A cluster of crude cottages stands close together, their roofs uneven, their walls patched with bark and rough planks.
A wooden palisade encircles the settlement, sharpened stakes driven deep into the soil.
Beyond it, ancient trees loom, their canopies sealing the camp inside a deep forest where sunlight barely reaches the ground.
Merin stands at the forest's edge.
Behind him are his team members.
Further back, a full squadron of city guard fans out silently, encircling the camp in a wide arc.
Armour is dulled.
Weapons are held low.
No banners are raised.
The camp is surrounded.
Merin steps closer and stands beside the captain of the city guard squadron, a seasoned officer with a scar running across his cheek.
They speak in low voices.
Merin gestures toward the palisade, then to the forest beyond, calmly outlining the approach.
No frontal charge.
No fire.
Seal the exits first.
Take the camp intact.
The captain listens carefully, nodding as Merin finishes.
Three days have passed since the northern tribesmen left Merin's estate.
Everything that followed unfolded exactly as Merin had planned.
The very next day, the Mammoth Tribe formally entered the administrative building of the city and submitted a petition to become a vassal of the Song Kingdom.
The court, eager to calm the already fragile northern border, processed the request with unusual speed.
Within a single day, the review passed.
The Mammoth Tribe officially became a vassal of the Song Kingdom.
Protected by Song law, they immediately filed a formal case regarding the captured women.
Because the northern border had only recently been settled after years of conflict, the court treated the matter with extreme seriousness.
Orders were issued.
Ding San was arrested.
So were all the senior leaders of the Black Dog Gang.
However, not all were caught.
A few escaped in the chaos.
Among them was the bald gang member with the scarred arm.
Merin allowed it.
Now, that man is here.
Hidden inside this forest camp.
Merin brings his team members and a full squadron of city guards forward, closing in on the compound ahead.
He studies the layout with a single glance.
Four watchtowers stand at the four corners of the wooden wall.
Two more flank the main gate.
Six watchtowers in total.
Two guards on each.
"Twelve sentries," Merin says calmly.
"We must take the watchtowers first before storming the compound."
"And they must be taken out at the same time."
The squadron captain follows Merin's gaze and exhales slowly.
"That will be difficult."
Before anyone can suggest an alternative—
Fire erupts inside the compound.
Flames leap up from one of the inner structures, licking the night sky.
Shouts explode from within.
"Intruder!"
"Fire!"
"Get inside—now!"
The guards on the watchtowers turn their heads toward the commotion, attention snapping inward.
Merin's eyes sharpen.
This chance will not come again.
"Attack!" Merin shouts.
He bursts from cover, sprinting forward without hesitation.
This is not only about destroying the gang.
There are captives inside.
Rescuing them will bring additional merit.
Merin feels nothing stir in his chest at the thought of lives.
His age and cultivation have long stripped such attachments away.
He acts for the benefit.
Only benefit.
That is the same mindset that once led him to fall into demonic cultivation—
the same path that ended with the massacre of Jinji City.
Arrows whistle down from the watchtowers.
Merin dodges cleanly, his steps precise.
He slashes mid-run, knocking aside incoming shafts with his sword as sparks fly off the blade.
Near the wall, he plants a foot against the timber and runs upward.
Two quick pulls.
His hands catch the ledges of the watchtower beside the gate.
With a sharp motion, he vaults inside.
His kick lands squarely in the chest of one guard, sending the man flying out of the tower with a broken cry.
Merin grabs the second guard instantly, yanking him forward.
Arrows from the opposite gate tower slam into the man's body instead.
Wood splinters.
Blood sprays.
Merin uses the collapsing body as cover, his eyes already shifting toward the next threat as the compound erupts into chaos.
Shouts rise from every direction.
Footsteps pound the ground.
The fire inside the compound crackles louder, painting the night with flickering orange light.
Merin's grip tightens around the dying guard.
His gaze drops for a split second.
A small knife hangs from the man's waistband.
Without hesitation, Merin frees one hand, pulls the knife loose, and snaps his wrist.
The blade whistles through the air.
It is precise.
Cold.
Unavoidable.
The knife buries itself deep into the eye of a guard standing in the opposite watchtower.
The man does not even scream.
He collapses instantly, lifeless, his body slumping against the railing.
The remaining guard freezes in shock.
That moment is enough.
Merin shoves the dying guard outward, hurling the body off the watchtower.
Before it even hits the ground, Merin is already moving.
He leaps.
His body clears the gap between the towers, landing hard but controlled inside the second watchtower.
The surviving guard reacts late, swinging his weapon wildly.
Merin steps aside with mechanical precision.
There is no wasted movement.
No hesitation.
His blade flashes once.
The guard's neck opens in a clean line.
Blood sprays against the wooden wall as the man collapses, hands clutching uselessly at his throat.
Merin does not look back.
He moves immediately.
He cannot release his Dao here.
Not in this body.
Not with this cultivation.
Even in this world, his Dao is sealed.
But the Dao is his.
It is carved into his existence.
He does not need to manifest it to understand battle.
He once released his Dao to amplify himself against beings who were gods to entire worlds.
Compared to those enemies—
Everyone here is nothing.
Ants.
Merin steps over the corpse and picks up the fallen crossbow.
He turns.
Below him, the compound is in complete disarray.
Gang members rush toward the inner buildings.
City guards pour through the gate.
Steel clashes with steel.
Cries of pain and rage mix together.
Merin raises the crossbow.
He fires.
A bolt slams into a man's throat.
Another shot.
A bolt punches through a chest.
Each pull of the trigger takes a life.
No hesitation.
No missed shots.
Merin adjusts his aim with calm efficiency, eliminating targets that threaten the guards or move toward the inner compound.
Then he notices something odd.
Among the fighters is a man not wearing guard armour.
He moves with urgency, not discipline.
This man is not part of Merin's team.
He must be the one who set the fire.
Merin tracks him instinctively.
Moments later, the man is intercepted by a gang member.
The gang member moves fast.
Too fast.
The man is driven back, barely able to defend himself.
Two city guards rush in to help—
And are immediately overwhelmed.
Crimson light pulses beneath their skin.
Merin reads it at a glance.
The guards and the man are Blood Seal realm, first to third stage.
The gang member's crimson glow is deeper.
Fourth to sixth stage.
Merin's eyes narrow.
He lowers the crossbow.
Then he jumps.
The fall from the watchtower is controlled.
He lands, rolls once, and sprints.
He does not care about the man who helped ignite the compound.
That man is irrelevant.
But the city guard captain is there.
If the captain dies—
Merin's merit will be cut.
That cannot happen.
Merin closes the distance just as the gang member raises his weapon to deliver a killing blow.
Merin's sword swings up.
Steel collides with steel.
The impact reverberates through Merin's arm, pressure slamming into his shoulder.
The difference in raw strength is clear.
But strength alone does not decide battles.
Merin shifts his footing, rotating his wrist, redirecting the force along the blade.
The pressure bleeds away.
He steps in.
The gang member snarls and attacks again.
Merin moves like a machine.
His sword flashes.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Cuts appear across the gang member's body before pain even registers.
Blood sprays.
Merin slips inside the man's guard, twisting his wrist sharply.
The gang member's sword flies from his hand.
Merin kicks it away without looking.
Then he strikes.
A sharp kick takes the man's leg out from under him.
The gang member crashes to the ground.
Merin follows him down.
His knee slams onto the man's neck.
Bone cracks.
The gang member chokes, hands clawing uselessly at Merin's leg.
Merin applies pressure.
Controlled.
Exact.
The man is subdued.
Merin looks up, eyes scanning the battlefield again.
The chaos continues.
But the balance has shifted.
Seeing their leader subdued, the remaining gang members lose their will to fight.
One by one, weapons fall to the ground.
Hands rise.
Voices crack as they surrender.
The city guards move in swiftly, binding them and securing the compound.
A thorough search begins.
Behind a concealed wooden door, hidden beneath stacked crates and animal hides, a dungeon is discovered.
Merin enters first.
The air inside is thick and metallic.
Torches reveal rows of cells carved directly into the earth.
Inside them hang women.
Chains bite into wrists and ankles, suspending their bodies against the stone walls.
Most are unconscious.
All are pale.
Merin steps closer.
He studies their bone structure carefully.
Thicker bones.
Denser frames.
Northern tribes.
But he cannot tell which tribe they belong to.
Mammoth or otherwise.
Two tubes pierce each woman.
One feeds a pale, nutritious slurry into their bodies.
The other draws blood steadily into sealed containers.
Merin's eyes harden.
He does not wake them.
Instead, he moves methodically.
One by one, he removes the blood tubes.
Blood drips briefly before he seals the wounds.
He tears cloth into strips and bandages each injury with care.
Then he orders guards to lower the women gently and lay them on makeshift beds fashioned from cloaks and straw.
He sends a messenger back to the city.
Doctors.
More guards.
Transport wagons.
The fire inside the compound is extinguished.
The forest grows quiet again.
At dawn, Merin returns to the inner building.
There, he finds the gang leader dead.
The man slumps against a table.
A glass lies shattered at his feet.