The active temporal manipulation in Azure Cloud City pulled at Chen Jiaxing's senses like a splinter under skin, demanding immediate attention. But centuries of investigation had taught him patience. Rushing toward obvious bait often meant missing crucial evidence hidden in the shadows.
"We investigate the Ghostwood Forest site first," he had decided as dawn broke over Sunset Peak. "If our harvester is actively working in the city, they'll expect pursuit. But their previous extraction sites might reveal patterns they didn't think to hide."
His assistant had protested. "But Warden, the active manipulation—"
"Will likely be another carefully prepared performance. Our harvester knows we're coming. Let them wait and wonder why we don't appear on schedule."
Now, twelve hours later, the Ghostwood Forest existed in perpetual twilight around them, its ancient trees so dense that sunlight became a rumor whispered between leaves. Chen Jiaxing moved through the supernatural gloom with practiced ease, his spiritual sense extended like a web to catch any hint of temporal distortion. Forty-five li from Azure Cloud City, close enough for concerning proximity, far enough that local cultivators rarely ventured here.
"The trees themselves show temporal scarring," his assistant noted, running fingers along bark that aged decades between heartwood and surface. "This isn't recent damage."
"No," Chen Jiaxing agreed, studying the unnatural growth patterns. "Centuries of exposure, possibly millennia. The scar here is old. Stable. Which makes the fresh extraction signatures even more troubling."
They pressed deeper, following his detection artifacts toward the heart of the disturbance. The forest grew increasingly wrong the further they traveled. Flowers bloomed and withered on the same stem. A butterfly hung frozen mid-flight while its shadow continued onward. A stream flowed uphill in defiance of physics, its water aging into mist before completing the impossible journey.
"There," his assistant pointed through the temporal haze. "Structures."
The ruins emerged from shadow like the bones of a long-dead beast. Black stone that drank light, architecture that predated current cultivation understanding, formations carved so deep they seemed to reach through the stone into the earth's marrow. This wasn't a crude demonic hideout—this was a temple, a school, a fortress built around forbidden knowledge.
Chen Jiaxing approached the central plaza where reality's wound gaped like a festering sore. The temporal scar here was different from the one in the Weeping Mountains. Older. More complex. Instead of a simple tear, this was a carefully shaped aperture, its edges carved with formations that suggested purposeful modification.
"They didn't just find this scar," he said quietly. "They sculpted it."
Stone pillars surrounded the scar in perfect geometric arrangement, each one covered in text that hurt to read. Not from any protective formation, but because the words existed in too many temporal states simultaneously. Past, present, and future tenses overlapped in ways that made grammar itself scream.
His assistant approached one pillar, jade slip ready to record. "It's a cultivation manual. Carved directly into stone to survive temporal decay."
"What does it say?"
"'Temporal Demon Transformation Scripture, Chapter Seven: The Feast of Moments.'" The assistant's voice grew strained as he continued translating. "'When reality bleeds, the wise cultivator positions their cup. Each scar contains the moment of its creation, frozen in perpetual collapse. To drink from this fountain is to taste causality itself.'"
Chen Jiaxing felt ice crawl down his spine. This wasn't some accidental discovery of power—this was a complete cultivation system built around exploiting reality's wounds. How many had practiced here? How long had they fed on paradox before something stopped them?
"Warden," his assistant called from across the plaza. "You need to see this."
A section of wall had survived better than the rest, protected by formations that still flickered weakly. Upon it, a mural depicted the sect's history in temporal fragments—images that showed past and future simultaneously.
The first panel showed a cultivator discovering a natural temporal scar. The second showed experimentation, careful study. By the third panel, they were creating new scars, wounding reality deliberately to fuel their advancement. The fourth panel...
Chen Jiaxing stepped closer, trying to parse the overlapping images. Fire. Screaming. A figure wreathed in laughter and paradox while reality itself tried to expel them. And then nothing. The final panels had been deliberately destroyed, gouged out with violence that left spiritual scars in the stone.
"Check for extraction traces," he ordered, returning to the scar itself.
His assistant produced specialized artifacts, crystalline constructs that resonated with temporal energy. They immediately began glowing, pulsing with increasing frequency as they neared the scar's edge.
"Fresh extraction. Within the last week, possibly as recent as four days ago." The assistant's face paled as he read the measurements. "Warden, the amount of energy taken... it's enormous. Whoever did this drained approximately three years' worth of accumulated paradox in a single session."
"Show me the extraction point."
They circled the scar until they found it—a section where the chaotic energies showed signs of recent disturbance. But it was the method that made Chen Jiaxing's blood run cold. The extraction hadn't been crude or desperate. It was surgical. Precise. The work of someone who understood these scars on a fundamental level.
"There's a resonance signature," his assistant said, running detection talismans over the area. "Faint, but... Warden, it matches the signature from the Weeping Mountains. Same harvester."
Chen Jiaxing knelt at the extraction point, extending his specialized senses. His Eternal Moment Preservation technique activated, creating a bubble of crystallized time where he could examine the scar's recent history.
The images that came were frustratingly vague. A figure in concealing robes, yes, but more than that. The way they moved, the casual confidence with which they approached the scar, the practiced ease of their extraction technique—this wasn't someone who had learned from ancient manuals. This was someone who moved like they were coming home.
And that amusement. That same emotional signature of someone enjoying a private joke at reality's expense.
"There's something else," he said, releasing the technique. "The extraction method... it's not exactly matching the Scripture we found. It's more refined. Evolved. As if someone took these ancient techniques and improved them through generations of practice."
His assistant looked ill. "Generations? But the sect here was destroyed centuries ago. Who could have—"
"Someone who didn't learn from this place," Chen Jiaxing interrupted. "Someone who might have taught it."
The implications hung between them like a blade. If the harvester wasn't a student of these techniques but potentially their originator...
A sound interrupted his thoughts. Laughter, soft and distant, seeming to come from the scar itself. Both cultivators spun toward the temporal wound, weapons ready, but nothing emerged. The laughter faded like an echo of an echo, leaving only the certainty that they'd been observed.
"Pack everything," Chen Jiaxing ordered. "Every inscription, every formation diagram. The Alliance needs to see this immediately."
As they prepared to leave, something caught his eye. Near the extraction point, almost invisible against the stone, someone had carved a single character. Not with tools or qi, but with reality itself, twisted into a shape that conveyed meaning beyond language.
The character for "amusement."
"Arrogant bastard," his assistant spat. "Signing their work like an artist."
"No," Chen Jiaxing corrected quietly. "Not arrogance. Message. They knew we'd come. Knew we'd investigate. This is... communication."
"Saying what?"
Chen Jiaxing stared at the impossible character, feeling the weight of cosmic mockery in its curves. "That they find our efforts amusing. That our investigation, our concern, our very existence is part of some grand joke we're not sophisticated enough to understand."
The journey out of the Ghostwood Forest felt longer than the journey in. Every shadow might hide observation. Every twist in time might be deliberate misdirection. The harvester knew they were coming, had known before they'd even arrived.
As they reached the forest's edge, Chen Jiaxing looked back at the twisted trees and temporal impossibilities. Somewhere in there, carved in stone and memory, lay the origins of a cultivation method that should have died with its creators. But someone was practicing it with mastery that suggested not decades of study but millennia of experience.
"Next stop?" his assistant asked.
"One more scar before Azure Cloud City. Intelligence suggests it's minor, barely worth noting." Chen Jiaxing mounted his flying artifact. "But our harvester seems to prefer the overlooked places. The scars everyone ignores because they're too small to matter."
"Like hiding a treasure in plain sight."
"Or hiding a monster in a crowd," Chen Jiaxing countered. "Small scars still bleed paradox. And someone who can drink deeply from small wounds..."
He didn't finish the thought. They both understood. Someone who could efficiently harvest minor scars wouldn't need the major ones. They could feed slowly, sustainably, without triggering the kind of reality storms that would demand immediate intervention.
The perfect predator was the one you never knew was feeding.
As they flew toward the next investigation site, Chen Jiaxing found himself hoping he was wrong. Hoping the harvester was just another ambitious fool who'd stumbled onto forbidden power. Because the alternative—that something ancient and amused was systematically reclaiming power from wounds it had carved into reality's flesh—promised a threat that might require more than the Last Alliance to contain.
Behind them, the Ghostwood Forest returned to its perpetual twilight. And in the depths where reality bled paradox, that soft laughter echoed again, as if the cosmic joke had just gotten funnier.