from the corner of his lips.

He stared dazedly toward the teleportation dais in the distance.

Silence fell. Every gaze turned, horrified, toward Meng Ping.

One of Wu Lingchan’s close friends screamed, struggling madly to rush forward. “Lingchan—! Meng Ping, what are you doing?!”

Others seized him, forcing him back as the formation neared activation.

Even the elder was stunned, his voice low. “Young Sect Master, the Sect Master instructed us—Wu Lingchan still has great purpose—”

Three arrows from the Taiping Bow—a weapon of divine rank—shattered as they left his hand.

Meng Ping let the dust of the bow fall from his fingers, face blank, mind consumed by a single thought:

Wu Lingchan must die.

For ten years, since the boy’s arrival at Xiaoya Peak, the world had known only the name Wu Lingchan—the Heaven-blessed prodigy.

And Meng Ping, the Sect Master’s son, had been little more than his shadow.

Now that Wu Lingchan had finally fallen, he could not bear to see him rise again. He would not live his life beneath that boy’s feet.

This place bordered the Demonic Wasteland, teeming with beasts. Once the exit sealed, there would be no escape.

Wu Lingchan was doomed.

Blood pooled beneath the crimson maple. Gravely wounded, his weapon spirit gone, his consciousness wavered.

Mo Bao… let’s go home…

Boom——

The teleportation array flared to life. Meng Ping’s figure vanished in the light, along with the echo of his friend’s agonized cries.

The realm continued to collapse. The beasts, drawn by blood, surged forward.

As the last gleam of the array faded, Wu Lingchan’s hand slipped limply down.

Just before darkness claimed him, he thought he saw a beast with amethyst eyes descend before him, lowering its head toward his throat.

The wound where the arrow had grazed still bled. The beast’s tongue swept across it, revealing a faint, fiery gold mark upon his soul—a single character: “乌.”(ma)

At that mark’s emergence, the air erupted.

Every monstrous beast froze, trembling, then bowed low to the earth as if crushed beneath an ancient pressure, claws sinking three inches deep. The world trembled as they prostrated toward the crimson maple.

Only the purple-eyed beast lingered, sniffed for a while, then carefully gripped Wu Lingchan by the collar in its jaws.

Maple leaves fell like fire.

Wu Lingchan sank into darkness.

Jingle.

A bell chimed faintly in his ear.

Above him, a small golden bell swayed from a crimson maple branch.

Wu Lingchan blinked in confusion.

A hand reached out from the side, pale and smooth as jade. A fingertip brushed the bell, setting the maple-leaf pendant dancing as the clear, melodious sound filled his ears.

Someone stood against the light, gazing at him with gentle warmth.

Instinctively, Wu Lingchan reached out, but his small fingers touched only the embroidered sleeve marked with faint sigils.

His vision swayed—the golden bell above the cradle was all he could see.

Jingle.

His mind drifted in and out of haze. Only the searing heat at his throat kept him faintly aware.

Voices murmured near his ear, distant, indistinct, like chanting.

“…the mark of the U clan… the Demonic Wasteland is saved!”

“Truly… the young lord has returned! With the young lord’s return, he will reclaim all that Chen She stole…”

Wu Lingchan’s thoughts began to gather slowly from the fog.

Where was he?

He hadn’t died in the beast’s jaws?

Before he could think further, a grotesque face loomed above him. Its owner, upon seeing him awake, grinned wide—rows of sharp fangs gleaming.

Wu Lingchan: “……”

What manner of demon is this?!

The man’s eyes gleamed red, his body seething with demonic energy.

Seeing Wu Lingchan awake, he nearly leapt with joy and barked at the kneeling figures beside him—

“Go! Inform the Third Elder at once—the Young Lord has awakened!”