Strongest Among the Heavens
Chapter 503: Pure Water

Chapter 503: Pure Water

Dear Elise Thornton, Aya Nakamura,

I trust this letter finds you both in good health and with time to spare for an endeavor that requires minds as brilliant as yours. The Underground has need of you.

There is a task that must be completed—a teleportation magic circle. Its details will be provided in time, but the foundations must be set in place soon.

Come to the center Sukhothai, come to the Complex Demonic Red and on the twenty-second floor is the Sea Scribe. Ask for Savario—he will ensure you are expected. There, we will discuss the finer details.

The world moves quickly, and we must move faster.

Sincerely, The Professor

Dasha let the ink dry before rolling the Magical Letter. Connected to another parchment, each bound to the other, it ensured instant communication across dimensions. One side was built for each recipient. A quiet, efficient method—one that left no trace to intercept.

He pressed his fingers against the smooth surface, feeling the slight hum of magic as the words imprinted themselves onto the twin parchments elsewhere in the world. A heartbeat later, the spell was sealed. The message had been sent.

Dasha set the scroll aside.

Then he drank a cup of tea. A special concoction that blended exquisite taste and imbued with the horn of a unicorn. Dasha Pang was careful in his diet, eating monster meat and intaking the proper potions.

The cup set down in Old Rocco’s office. All of it, from the scroll to the letter, were invisible. See, Dasha was not alone. This was Old Rocco’s office, after all. It was never regularly left alone.

Through the veil of invisibility, Dasha observed Old Rocco sat at his desk, speaking to his visitor. A man of middling age, draped in silks, carrying the scent of sandalwood and old coin. A merchant, or someone playing at being one. The merchant spoke with the careful cadence of a man used to negotiating power.

Dasha listened. Not because he cared about the merchant —he didn’t. But information was currency, and he would hoard it all.

"...you must understand," the merchant was saying, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk, "if the tariffs rise any further, we will be forced to reconsider our agreements. The Black Wolves area is still in repair and alternative suppliers are beginning to up their prices."

Old Rocco’s face was unreadable, but his fingers flexed against the desk’s surface. "You’re here reconsidering," he said flatly. "That means you don’t have a better supplier yet."

A pause. A flicker of irritation across the merchant’s face. "Not yet. But soon, I will have no choice—"

Old Rocco cut him off. "Then there’s nothing to discuss. You are paying as you are now. Simmer down on your ambitions. Pay what is owed."

The man bristled, but he did not argue further. He knew better.

A few more strained pleasantries were exchanged, and then, with a stiff nod, the merchant excused himself.

The moment the door shut behind him, Dasha moved.

The invisibility peeled away like water slipping from glass, and he strode forward, soundless as shadow. Before Old Rocco could say a word, Dasha lowered himself into the still-warm seat the guest had just vacated.

A silent statement.

Old Rocco exhaled through his nose. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against the desk. There was no immediate reaction—no protest, no anger. But the tension was there. Did he know Dasha had been drinking? Writing?

It didn’t matter if he did.

Dasha’s gloved hands rested lightly on the armrests, his white Venetian mask smooth and unreadable.

"I need your office for today," Dasha stated.

A flicker of something crossed Old Rocco’s face. Irritation? Disbelief? Once again, it did not matter.

"...This office has been mine and my father before me."

"And now I require it."

A pause. A long one.

"You have done an excellent job on your first assignment," Dasha continued. "Dream Meth have made their way to children."

"They have," Old Rocco grumbled.

"It is better to dream than to live here, wouldn’t you agree?"

"..."

After a breath, Old Rocco stood. The leather of his chair creaked as he pushed back, rising to his full height. His eyes lingered on Dasha for a moment longer than necessary, but the message was clear.

Dasha had told him to leave.

And Old Rocco was leaving.

No further words were exchanged. The office door shut behind him, leaving Dasha alone in a room that had, moments ago, belonged to someone else.

Now, it belonged to him.

The office had taken on a different atmosphere since Old Rocco had left. The silence was heavy, expectant. Dasha sat behind the desk, fingers tapping idly against the polished wood. Waiting.

And then—footsteps.

Not the cautious, uncertain steps of someone unsure of their welcome. No, these were the deliberate, steady strides of a man who knew he belonged wherever he chose to be. The door opened without hesitation, and in walked Wang Lun.

Dasha had known to expect him, but seeing the man in person after he had reached a new stage of Cultivation was humbling. The Great Wang Lun. A name that carried weight, history, and the scent of rebellion in every syllable. He was still mightier than Dasha by spades.

Behind him, several of his followers entered as well. Cultivators, every one of them. The sharp glint in their eyes, the deliberate way they moved—Dasha could tell these were not mere disciples. These were believers. They were also far stronger than him.

"Messenger, messenger," Wang Lung greeted.

In Wang Lun’s hands, he carried a porcelain flask. He moved without ceremony, placing it onto the desk in front of Dasha.

"Pure Water," Wang Lun declared. "Your gift—as promised."

Dasha picked up the beautiful flask, studying it for a moment before setting it aside. "It is as beautiful as I had hoped."

Wang Lun smiled. "Consider it an acknowledgment of our efforts."

Dasha did not react to the title. He merely tilted his head, watching as Wang Lun took a seat across from him. His followers remained standing, still as statues.

"To be frank, I have no idea what you’ve done," Wang Lun continued, leaning back, hands resting on the armrests as if he had always belonged there. "Moving as subtly as you have, working in the shadows. But the fact remains—you are seated here. That means you have succeeded."

Dasha let the words settle. He did not confirm or deny.

"Power is not given, it is taken," Wang Lun said, voice softer now. "And you have taken it, like I once took Linqing."

Dasha’s fingers drummed against the wood. "So, then," he said, "our business is concluded."

Wang Lun nodded. "There is no need for us to talk further. Our mission was a success. But..." A smile appeared on him. "Can you at least inform me when?"

"..."

"When will we strike? When will we attack? I know all this is largely your own doing but you wouldn’t do all this without reason. Without thinking the Inner Circle want to cause chaos. The Liberator..."

He said the name with gusto and fear and excitement.

"You work for the Liberator. When? Tell me, when? When will be Liberate the people from the gods?"