The air in the room was still, thick with the scent of freshly brewed tea and unspoken tension. Jiang Dao sat like a mountain carved from granite, his large hands cradling a delicate porcelain cup. He had changed into clean robes, but the aura of coiled violence around him remained, a quiet storm waiting for a reason to break. Across from him, Han Ming shifted, his unease a palpable thing.
"Sir," Han Ming began, his voice barely a whisper, "have you ever wondered why the Spirit Removers are born into power? Why do they command the unseen world from the moment they draw breath, without ever enduring the hardships of cultivation?"
Jiang Dao didn't answer. He simply raised the cup to his lips, his gaze steady and ancient, a look that invited no trivialities.
Han Ming swallowed, taking the silence as his cue to continue. "It's because of their blood. In the mists of antiquity, it is said that all Spirit Removers descended from one hundred and eight distinct bloodlines. Each was a legacy, a unique current of power flowing through the veins of generations. These were further divided into the seventy-two Ancient Bloodlines and, above them all, the thirty-six Heaven's Mandate Royal Clans."
He leaned forward, his words tumbling out faster now. "But time erodes even the mightiest legacies. Many bloodlines have faded into near obscurity. Think of the Tuoba family, or the Xie of Anyang. The Zhaos of Wuzhou, the Lings of Fengzhou… they have all been diminished, their power withered to the point where they can barely contend with my Spirit Child Palace. In their golden age," he added with a shiver, "we would have been less than dust beneath their feet. We would never have dared to dream of being their enemy."
"But some… some have not faded. A few have retained their terrifying strength, a power so immense they stand as equals to the Heaven's Mandate Royal Clans themselves."
Jiang Dao set his cup down with a soft, deliberate click. The sound cut through Han Ming's nervous speech, silencing him.
"And the Heaven's Mandate clans?" Jiang Dao's voice was low, a gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in the very timbers of the house.
"They are the apex," Han Ming breathed, his eyes wide with a mixture of reverence and terror. "The thirty-six most potent, most enigmatic of all the bloodlines. It is said they are born wrapped in the favor of heaven itself, destiny's chosen. Each clan is a dynasty, a force of nature that holds dominion over a vast territory. Where they rule, all other Spirit Removers, all fierce beasts, all malevolent spirits… they bow their heads. They obey. In a very real sense, they are the pillars that keep this world from collapsing into chaos."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before delivering the final, devastating piece of information.
"The Thirteen Corpse Demon Mountain… they are one of Heaven's Mandate Royal Clans of the Daye Dynasty."
Jiang Dao's eyes, which had been placid as a forest pool, narrowed into sharp, obsidian slits. "Then the creatures I fought were not beasts, but men? Spirit Removers?"
"It's… complicated," Han Ming stammered. "Their legacy is a twisted one. They are born of a Spirit Remover bloodline, yes, but through their growth and rituals, they actively transform themselves into Corpse Demons. They straddle the line between the living and the monstrous. Whether they are men or monsters is a question no one can answer. Legend claims their progenitor is a nigh-immortal Corpse Demon who has walked this earth for a thousand years… but it's a legend no one is brave enough to verify."
"Is that so?" Jiang Dao's fingers drummed a slow, rhythmic tattoo on the armrest of his chair. The sound was like a distant war drum. "Quantify their strength for me. How much stronger are they than the Tuoba family you spoke of?"
A bitter, helpless smile touched Han Ming's lips. "Sir, there is no comparison. If the Thirteen Corpse Demon Mountain truly wished it, they could extinguish ten Tuoba families—a hundred—as easily as snuffing out a candle. In fact, if they unleashed their full might, I doubt a single Spirit Remover clan in the entire Daye Dynasty would be left standing."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. A killing intent, cold and sharp, bled from Jiang Dao's pores. "So I have made an enemy of a titan."
Han Ming flinched and fell silent, a rabbit before a wolf.
"You say so many bloodlines have declined," Jiang Dao mused, his mind already calculating, strategizing. "Why not them? Has the Mountain not felt the erosion of time?"
"Oh, they have," Han Ming said quickly. "They absolutely have. If they were at their peak, at their full, world-shaking strength, they would never be content to nest in a backwater like the Daye Dynasty. Sir, you must understand… this land, the Northern Barbarians… It's all just a collection of minor states. A forgotten corner of the world. Far beyond our borders lies a realm so vast and magnificent that the entire Daye Dynasty would be but a single, insignificant province."
He saw the flicker of interest in Jiang Dao's eyes and pressed on. "Strictly speaking, we are nothing more than vassal territories. Far to the east, across unforgiving lands, lies the true center of the world: the Dayu Celestial Dynasty. But even a diminished lion is still the king of its domain. A starved camel is still larger than the strongest horse. Here, in this land, the Thirteen Corpse Demon Mountain is the undisputed hegemon."
"Dayu Celestial Dynasty," Jiang Dao repeated the name softly. It felt like turning a page in a book to find the story was infinitely larger than he had imagined. The realization that his current, formidable strength was still only potent in a small, provincial pond sent a fresh wave of ambition surging through him. But he quickly suppressed it. The Celestial Dynasty was a problem for another day.
First, the Mountain. Then, the Feng family of the North. And, most pressingly, Black Mountain Ridge.
He knew that place would now be a vortex of chaos, a cauldron of greed and violence. Every Spirit Remover, beast, and specter with an ounce of ambition would be descending upon it, desperate to claim the sacred artifact that lay within.
"Tell me about the Feng family," Jiang Dao commanded.
"They are a powerful Spirit Remover clan based in the Northern Barbarian territories, my lord. Their heritage is ancient, and they are significantly stronger than the likes of the Tuoba or Xie. But… measured against the Thirteen Corpse Demon Mountain, they are still of little consequence."
"I see." Jiang Dao nodded, dismissing them for the moment. "One last question. The sacred artifact at Black Mountain Ridge. Do you know its grade?"
"It's impossible to be certain, but from all the whispers and fragments of information I gathered… it must be, at the very least, a Profound-grade, high-tier artifact."
Jiang Dao's eyes flashed. A mere Yellow-grade item had reforged his body, granting him incredible power. The thought of what a Profound-grade artifact could do… the potential was intoxicating.
"Sir, you must be cautious," Han Ming pleaded, seeing the dangerous light in his master's eyes. "The Mountain's vengeance will be swift and terrible."
"I am aware," Jiang Dao said, his voice sharp as steel. He pushed himself to his feet, a towering, formidable presence. "The die is cast. There is no value in regret. Han Ming, I am leaving for Black Mountain Ridge immediately. I had intended to take you, but my plans have changed. You will remain here. Your sole duty is to protect my family. Keep a close watch on the Blazing Flame Gang's territory and ensure no scavengers try to test our borders. If a threat arises that you cannot handle, contact me at once."
He trusted Han Ming implicitly. The man's very life force, his Yin Source, was bound to him. Betrayal was an impossibility.
"It will be done, sir!" Han Ming bowed deeply.
Jiang Dao strode from the room into the courtyard. Under the gray sky, more than thirty men stood in disciplined ranks. They were the elite of his forces, handpicked for their skill and ferocity. Their eyes were sharp, their temples bulged with inner strength, and a quiet lethality hung about them. Guo Dutian and Du Feng, his most trusted veterans, stood at their head.
"Boss, the men are ready," Guo Dutian said, his voice crisp. "We await your command."
Jiang Dao gave a sharp, single nod. "We ride."
"Yes, Boss!" The unified roar of thirty warriors echoed through the courtyard.
Night fell like a shroud over Black Mountain Ridge. In the beleaguered courtyard of the Blazing Flame Gang's local branch, torches sputtered against a cloying darkness, their light seeming to be swallowed by the unnatural black fog that pressed in from all sides.
The branch leader, Chen Ming, stood with his several hundred men, their faces pale with terror as they stared at the main gate.
"Leader… they're back. They're here again," one of his men whimpered, his sword trembling in his grip. All around them, the gang members shivered, their bravado stripped away by a primal fear. Something truly monstrous lurked in the fog.
For three days, ever since a deafening roar had shaken the very foundations of the mountains, Black Mountain Town had become a slaughterhouse. People died, vanishing without a trace or being found in pieces. At first, messengers had been able to escape and cry for help. But that afternoon, the fog had descended, a suffocating blanket that cut the town off from the world. It was a prison of mist. Anyone who tried to leave simply disappeared into the gray, their screams the only proof they had ever existed.
Worse, things had begun to emerge from the fog. Indescribable things. Grotesque mockeries of life that shambled into the town, killing with an alien malevolence.
"Hold your ground!" Chen Ming roared, brandishing his twin sabers. His face was gaunt, his knuckles white, but his voice was a bastion of defiance. "The message got out this morning! The Boss knows what's happening here! He will come! And when he does, we will be safe!"
His words were brave, but his own trembling body betrayed his terror. They were warriors, yes, but they were men of flesh and blood. How could they not be afraid of things that defied reason itself?
A sound drifted from the fog, a grotesque chorus of giggles and chortles that scraped at the nerves. Hee hee hee… ha ha ha…
Chen Ming's eyes widened. He watched as the thick, wooden gate seemed to warp and age before his eyes, groaning as if under immense pressure. Then came a knocking. It wasn't a sound against the wood, but a rhythmic pounding that seemed to echo directly inside their skulls, in time with their frantic heartbeats.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump!
With a final, explosive crash, the gate shattered inward. Splinters and dust filled the air, carried on a wave of bone-chilling Yin energy. The men screamed and stumbled back.
From the swirling black fog, seven or eight figures lurched into the flickering torchlight. They were abominations. One had its abdomen torn open, a hollow, empty cavity where its organs should have been. Another's head lolled on its shoulders, attached only by a web of glistening, writhing threads, a swarm of tiny white insects crawling over its smiling face. A third was charred black, as if it had been burned alive, its two milky-white eyes hanging loosely from its sockets. Each one was a vision from a madman's nightmare.
The stench of rot and decay washed over the defenders. Men's legs gave out. The courtyard filled with the smell of fear and urine.
"Ghosts! They're ghosts!"
Eighty miles away, the town of Qianshan was an oasis of normalcy. A single road snaked east from it, the only path to the madness of Black Mountain Town.
In a roadside tavern, under a faded wine banner, a young Daoist priest sat with a furrowed brow. He was handsome, perhaps thirty years old, and he kept peering down the road as if expecting trouble to come riding in at any moment.
"Difficult," he murmured to himself, shaking his head. "Truly difficult."
He cast a glance at the boisterous crowd of martial artists drinking and laughing inside, then pulled a handful of small copper coins from his sleeve. Chanting under his breath, he let them fall onto the table. They scattered in a chaotic pattern.
"An omen of great calamity," he sighed, his shoulders slumping. "A path of nine deaths, with but a single, narrow chance of life."
"Brother Xu, are you sure about that?" A young woman in a bright yellow dress, no older than nineteen, sat beside him. "You've been doing that for three days, and you get the same result every single time. Are you positive your technique is reliable?"
The young Daoist bristled as if she had insulted his very soul. "Reliable? The master who taught me this art was a figure of such legendary power that even the Celestial Emperor of Dayu showed him deference! You dare question its accuracy? Do you have any idea how many nobles would trade their fortunes for a single reading from him?"
"Alright, alright, I get it, it's accurate," she said, rolling her eyes. "But what's the point? We've come all this way, and now you just want to sit here and sigh because your coins keep telling you we're going to die? Everyone else is heading to the Ridge."
"That's the problem!" he said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "The road ahead is blocked by a butcher demanding a toll of blood and money. That, combined with this consistently lethal divination… if we proceed, we're walking directly into our graves."
"So we do nothing? I shouldn't have snuck away from home with you," she pouted, propping her chin in her hand.
Their conversation drew the attention of a nearby table of mercenaries. One of them, a burly man with a long-bladed saber, grinned. "Hey, priest! If you're so good at reading fortunes, read mine. What does my future hold?"
"Yeah, little Daoist," another jeered. "Get it right, and we'll make it worth your while."
The young woman's eyes lit up with mischief. "Go on, Brother Xu. You've got nothing better to do. Show them how 'accurate' your art is. Or maybe… maybe you're just not very good at it, and that's why you keep getting the same scary result!"
"You…!" he sputtered, cornered.
"Come on, priest, just one little look," the mercenary coaxed.
Trapped between his companion's goading and the mercenaries' drunken curiosity, the Daoist let out a long-suffering sigh. He turned and fixed his gaze on the man who had first spoken. His eyes, for a moment, seemed to see past the man's skin and bone, into the very fabric of his fate.
"A destiny of immense misfortune," he said flatly, and turned away.
The mercenary, who had been leaning in expectantly, was stunned. He had expected some vague pronouncements, some flowery language. Not a four-word death sentence. Rage flushed his face. He made his living dancing on the edge of a blade; the last thing he needed was some scrawny priest cursing him.
"You little bastard! I'll send you to your destiny!" he roared. With a flick of his wrist, he snatched a handaxe from the table and hurled it at the Daoist.
The axe flew through the air in a deadly, whistling arc. The Daoist's face paled, and he threw himself to the side. The axe missed him by inches, crashed through the tavern window, and soared out into the street.
There was a shrill neigh of a terrified horse. The axe had struck a magnificent black steed, part of a large, disciplined convoy that was passing by. It wasn't a fatal blow, but it gashed the horse's face, and blood streamed down its muzzle. The rider fought to control his panicked mount, his face a mask of fury.
All along the convoy, riders drew their weapons. They were a formidable sight, clad in matching attire and flying the distinctive banner of a blazing flame. In their center was a large, opulent carriage. They needed only a single word of command to descend on the tavern and slaughter everyone inside.
"Boss, we've been attacked!" Guo Dutian shouted toward the carriage.
A calm, powerful voice answered from within. "Any casualties?"
"No. Just a startled horse."
"Find out why."
"Yes, Boss!" Guo Dutian wheeled his horse around and bellowed, "Surround the tavern!"
Thirty horsemen surged forward, their blades drawn, their faces grim. Inside the tavern, the atmosphere had frozen. The mercenary who had thrown the axe saw the blazing flame banners and felt a cold dread wash over him.
"The Blazing Flame Gang…" he whispered, his face ashen.
Panic erupted. The other patrons scrambled to flee, but it was too late. The tavern was completely surrounded.
The young Daoist and his companion were trapped with the rest. "Brother Xu," she breathed, her playfulness gone, replaced by fear. "That's a major power."
The Daoist wasn't looking at the soldiers. He was looking at their auras. His brow creased in deep concentration. "This is worse than I thought. Far worse."
"What is it?" she asked.
"Don't you see it?" he whispered urgently. "Look at them. Every single one of them is cloaked in a shroud of death. It's an aura of bloody catastrophe. If they continue on their path to Black Mountain Ridge, they are all marching to their doom. All of them."
Guo Dutian dismounted, holding the bloody handaxe. He strode to the tavern's shattered doorway, his eyes sweeping over the terrified patrons. "Who threw this?" he demanded, his voice like ice.
Silence. No one dared to speak. The Blazing Flame Gang's reputation was a thing of bloody legend.
"No one wants to confess?" Guo Dutian's lip curled into a sneer. "Was this a deliberate provocation against my Gang? Fine. If no one steps forward, we will kill you all. Start with—"
"Wait! It was him!" a man shrieked, his nerve breaking. He pointed a trembling finger at the mercenary cowering against the far wall. "Wu Laosan! He threw it!"
A chorus of accusations followed. "Yes, it was Wu!" "You cowardly bastard, Wu, are you going to let us all die for you?"
Wu Laosan slid to the floor, a dark stain spreading across his trousers. "I didn't mean it," he sobbed. "It was the Daoist! He cursed me! I was aiming for him! Mercy, please!"
Guo Dutian's cold gaze shifted from the priest to the sniveling man on the floor. "Cut off his hand," he ordered one of his men.
A warrior dismounted and started walking toward Wu Laosan, his saber drawn. The man began to smash his head against the floorboards, wailing for his life.
"Enough," the voice from the carriage said, quiet but carrying absolute authority. "Leave him. Let's go."
The warrior immediately sheathed his weapon and returned to his horse. "Yes, Boss!"
The convoy began to move again. But just as they were about to depart, the young Daoist, after a moment of intense internal struggle, rushed out of the tavern.
"Wait! Sirs, please wait!" he shouted.
The entire convoy halted. Guo Dutian turned in his saddle, his expression one of pure annoyance.
"Sirs," the Daoist said, his voice earnest and clear. "The path ahead leads to a terrible calamity. Forgive my presumption, but I implore you, for your own sakes… turn back. Go back the way you came."
Guo Dutian let out a short, harsh laugh. "Listen to this. A roadside charlatan who thinks he can spin his tricks on the Blazing Flame Gang."