The thunder faded. The hammer of iron dented. Only blood, ruin, and the stench of scorched flesh remained on the street.
Then—boots.
Dozens of them.
Figures cloaked in darkness descended from the rooftops, robes trimmed with silver, armor gleaming faintly under the moon. Forty-four in all, their movements synchronized, precise.
The crowd scattered instantly, whispers cutting short as fear sealed their throats.
One squad broke toward Xiu Mei's battlefield. In perfect formation, they struck together, silver chains unfurling like serpents. The stitched horror thrashed, bellowing as the chains wrapped tighter, suppressing its Qi, smothering the foul wails of the faces stitched to its armor.
Another shadow stepped soundlessly behind Han Jie, kneeling beside her as she worked frantically to draw blood from Shi Yang's lungs. His dark robe parted just enough to reveal a silver gauntlet, steady and sure as it pressed against Shi Yang's chest.
A pulse of energy entered him—not violent, not invasive, but firm and stabilizing. His ragged breaths eased, the bubbling in his chest lessened, and for the first time since his fall, the suffocating pressure lifted.
Han Jie's lips trembled, eyes darting to the man. "You're… helping him?"
The figure's voice was muffled under his hood, but carried a weight that silenced the street. "Is this man your Daoist partner?"
Han Jie froze. Her eyes lowered, heart pounding. "…Yes."
"No."
The voice cut sharp from above. Xiu Mei descended, face pale but unyielding, her presence still radiating the raw majesty of a newly broken Foundation cultivator. She landed heavily, glaring at Han Jie. "I am his Daoist partner."
The silver-armored man looked between the two, his gauntleted hand unmoving on Shi Yang's chest. For a heartbeat, silence stretched, the ruined street holding its breath.
Finally, his voice carried again—calm, absolute. "Then, whoever it may be, both of you will come. The City Lord's Manor requires your presence." His gaze swept the broken street, the shattered shops, the blood, and the bound horror writhing under silver chains. "We need answers. Why would a man dare to unleash such an evil technique here—controlling an entire street of innocents?"
The cloaked guards tightened their formation, sealing every exit. Their silver armor gleamed coldly, the moonlight glinting off helms and gauntlets like drawn blades.
There would be no refusal.
Han Jie held Shi Yang's unconscious body, her eyes darting around. The formations lit up. "Sorry… but I don't think that's happening." She knew that if evil arts were as frowned upon in this city as in her world, there would be no saving Shi Yang if he was brought to justice.
Shi Yang… I'll protect you, even if I have to annihilate this whole city.
Rumble! Rumble!
—
Meanwhile, Han Jie had steeled her heart, and Xiu Mei stood ready to back her up.
Elsewhere, Shi Yang's consciousness stirred.
Sunlight burned.
It didn't shine. It burned—a searing white glare stabbing through his eyelids, drilling into his skull like a nail. His head throbbed with a low, pulsing ache, and his throat was dry, sour, almost coppery. He groaned, but the sound barely rose above the noise around him.
Voices.
Shouting, muttering, jeering—muffled at first, as if underwater, then sharp and clear, like tiles shattering on stone.
"Monster!"
"Murderer!"
"Beast in human skin!"
A stone struck his cheek. The sting snapped everything into focus. Shi Yang's eyes shot open, and the world twisted like a half-finished ink painting. The sky was pale, the sun blinding as it hung low over a gray village square of cracked stone and warped wood. A crowd had gathered—dozens of faces, all sallow, weary, and marked by years of hardship. Their eyes burned with fear and hatred.
Shi Yang's arms were locked in place. Cold iron shackles bound his wrists and neck into a wooden cangue, rough and splintered against his skin. He tried to move, and pain bloomed across his shoulders. Dried blood crusted his lips. His robes—he had worn robes, hadn't he?—were gone, replaced by a filthy hemp tunic clinging to his sweat-soaked chest.
His mind reeled. Where was he?
Another stone hit him, this time on the collarbone. The crowd roared.
Then silence fell as a figure stepped forward—commanding, sharp, wrong.
She wore long yellow silk robes embroidered with silver talismans, her wide sleeves drifting like smoke as she walked. Her hair, bound high with a jade pin, gleamed white as bone, though her face was youthful, pale as carved jade. Her eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian, glared down with the authority of one who dealt with spirits. In her hand she carried a bamboo scroll bound with crimson thread.
She faced the crowd, her voice cutting like a blade:
"This man is no son of the Central Plains," she declared. "He is a madman, his heart corrupted, his dreams rotted with evil. At this moment, he is nothing but a sinner, a deceiver, a fiend who devours the living."
"Last night, beneath Heaven's gaze, he ensnared young Lianhua, the only daughter of Madam Bai, who runs the Fragrant Lotus Pavilion."
The crowd hissed. Someone screamed.
"He whispered false affection, lured her to a secluded place, and when her awakening rites began—he cut her open! He drew his blade across her womb, reaching into her living body to tear free her bones and drain her essence!"
"No!" Shi Yang rasped, but his voice cracked and failed. The wood bit deeper as he pulled against it.
"She was eighteen!" the yellow-robed sorceress cried, her voice breaking with fury. "He slaughtered a child—a budding sorceress—for blood and power, chasing after a corrupted ritual of false immortality!"
The crowd howled. Another rock struck his temple. Blood ran into his eye.
Shi Yang trembled, panting. His last memory was—
Han Jie. Her soft breath. The taste of blood. The fall.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't Willowshade.
This was somewhere else.
"Burn him!" someone shrieked.
"Skin him alive!"
"Hang him by the ankles and let the crows eat!"
The woman's voice dropped low, venomous. "You will answer, heretic. For your crimes against the Circle, the land, and the sacred decrees of the Flame Moon Sect."
Behind her, men in leather aprons advanced, carrying hooks and rusted blades.
Shi Yang's fingers clenched. He was still weak, his Qi flickering like a dying ember. But deep within, something stirred—a pressure coiled beneath his dantian. Faint. Almost gone. But there.
He gritted his teeth.
If this was a dream, it was cruel. If it wasn't… he was going to tear his way free.
Even if he had to kill every last one of them.
His vision tunneled. His body barely held, but his cultivator's mind stirred beneath the haze.
This was no illusion. His Qi was real, faint as it was. It flickered inside him like embers in a cracked brazier.
The cangue at his neck was thick oak, soaked with sweat and blood. The iron pressed deep, but it was the wood that held him. He couldn't break it with strength alone. Not now.
But Qi… Qi could be forced. Qi could be weaponized.
He closed his eyes.
Dantian. Lower sea. Anchor the breath.
He inhaled, sinking everything into his core. His meridians screamed, brittle and frayed, but they held. Barely. Just enough.
He pushed. Slowly at first—then harder. Condensing blood, Qi, and breath into a single point, into the hollow of his throat.
He thought of rivers dammed behind mountains.Of thunder locked in jars.
Build it. Hold it. Feed it. Now.
The crowd's cries faded under the roar of blood in his ears. The executioner, a brute in rusted lamellar, approached with his axe resting on his shoulder. His boots thudded on the scaffold. The sorceress raised her hand.
"Let justice be done."
The axe lifted.
Shi Yang released.
A burst of scarlet light tore up his spine, past his heart, and exploded from his throat—Qi and blood fused into a single, bladed force.
With a sickening crack, the wood split apart. Splinters burst outward like shrapnel. The shackles snapped, not by strength, but by the precision of his self-forged rupture.
The axe began to fall.
Shi Yang surged upward with a feral scream, catching the haft mid-swing.
The crowd gasped, stumbling back.
The executioner was too slow. Shi Yang twisted, wrenched the axe free, and rammed the butt of the weapon into the man's chest. Bone cracked. The brute folded like paper.
Still crouched, his vision swimming, Shi Yang felt his body tearing apart inside. But he was free.
One second. Two.
He seized the moment.
The sorceress stepped back, her lips already forming a chant. Shi Yang flung the axe—
Not at her.
At the banner's rope.
The cord snapped, the execution drape collapsing in a storm of dust.
He dived into it, rolling off the scaffold, yanking a guard down as cover. A thrown blade struck harmlessly into the man's back. Shi Yang didn't stop moving.
They hate cultivators here, he realized. Or worse—they know what I did. Or what they think I did…
But now was not the time.
A guard lunged—Shi Yang swept the man's leg with the axe, bone crunching. Another swung from behind—Shi Yang caught it on the haft, then kicked his gut, buying space.
Pain burned his ribs. He'd been cut, but he didn't falter.
There were too many. He couldn't win. But he didn't need to.
He needed to run.
Shi Yang bolted into the crowd.
They scattered, screaming, as he tore through like a blood-soaked specter. Some tried to grab him. Others dropped to their knees, wailing curses.
The world blurred. He ducked beneath a drying cloth, sprinted through an alley of piss-soaked mud and warped beams, vaulted a child dragging a broken cart.
His Qi was gone, burned to ash. But his instincts remained.
By the time the sorceress's men reached the alley's end, Shi Yang had already vanished—limping, bleeding, but alive.
And more furious than ever.