The rainy night was the perfect shroud for killing, the finest breeding ground for sin.
Ling Ye, carrying the blood-stained executioner's cleaver he'd taken from his foe, moved like a ghost blending into the shadows. Using his intimate knowledge of the city's alleys and the strange affinity for darkness granted by the *Crimson Asura Art*, he slipped silently to the base of the manor's towering side wall.
The scorching energy of the Art still raged within him. The agonizing backlash and the pain from his fresh wounds relentlessly assaulted his nerves, but were forcibly suppressed by a stronger, ice-cold will of hatred. One of the Art's traits was clear: the deeper the pain, the fiercer the hatred, and the more devastating the power unleashed.
The high wall was an insurmountable obstacle for ordinary men, but not for Ling Ye, now flooded with unnatural strength. He took a deep breath—the very air seeming to taste of blood and cinders—planted his foot on the wet, slippery surface, and pushed off. His body felt unexpectedly light. He scaled the wall with the agility of a cat, his eyes coldly scanning the manor's layout before dropping soundlessly into the grounds and vanishing behind a thick cluster of shrubs.
From the direction of the main hall in the front courtyard came the faint sounds of music and the clamor of a feast. In contrast, the guards in the inner courtyard seemed lax, their vigilance softened by the rain and the distant revelry. Only a few patrols of retainers walked their rounds with routine boredom.
Ling Ye's gaze, like that of the most patient hunter, swept over the elegant pavilions and buildings. It quickly locked onto a particularly opulent, free-standing two-story building deep within the inner compound. It was brightly lit, with shadowy figures moving behind the windows—fitting for a wastrel young master.
Like a gecko, he stuck to the shadows along the walls, using pillars and plants for cover, perfectly avoiding the patrols. In a few breaths, he had reached the building's window like a phantom.
Warm light shone through the papered window. A familiar, loathsome voice, slurred with drink and dissatisfaction, came through clearly:
"Damn it all! Such foul luck! Just for playing a bit rough with some commoner girl, Uncle has me stuck in this wretched place! And that old fool, daring to raise a hand against me… got what he deserved! And that little bastard got away… just wait until this blows over, I'll skin him alive…"
It was the young master's voice!
Outside the window, Ling Ye's body went rigid. A killing intent, cold as a physical arctic blast, spread out from him, seeming to still the very rain around him for an instant. Those casual, venomous words, each one a poisoned needle, stabbed deep into his heart, shattering the last possible shred of hesitation.
*This* scum! *He* was the one who destroyed everything! The blood debt of his parents was rendered utterly insignificant in this whining complaint!
Ling Ye's fingers clenched white-knuckled. The cleaver's hilt creaked softly in his grip. He fought down the impulse to charge in and dismember the other immediately. A remnant of reason told him to wait for the perfect moment.
Inside, the lamplight flickered. The young master, seemingly quite drunk, remained unaware of the death waiting outside. He cursed, took another swig of wine, and waved at a pretty maid attending him. "Get out and see if those lazy brats are slacking off again. Why is the light flickering?"
The maid timidly acknowledged the order and shuffled towards the door.
The moment she opened it and peeked out—
Ling Ye flicked his finger. A thread of incredibly fine, concentrated energy shot out like an invisible dart, striking the room's lamp wick with pinpoint accuracy.
*Puff!*
The room's only light source died. Darkness instantly swallowed everything.
"Huh? What's going on? Who put out the lamp? Get the fire striker!" The young master's grumble rose in the darkness, tinged with drunken irritation and a trace of barely perceptible panic.
The maid, also startled, hurriedly pulled her head back, fumbling blindly.
Absolute darkness provided the perfect stage for the hunter.
A cold, hoarse, utterly emotionless voice, as if emanating from the deepest abyss, spoke abruptly from the center of the room:
The name hung in the air.
Just two syllables, yet the temperature in the stuffy room seemed to plummet.
"Who?! Who's there?! Show yourself!" He jolted, sobering up instantly. His voice was a sharp scream, full of blustering fear. He strained his eyes, desperately trying to adjust to the dark, vaguely making out a blurred, darker-than-dark human silhouette standing in the middle of the room.
The maid let out a short shriek and slumped to the floor in a dead faint.
"Let me remind you," the icy voice continued, slow, deliberate, and clear, like a tolling funeral bell. "West District. The Ling family."
It felt like a sledgehammer hit his head! This matter… he thought he'd buried it with power and bloodshed… How could… Who was this?!
"You… are you man or ghost?! Did that family hire you?!" His voice trembled violently, his hands and feet ice-cold. He instinctively shrank back towards his bed, scrambling blindly for a weapon.
"Me?" The voice held a trace of terrifying, cat-and-mouse mockery. "I'm here… to collect a blood debt."
Before the words faded, the shadow moved!
Faster than his eyes could follow! He only felt a foul wind rush at his face, carrying a faint, nauseating smell of blood and scorched flesh!
The next instant, an indescribable agony erupted in his right wrist!
*CRACK—!*
The sickeningly crisp sound of breaking bone exploded in the dark room.
"AHHH—!!!" He let out a heart-rending shriek. His right wrist shattered under the brutal stomp of a foot clad in a worn straw sandal! Shards of bone pierced through the skin!
"That," the voice remained cold, devoid of any fluctuation, as if stating a simple fact, "was for my father."
Before he could catch his breath from the pain, the foot lifted and stomped down again! Target: his left kneecap!
*CRACK—!*
Another horrifying shatter!
"That was for my mother!"
His scream cut off. The pain nearly made him black out instantly. He lay on the cold floor like a sack of rotten meat, face smeared with snot, tears, and cold sweat, his body convulsing violently from the extreme agony.
Ling Ye grabbed his sweat-soaked hair and dragged him roughly, like a dead dog, to the redwood desk in the corner. He picked up the brush and ink and shoved them into his only still-functional left hand.
"Write." The command was brief and cruel.
"W-write what? Sir… spare me… I'll give you anything…" He blubbered, words tumbling out incoherently, his will utterly shattered by overwhelming terror.
"Your confession. Word for word. How you beat the father to death in prison. Sent men to kill the mother. Wiped out the family." The voice brooked no argument, each word an ice-pick.
"N-no… I can't… writing that is my death warrant…" A lingering fear of his family's power made him struggle.
*CRACK!* Ling Ye didn't hesitate. He snapped one of the fingers on his left hand!
Agony, sharp and piercing, shot through him. He gasped, nearly losing consciousness.
"I'll write! I'll write! I'll write!" Ultimate pain finally crushed his last vestige of hope. With a trembling, twisted left hand, he dipped his fingers in his own blood and the ink, and, under the cold dictation, scrawled line after crooked line detailing his heinous crimes. Each stroke was laden with fear, blood, and despair.
After writing the final line, he collapsed completely, limp like stinking, rotten meat on the floor, reduced to unconscious twitching and pleas. "Spare me… I beg you… I have money… lots of money… I know where the vault is… women… power… it's all yours…"
Ling Ye picked up the paper filled with sin and terror. By the occasional flash of lightning outside, he read it carefully, word by word. Every character was soaked in his family's blood.
Then, he leaned down, close to the young master's ear, and spoke in an extremely calm tone, one more soul-shattering than any roar:
"Keep those. For your enjoyment in the underworld."
His pupils contracted to pinpricks! Boundless terror swallowed him whole!
The next instant, a cold blade swept past!
The world spun in his vision. The last thing he saw was his own headless body, gushing blood, and that shadowy figure standing over him like a demon god.
Ling Ye looked at the corpse. No emotion stirred in his eyes, only a deathly, frozen stillness. He took the confession and, with the tip of the cleaver, nailed it firmly to the most prominent decorative silk screen in the room!
With that done, his gaze fell on the candle holder. He walked over, picked it up, and touched the flame to the expensive gauze curtains, the fine drapes…
*Whoosh!*
Flames spread rapidly, greedily devouring everything combustible. Orange tongues of fire licked at the darkness, illuminating his blood-and-rain-streaked profile in flickering light.
A towering inferno soon erupted from the building, tearing through the rainy night!
"Fire! Fire!"
"The Young Master's courtyard!"
"Help! Someone!"
Cries of alarm, chaotic footsteps, the sound of water being thrown, women's screams—instantly shattered the manor's peace and shook the entire city.
The architect of this chaos and death had long since, like a phantom, used the cover of flame and rain to scale the high wall soundlessly and vanish into the vast darkness.
He stood in the shadows of a taller, abandoned bell tower in the distance, gazing down at the chaotic fire below. The rain lashed his face, unable to wash away the bone-deep chill and the pervasive scent of blood.
A personal debt had been repaid, but the void and hatred within him had not lessened. Instead, it had grown deeper, tempered by this bloody slaughter. There was no warmth left in this world worth clinging to.
He took a piece of coarse cloth torn from his already ruined clothes and tied it over the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible—eyes that now shone with a cold, eerie light, utterly devoid of human warmth.
From this day on, the youth who had once clutched three copper coins dreaming of medicine for his father ceased to exist.
What lived on was the one who had crawled out from a sea of blood and hellfire, destined to keep wielding his butcher's blade against this unjust world…
The Faceless One.
The next day, news of the young master's brutal murder and the manor fire spread through the city like a plague, reaching even to the prefecture and beyond.
Commoners clapped their hands in secret delight. In taverns, tea houses, and alleyways, people exchanged knowing looks and hushed, excited whispers.
"Did you hear? That damned bastard got his retribution last night! Died horribly!"
"Heaven has eyes! No… the Faceless One has eyes! I heard he left his name!"
"Serves him right! That scourge should have died long ago! I wonder which hero did the deed?"
The nobility and wealthy merchants, however, grew fearful. They doubled or tripled their household guards. The watchman's clappers sounded more frequently at night. An unspoken panic filled the air.
The City Lord's mansion was furious. Constables and bailiffs were deployed in full force. The city was placed under strict martial law. They conducted widespread searches, interrogating anyone suspicious, but failed to find even a single hair of the culprit, resorting to arresting local thugs to fill quotas.
Meanwhile, in the West District, inside the city garrison of the imperial enforcement agency, a young patrol officer stood quietly before a desk.
His name was Ye Zhiqiu.
He wore dark, close-fitting martial attire and carried a narrow-bladed longsword at his waist. His expression was stern, his eyes sharp as an eagle's.
Spread before him were the first-hand reports from the magistrate and the manor, summaries of the autopsy findings, and a carefully made rubbing of that eerie, featureless symbol.
His fingers, long and powerful, tapped the desk rhythmically. His gaze skipped the formulaic official language, focusing instead on the descriptions of the culprit's methods, the residual energy, and the ritualistic, chilling atmosphere of the crime scene.
The report mentioned strange burns and corrosive marks on the wounds, terrifying strength far exceeding the norm, and an icy, penetrating killing intent.
"Residual energy of the Art… Such heavy resentment. Such ruthless, brutal methods…" he murmured to himself, his sword-like brows slightly furrowed. Yet, his sharp eyes held not just gravity, but also a faint, flickering trace of keen interest.
"It seems a powerful new player has entered the city's stagnant waters… Or perhaps," his gaze fell back on the rubbing, "a man-eating beast, crawled out from a hellish sea of blood?"
"The Faceless One…" he read the name that was beginning to circulate secretly among the commoners, the name that made the nobility lose sleep. His eyes were sharp as blades, as if trying to pierce through the paper and see the figure hidden behind the mist.
Outside the window, the rain had stopped at some point, but the sky remained overcast and oppressive.
Ye Zhiqiu walked to the window, looking out towards the undulating, danger-concealing mountain range beyond the city.
"We'll meet soon enough," he said softly, his tone calm, yet carrying the certainty of a hunter who has locked onto his prey.