The pouch struck the stone with a weighty thud, the sound echoing far louder than it should have in the empty street.
Purple coins spilled from the loosened drawstring, rolling across the ground like fragments of crushed amethyst. Their glow reflected faintly in the eyes of the city guards who had arrived too late and understood too quickly.
This was not a reward.
It was not goodwill.
It was a conclusion.
None of the guards asked why the Pavilion Young Master of Iron Hollow lay dismembered nearby, his once-proud aura already fading into the night. None of them questioned how a man of his standing could die without trial, witness, or resistance.
They knew better.
One guard swallowed hard and bowed first—to Death Sword. Another followed, then the rest. They cast a single wary glance at Jagged, whose presence felt like a wound that refused to close, before turning away.
By dawn, they would submit a clean and carefully worded report to the city lord. Everything after that would no longer concern them. If the city lord wished to act on the incident, he would bear the consequences.
Death Sword watched them disappear into the darkness.
Only then did he turn.
"Listen very carefully, Jagged."
His voice was calm, measured, stripped of emotion. Each word landed with precision, as though he were carving them directly into flesh.
"This is not our first mission together. You understand my expectations. Continue testing my patience, and I will take your life. I will request the Elder to assign someone else from the other team, and this matter will end."
The atmosphere changed instantly.
The air around Death Sword thickened, the death-aligned energy he carried pressing outward like winter descending all at once. The warmth drained from the street. Frost crept along the stone at their feet.
Jagged's body reacted before his mind did.
His knees trembled. His breath stuttered.
"Yes… Death Sword," he replied, forcing the words through clenched teeth. Then, unable to suppress it any longer, he added, "But tell me—why am I bound by these restrictions while Purple Night moves freely?"
The moment her name left his mouth, agony exploded within him.
The residual death energy still lodged in Jagged's meridians surged violently, flaring like black fire beneath his skin. It tore through already damaged pathways, sending pain lancing through his entire body.
Jagged gasped, his question breaking apart into a hoarse scream.
"You may complain," Death Sword said, stepping closer, his gaze ice-cold, "but you are not entitled to defile her name."
He looked down at Jagged, disdain sharpening his features.
"Unlike you, Jagged—who crawled out of a lowly clan—she has value."
The contempt in his voice sank deeper than any blade.
Jagged collapsed to the ground, shaking as the pain forced his body to curl inward. For a moment, he was nothing more than a wounded animal.
Then he laughed.
The sound was raw, cracked, and dangerous.
"Vicious," Jagged growled, lifting his head just enough to meet Death Sword's gaze. "You're afraid. Afraid that one day I'll become stronger than you."
Death Sword didn't hesitate.
"You won't live long enough to see that day."
The death energy surged again.
Jagged screamed as his body convulsed, rolling across the stone as the power ravaged his meridians without mercy.
Every nerve burned. Every breath felt like broken glass.
Then—just as suddenly—it stopped.
Death Sword stepped down from the rooftop, landing with effortless control. With a single thought, he withdrew the death element from Jagged's body.
Jagged lay there, gasping, blood dark against the ground, his vision swimming.
He understood now.
He had revealed too much.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright. His hands clenched, then loosened, then clenched again as he forced the tremor from his body.
Without speaking, he followed after Death Sword.
-
Morning arrived quietly.
Sifir completed his sixth cultivation cycle as the first pale light filtered through the window. His breathing was steady, his body resonating with restrained strength. The Midnight Clan's methods tempered flesh and chi together, building power inward rather than flaring outward.
This was progress.
In the next room, Purple Night sat cross-legged on the bed, the ancient book open in her hands. Her eyes scanned the final pages—then stopped.
The ending was missing.
Her fingers tightened around the frayed paper as memory surfaced with painful clarity: Sifir tearing the last page free before handing the book over.
She exhaled slowly.
Greed invited disaster in the cultivation world. Testing another's patience was worse.
She rose, unlatched the window, and leapt onto the roof in a single smooth motion.
The rooftop was empty.
Sifir was already gone.
She extended her spiritual sense, tracing his direction easily, then withdrew it just as quickly. Noon was approaching.
Preparations for the mountain journey mattered more than chasing a debt she could not collect.
Purple Night returned to her room and reached for her talisman materials.
Finally making to the shop was narrow, old, and deliberately unremarkable.
Its wooden sign had been sanded so smooth that no clan insignia remained—only a faint carving of an eye split down the middle. Anyone without experience would mistake it for a relic shop scraping by on foot traffic.
Sifir did not make that mistake.
He stepped inside.
The air smelled of dried blood, spirit resin, and faint ozone—residue from too many transactions involving cultivation resources that never came from clean hands. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with spirit jars, monster cores sealed in wax, bone fragments etched with runes, and weapons that hummed softly even at rest.
The shopkeeper swept the floor as Sifir entered, barely glancing up. There was no surprise in his expression—only quiet acknowledgment.
The shelves had changed overnight.
New items rested among the old, each exuding faint traces of desolation, struggle, and forgotten worlds. Sifir moved past them until two books drew his attention.
They radiated a subtle pull, as though recognizing him.
[Learning the Way], written by a scholar who warned against rushing through realms of battle, revealing the hidden truths unlocked by patience.
[Anatomy vs. Cultivation], penned by a body cultivator who dissected the strengths and limits of flesh compared to external chi.
Several pages were damaged. Others were missing entirely.
Sifir didn't hesitate and he took both.
Damaged pages. Missing sections.
Still priceless.
His eyes drifted to the magic items.
"Shopkeeper."
The old man sighed. "Tier-two Shadow Blitz boots. Fast. Powerful. Damaged runes."
He gestured again.
"Tier-one mid-grade gauntlet and boot set. Rock monsters from the Desolate World. Excellent defense and strength. Requires two tier-two cores to repair."
A pause.
"That world is sealed by the Earth Dragon Tribes."
Melancholy lingered in his voice.
"And that?" Sifir asked.
"An old dimensional vault," the shopkeeper said. "Links multiple spatial containers. Runes are damaged. Lost art."
Sifir nodded once.
"When I return to this city, I'll come back for that dimensional vault."
The old man watched him leave, thoughtful.
Interesting… he thought. Very interesting.
-
Back at the Banner of Crest Palace, the Pavilion Master look through the window.
"Have they left the city?"
"Soon, Pavilion Mistress."
Jaz Vixen did not turn around.
"Gather information on the Midnight Clan. Rising stars. Bloodlines. Their talent that recently breakthroughs."
"Yes, Pavilion Mistress."
When they left, she stared out the window.
Purple Night was known.
Fall Night was not.
That made him dangerous.