For Jiang Dao, the concept of loss was relative. He had spent the last few days essentially bleeding decades of hard-won cultivation into others, a gesture that would have crippled any other martial master. But for him? It was a temporary setback, a minor line-item adjustment in a ledger only he could see. He simply needed to recalibrate.
He pushed open the heavy wooden doors of his private chambers and stepped out into the crisp air of the courtyard. The sun was pale, casting long, thin shadows across the stone. He moved with a predatory grace, cutting through two separate garden plots before arriving at the guest quarters where Prince Nanling and the old Daoist were staying.
"Gentlemen," Jiang Dao called out, his voice low but resonant. "I hope your stay in my humble abode hasn't been too taxing these past few days."
At the sound of his voice, the two men sprang from their rattan chairs. The old Daoist looked like he was fighting a losing battle against a fit of hysterical laughter, but as Jiang Dao's gaze settled on him, the humor died a quick death. The Daoist's head was... well, it was a cube. A perfect, symmetrical, flesh-and-bone square. Jiang Dao stared at it for a beat too long, wondering if he had overdone the pressure when he had squeezed the man's skull between his palms. Was it permanent? If so, the sheer physics of it were almost impressive.
The Daoist, sensing Jiang Dao's fascination with his new geometry, felt a wave of profound misery wash over him. He forced a smile that looked more like a grimace. "Gang Leader Jiang... you've finally emerged from your meditation."
Prince Nanling, ever the diplomat, stepped forward to break the awkward silence. "Indeed. I was actually preparing to depart for the Great Yu Empire today. I feared I would have to leave without a proper goodbye, but it seems fortune favors the bold."
"Your Highness is too kind," Jiang Dao replied with a stiff nod. "If my travels ever take me toward the heart of Great Yu, I might find myself knocking on your door. I trust I won't be turned away?"
The Prince's eyes lit up with genuine relief. He reached into his silken sleeve and produced a piece of warm, translucent jade. "Gang Leader Jiang, this is my personal signet. Should you ever cross the border, simply present this to any official or guard. They will know that you come as my honored guest."
Jiang Dao took the jade, feeling its weight before tucking it into the folds of his robe. He then turned his attention back to the square-headed Daoist. "And what of Nanzhou, Daoist? While I was busy with my... adjustments, what has the world been up to?"
Jiang Dao had strategically "detained" the Daoists' two disciples—Xu Zifeng and Zhao Ziling—using them as a makeshift cleaning crew to scrub the remnants of the supernatural filth that had been plaguing Nanzhou. With the "Sacred Artifact" craze at Black Mountain Ridge drawing the heavy hitters away, Nanzhou had become a playground for the lesser scavengers and ghosts.
The Daoist sighed, his cube-like jaw shifting awkwardly. "You can rest easy, Gang Leader. News of the Mandate Artifact has reached the capital of Great Yu, acting like a magnet for every Spirit-Remover and high-tier monstrosity within a thousand miles. Nanzhou is currently as quiet as a grave. My disciples have spent the last few days hunting down the stragglers—the ones too stupid or too weak to flee. The region is safe. For now."
"Excellent," Jiang Dao said, a thin smile touching his lips. "I realize I've been a terrible host. Before you depart, let me at least treat you to a proper meal. A parting gift of sorts."
He turned and began to walk toward the city center. Prince Nanling followed eagerly, but the old Daoist hesitated. He felt a lingering dread whenever Jiang Dao was near. "Gang Leader," he whispered, catching up. "That... mark on your soul. Have you found a way to purge it?"
"Not yet," Jiang Dao said, his voice dropping an octave. "In fact, I'll likely need your services for several months to come. I suggest you make yourself comfortable in my city. I'll send for you when the time is right."
The Daoist's face went pale. Stay here? For months? Living under the shadow of this freak of nature? He looked at his reflection in a nearby decorative pool—the sharp corners of his forehead, the flat planes of his cheeks—and felt a fresh surge of resentment. But he knew better than to argue.
Later that afternoon, after a tense lunch where the Daoist felt the weight of every curious stare in the tavern, Prince Nanling finally departed. Once the royal procession had vanished over the horizon, Jiang Dao's demeanor shifted from host to hunter. He led the Daoist back to a private study.
"Tell me the truth, Daoist," Jiang Dao demanded, his eyes narrowing. "This mark. You said I have three months?"
"At the absolute most," the Daoist said, his voice trembling. "I wouldn't lie to you about this, Jiang Dao. The mark is a beacon. Right now, it's muffled, but it's growing. Eventually, it will scream your location to things you aren't ready to face."
"Then I leave for Yellow Wind Valley at dawn," Jiang Dao said. "But I need the layout. I need to know what I'm walking into. And before I go, you're going to mask this damn thing again."
The Daoist spent the next several hours working. First, he performed a complex ritual to weave a veil over Jiang Dao's spiritual signature, a temporary patch that felt like a cold shroud. Then, he began to sketch out the map of the Great Yu Celestial Empire.
"You have to understand," the Daoist explained, his brush dancing over the parchment. "Great Yu is not like your Great Ye Dynasty. It's a titan in its death throes. Hundreds of years ago, it was the center of the world, but the central authority has rotted away. It's a landscape of feuding Spirit-Remover clans, rogue warlords, and 'Weirdness' that hasn't been contained in centuries. It's a beautiful, blood-soaked mess."
He pointed to a jagged region to the west. "Yellow Wind Valley sits right on the border between the dying empire and the frontier. It's a half-month journey if you ride hard. But be warned: the climate there is changing. Something isn't right with the world."
Jiang Dao listened, a dark picture forming in his mind. A world of failing suns and rising shadows. An empire where the common man was nothing more than cattle for the supernatural elite. It was a grim realization: in a world this broken, strength was the only currency that didn't devalue.
That evening, Jiang Dao sat down for dinner with his father, Jiang Dalong, and the various aunts and family members who made up his inner circle. Qin Qingqing was there too, her eyes constantly drifting to him with a mix of worry and unspoken affection.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Jiang Dao announced, cutting through the chatter.
The silence that followed was heavy. Jiang Dalong dropped his chopsticks, his face aging ten years in a second. "Leaving? Where? For how long?"
"Just a trip to the Imperial borders, Father," Jiang Dao said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Three months. I've left enough men and resources here to ensure the family is safe. The Raging Flame Gang knows who they answer to."
"Three months..." his father muttered. He looked at his son, really looked at him, and realized that Jiang Dao was no longer the boy he had raised. He was something else—something harder, hotter, and infinitely more dangerous. "I suppose you have your reasons. But before you go, there's a matter of... family obligation. Do you remember your uncle in the distant provinces? We arranged a betrothal for you when you were still in diapers. The girl is of age now. I thought, perhaps, when you return..."
Jiang Dao felt a pang of annoyance. A childhood betrothal? In a world where spirits were eating children and empires were collapsing, his father was worried about a wedding?
"Father, no," Jiang Dao said firmly. "Look at the state of the world. Look at me. I've made enemies of gods and monsters. Bringing a wife into this house right now isn't a blessing; it's a death sentence for her. If you care about this girl's life, you'll write to them and break it off. Let her find a normal man. I am not... normal."
Jiang Dalong opened his mouth to argue, but the look in Jiang Dao's eyes stopped him. It wasn't just authority; it was a warning. Jiang Dao knew his own body—the internal heat, the sheer physical pressure he exerted on the world around him. He was a furnace. A normal woman wouldn't survive a week in his bed, let alone a lifetime of his shadow.
"I understand," Dalong sighed, his shoulders slumped. "I'll send word tomorrow. It's for the best, I suppose."
The journey across the frontier was a descent into a frozen hell.
A sudden, unnatural cold wave had gripped the borderlands, turning the once-fertile plains into a wasteland of jagged ice and drifting snow. Jiang Dao's caravan moved like a ghost through the whiteout. For twelve days, they pushed westward. They passed villages that had been hollowed out—not by war, but by something hungrier. Ten houses, nine of them empty. The tenth usually contained things that shouldn't be described.
Jiang Dao spent most of the trip inside his carriage, but he wasn't resting. He was a predator at a feast.
In his lap lay the Blood Demon Armor, a cursed relic that pulsed with a foul, crimson light. For twelve days, Jiang Dao had been systematically "milking" the artifact. He didn't use it; he consumed it. He reached into the armor's spiritual core and tore away its Yin energy, funneling the cold, toxic power into his own system to act as fuel for his evolution.
Inside the armor, the resident evil spirit was screaming. It was a pathetic, high-pitched wail that only Jiang Dao could hear. It had gone from a terrifying entity to a battery, its essence drained until it was nothing more than a twitching shadow.
Finally, the light in the armor's eye-slits flickered and died. It fell into a deep, forced hibernation.
System Notification: Extreme Demon Overlord Body - Threshold Reached. Modification Available.
Jiang Dao didn't hesitate. He willed the change.
A surge of agony and ecstasy ripped through his frame. His bones groaned as they became denser than steel. His muscles tightened, fibers reweaving themselves into something that resembled braided iron. His internal temperature spiked. Outside the carriage, the snow began to melt within a ten-foot radius of him.
When he finally stepped out of the carriage at a roadside tavern, he wasn't wearing a coat. He didn't need one. He was exhaling steam like a locomotive, his skin radiating a dry, scorching heat that made the very air shimmer.
He sat at a corner table in the crowded tavern, his four subordinates hovering nearby. The room was thick with the smell of cheap ale, wet wool, and fear.
"I can't take it anymore," a voice whispered from a nearby table.
Jiang Dao tuned his senses, filtering out the din. A group of four Spirit-Removers—low-level mercenaries by the look of them—were huddled together. They had cast a minor sound-dampening spell, but to Jiang Dao's enhanced ears, it was like they were speaking into a megaphone.
"Bailing Prefecture is a slaughterhouse," one of them said, his hands shaking as he gripped his mug. "It started with the lone hunters, but now entire families are disappearing. They find them in the morning, dry as husks. Not a drop of blood left in them."
"And the weather," another added. "This isn't just a cold front. I felt it when we crossed the pass—there's a malice in the wind. Something big is moving in the shadows, something that can command the sky itself."
"Yellow Wind Valley is supposed to be looking into it," the first one spat. "But they're silent. Some say the Valley Master is hiding. Others say he's the one doing the sacrifices."
Jiang Dao took a sip of his iced tea, the liquid turning lukewarm the moment it touched his lips. Bailing Prefecture. Yellow Wind Valley. He was entering a hornet's nest.
But as he felt the new, raw power thrumming through his veins—the result of his latest modification—he didn't feel fear. He felt a dark, hungry anticipation. If there was a god of the storm out there, it was about to learn that there was something much hotter and much more dangerous walking through the snow.
He didn't need to stay in the shadows for long. He just needed to get close enough to burn it all down.