The pale golden light of dawn filtered into the tent. The once–deathly pale woman now sat upright on the bed, her breathing steady, her skin glowing faintly with vitality. Her long hair, disheveled and damp with sweat from the night's ordeal, cascaded down her shoulders as she fixed her sharp, renewed gaze on Mo Han.

"You saved me," she said quietly, her voice smooth, but heavy with unspoken authority. "Without you, my cultivation would have been crippled. For that, I owe you more than words. From today onward, follow me."

Mo Han, who stood by the cauldron packing away his needles and instruments, did not even turn his head. His movements were calm, deliberate, as though her words were little more than passing wind.

"I guarantee you a wealthy and lavish life," she continued, leaning slightly forward, her tone commanding. "Every treasure you seek, every resource you require—I can provide them all. Whatever you ask, I will see it delivered."

Mo Han finally turned, his eyes steady, expression unreadable. "No."

Her brows furrowed. "No?"

"I decline."

The tent fell into silence. The guards glanced at one another in disbelief. Even the senior servant lady lowered her gaze, half–terrified of what his refusal might provoke.

The woman's lips pressed into a thin line. "Why? Aren't you fighting for wealth, for treasures, for resources? I will give you everything. All your requirements will be met, all your paths made smooth. Why refuse me?"

Mo Han's gaze grew distant. For a moment, the shadow of another world crossed his mind—the urban jungle of his past life, where men built empires on paper but collapsed like glass under the first storm. His lips curled faintly, a trace of irony.

"A lab–grown tree," he murmured, half to himself, "will never survive against a wild tree."

"What?" she asked, confused, her eyes narrowing.

Mo Han shook his head lightly, brushing the thought away. His past and present did not need to cross here. "Sorry. I don't want your offer." His voice hardened. "Your wealth is a cage. I prefer the wilderness of my own struggle."

Without waiting for her reply, he turned and began walking toward the exit.

The guards instantly moved, long halberds crossing before the flap of the tent. Their eyes blazed with warning.

Mo Han stopped, his face calm, though a faint killing intent seeped from his aura. His voice was cold, carrying the weight of certainty. "Not only healing… I know poison arts as well." His gaze slid across the guards one by one. "Do you want me to demonstrate?"

The soldiers froze. Even their armor clinked faintly under the sudden tension. They had witnessed last night's miracle. If this young man truly wielded poisons with the same mastery as healing, even a single drop could spell their deaths.

Inside, the woman clenched her sheets, her composure cracking. She had expected gratitude, perhaps awe, even submission—but not such a sharp, unyielding rejection. Her heart throbbed with helplessness. She could not reveal her identity; to do so might endanger them all. Yet without revealing it, she had no authority to force him.

Finally, she exhaled softly, her eyes dimming. "Elder," she called hoarsely, turning her head toward the black–armored man who had watched everything in silence. "Pay him."

The elder stepped forward, his movements deliberate, his aura rolling like distant thunder. From his sleeve, he drew a jade pouch and tossed it lightly into the air. It landed before Mo Han with a dull clink.

"There. Take it. It is more than what you would earn in three years of service," the elder said, his voice deep.

Mo Han didn't so much as glance at the pouch. He shook his head slowly. "Not enough."

The elder's eyes narrowed. "Not enough?"

"This is enough for the senior servant lady who brought me here," Mo Han said coolly. "If you think to pay me, then bring out something worth my hand."

For the first time, the elder's expression shifted. His brows furrowed, and after a long, tense silence, he extended his hand. A ripple of dark light shimmered, and from his storage ring appeared several treasures, each radiating distinct auras. Blades that hummed with bloodlust. Amulets glowing faintly with protection. A staff etched with inscriptions that writhed like serpents.

But among them, Mo Han's gaze locked onto one object.

A mace.

It was heavy, forged from some unknown golden alloy, its shaft thick, its head carved with interlocking runes. The patterns pulsed faintly, restrained, like a beast chained beneath layers of seals. A faint demonic mist curled from its cracks.

Mo Han's eyes sharpened. He could feel the oppressive weight of its presence even at a distance. It was sealed—he could sense that much—but beneath the seal lay something violent, something primal.

"That one," Mo Han said, pointing at the mace.

The elder's expression flickered. "This? You even dare to choose this?"

Mo Han's lips curved faintly. "Yes."

The elder hesitated. "Boy, this mace is not a simple weapon. Its runes are demonic seals. Once unsealed, it could devour its wielder. It was taken from the battlefield of the Abyss, and even grandmasters fear to use it. Are you sure?"

Mo Han stepped forward, extending his hand without a hint of fear. "I've chosen."

For a long moment, the elder studied him, searching for doubt. There was none. Finally, with a grunt, he lifted the mace and tossed it toward Mo Han.

Mo Han casually picked it and placed it in the storage ring.

The woman watched him silently, her heart twisted with strange emotions. Relief that she had lived. Anger that he refused her. Curiosity that burned brighter with every passing moment. And deep beneath it all, the vow she had made the night before only grew heavier.

Mo Han turned toward the flap of the tent, the mace gleaming faintly in his hand. "Our transaction is complete," he said flatly. "I owe you nothing more. And you owe me no cage."

With that, he stepped past the guards, their halberds lowering instinctively, fear plain in their eyes.

The morning sun struck his figure as he emerged, the golden mace resting on his shoulder, its runes faintly pulsing.

Behind him, the woman clenched her fists tightly over her chest, her whisper too soft for any but herself to hear.

"You think you can walk away, Mo Han… but one day, you will be mine."

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