A Waste of Time-Chapter 129: Veined Ripples

Ten-Thousand Beasts Mountain. Outer Circle.
At the entrance of the squat administrative hall—where slaves, applicants, and Outer Disciples alike came under his hand—Elder Zhou Liang stood. His murky eyes, old yet still sharp, were fixed on the boy's direction and his Spirit Sense was locked on the kid.
But before he could call out to inquire what happened after Daemon was taken by Ah Niu to the kitchens, a ripple of pressure shifted the air. Two figures approached, and Zhou Liang’s breath caught.
An old woman in blue robes, her presence unmistakable: Mo Qiuya, Grand Elder of the Mountain. Once, in the days when Zhou Liang himself had been inducted as nothing more than a mortal slave, her beauty had been the envy of the Sect. Time had not dimmed her. Even now, her aura eclipsed those around her.
At her side walked a man of stern bearing, silver robes looking sharp like his gaze, expression severe. His very presence carried the weight of rules etched in stone. Shen Duan, the Disciplinary Chief. Zhou Liang’s shoulders stiffened at the sight. Even a whisper of that name felt dangerous, as though speaking it too casually might draw the Chief’s gaze. And though he knew his conduct was well within Sect regulations, a cold line of sweat traced his back.
He bowed low, voice reverent, steady despite his nerves.
“Greetings, Grand Elder Mo. Greetings, Chief Shen.”
“Little Liang. There’s no need to alert anyone about the boy’s breakthrough. I’m here with Big Brother Duan to make sure this kid remembers his place as a slave—lest he forget Sect Rules after powering up.”
Mo Qiuya’s voice was calm, but the weight behind it made Zhou Liang’s back stiffen. She landed smoothly from the air, half a step behind the Disciplinary Chief to show respect. Shen Duan stood like a blade driven into the earth, his strict presence enough to silence the world by itself.
Zhou Liang bowed deeply and hurried back to his desk. His hands, though wrinkled, moved with the energy of a man decades younger as he dug through his cabinet for the best tea leaves he owned. To see the Outer Elder so suddenly lively shocked those watching, but none dared step in his way. His eyes had taken on a dangerous gleam, as though he were ready to wrestle tigers and dragons if they blocked his path.
Their confusion only grew when he emerged again, carrying a jade teapot and two finely carved ivory cups. He bowed low toward what looked like empty air, arms trembling as he offered the fragrant tea that smelled far superior to the bitter brews he usually sipped at his desk.
A murmur rippled through the bystanders—until two figures materialized out of the void. An old man in silver robes, and an old woman in blue. They settled with quiet dignity onto the stone stools beneath the oak tree where Zhou Liang often practiced his calligraphy.
The effect was immediate. Slaves, applicants, and Outer Disciples alike dropped low—some on both knees, others on one—pressing heads or fists to the ground as they cried out together:
“We greet the Grand Elder! We greet the Disciplinary Chief!”
The shout thundered like a parade ground salute, and Zhou Liang’s heart lurched painfully in his chest. Mo Qiuya had specifically told him not to alert anyone about Daemon’s breakthrough—and now these fools were bellowing the presence of the Sect’s highest figures to the skies!
“Heh.” Mo Qiuya smirked faintly, lifting a hand. “Enough.”
Zhou Liang sagged with relief, releasing a heavy sigh as she continued, her voice smooth but edged with warning. “Lucky for you little ones, I’ve already isolated this area from the outside. Otherwise, you’d all be summoned to the Disciplinary Hall this instant. Now disperse—and keep your mouths shut about what you’ve seen here.”
“Thank you, Grand Elder Mo!”
“We’re forever grateful, Grand Elder Mo!”
The chorus of relief rolled through the crowd.
They retreated quickly, voices lowered now, movements careful. Within minutes, the once-bustling administrative hall was subdued, the workers completing their tasks in silence before slipping away. None of them dared linger near the kitchen-combs of the Outer Circle until the Sect-Competition began the following day.
This old hag still dares play her childish games at her age,
Shen Duan thought, eyes narrowing.
Instead of simply ordering the brats to disperse, she goes and reveals more than she should—then hides herself in my shadow. Most would call it respect, but we both know better. She basks in their adoration while I, and my Disciplinary Hall, are left the villains. Feared as the ones who spoil their joy, ruin their little moments of excitement.
He cut a cold glance sideways at Mo Qiuya. Her serene smile never wavered.
Shen Duan’s gaze shifted past her, settling on the boy. The child’s body was alight, his Vitality climbing, flooding the air with pressure no mortal frame should have carried.
Since he’s the reason you’re trying so hard to distract me, then so be it. I won’t take my eyes off the prize. You can forget about having your way until you reveal your true intentions.
His stare hardened, fixed like iron on Daemon.
The slaves in the kitchen-comb—and the three who watched from under the oak tree beside the administrative hall—stared in stunned silence as the glow of Daemon’s nine acupoints slowly dimmed.
Then, above the boy’s head, an image took form.
A Grey Palace, faint and crumbling, rose into view. Its source was the top vertebra of his spine, tethered to a major artery that fed streams of his rich, luminous blood straight into its core. With every pulse, every spray of crimson across its fractured walls and fading domes, the Palace shifted. Gardens, pillars, floors, and archways that seemed moments away from vanishing were pulled back from the brink, materializing piece by piece, stone by stone, fed by his lifeblood.
But the moment Daemon opened his eyes, it was gone.
The vision dissolved, leaving only empty air. What they had witnessed became nothing more than a memory—something they dared not forget, yet could not believe had been real. Illusion? Trick of the senses? None could say.
And then the boy raised his hands.
From his right palm, a Fireball blazed into being—familiar, almost identical to the kind Yan Jia wielded. From his left, a sinuous Water-Whip coiled and lashed like Zhao Wei’s technique.
From his chest, sprouting directly from his heart, bloomed a delicate Zinnia flower, its petals glowing faintly with life. From his left foot, a sheath of yellow Earth rose like armor to his calf, while spikes of hardened Metal jutted outward, making his leg resemble a hedgehog curled in defense.
His right thigh twisted with a cyclone, carving deep grooves into the ground with every spin, while from his left thigh thick black mist rolled and silver Lightning flashed, sparking in violent rhythm.
Seven Elements—manifested as naturally as breath.
The watchers gawked, jaws open so wide an apple could have been dropped in without resistance.
Who is the Spirit Cultivator here, and who is the Body-Refiner?
they all asked themselves.
But Daemon offered no explanation. He ended the display as casually as if he’d simply stretched his limbs. Without a word, he walked to the well, drank deeply, then picked up the axe again. He resumed chopping firewood, stacking it neatly as though he had merely paused for a short break before returning to work.
When that was done, he checked the slate wall where tasks were listed, scratched a line through “firewood” with chalk, then filled buckets from the well to water the vegetable garden.
Daemon worked steadily until the bell tolled, signaling mealtime. Ah Niu had explained earlier: two meals a day were free for slaves in the eating hall, but anything more would cost Contribution Points—earned only by completing tasks.
Still, the older man had warned him:
If you spend all your time working for food, you’ll have no strength left to cultivate, meditate, or hone your skills. That’s how you end up a slave forever. Don’t forget Elder Zhou Liang started where we are now.
But Daemon wasn’t concerned. Such advice didn’t apply to him. He had Ippo and Kai, handling techniques, abilities, and training through the System, and the Asura’s World was under their care. His path was not like anyone else’s.
Time to eat,
he thought with a faint smile.
No sweat clung to his body despite the labor. No exhaustion dragged at his limbs. Even the hungers of the flesh—relief, indulgence—had no hold on him. Ippo bore those burdens for him.
Daemon simply walked to the hall, light-footed, as if the day had been nothing more than an ordinary morning of chores.
“Hmmm… life is good.” Daemon nodded to himself, his tone light, almost playful.
He stepped forward, picked up a tray, and offered a faint smile to the woman behind the counter—the one tasked with distributing meals to the slaves.
For a moment her hands paused. She wasn’t used to seeing radiant and cheerful smiles in this hall. Certainly not from young boys dressed in black-and-white robes.
Daemon only tilted his head, expression warm, as though nothing in the world weighed on him at all.
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