Shi Yang stumbled into the crumbling shell of a two-story building, its windows broken and the door half-rotted off its hinges. It reeked of mold, piss, and old smoke—perfect. He slammed the door shut with the blunt edge of the axe, then staggered deeper into the dark, boots scraping over warped wooden planks.
His breath tore in and out of his lungs like sand through a sieve. Every limb screamed. His vision pulsed at the edges, dimming. He leaned against the wall, smearing blood across aged brick, then sank to the floor, the axe still clenched in one shaking hand.
Silence.
Outside, he could still hear the panic—the cries, the bells, the screams.
But inside, the air was still. Dust floated in thin beams of light breaking through a crack in the ceiling. He let himself breathe.
Then—pain.
A spike, sudden and sharp, drove straight through the center of his skull. His eyes rolled back. He gritted his teeth, dropping the axe with a heavy clang as his hands clutched at the sides of his head.
And then—
Memories.
They came not in words, but in jagged, dripping sensations. Like glass dragged across flesh.
A girl's moan in the dark. Soft laughter. Wine. Heat. Then—blood.
A scream cut off.
The taste of iron. The sticky warmth of gore. The snapping of bone.
Shi Yang shuddered. His lips parted, a strangled breath escaping.
He had done it.
This body—his body now—had taken that girl to bed. Had pressed kisses to her throat. Had murmured false sweetness in the crook of her ear.
And when she was lost in it, trembling, trusting—
He tore her open.
He remembered her womb. How he'd cut it free. How he'd carved into her back. How he'd whispered words he thought were a ritual. To steal her power. To consume her magic.
He had believed—half-mad, desperate—that it would make him stronger. That sleeping with her and gutting her would pass her gift to him.
And then… nothing. A blank wall. Darkness.
The next moment, he'd woken on the executioner's stage.
These were the scenes I saw through my Dao… This was the manifestation he had witnessed when he was desperate to save Han Jie and Xiu Mei, replayed as memories:
The walls around him shifted—curtains draping, parting only for the moon. The bed creaked. His eyes burned with madness as he thrust into a maiden's fair lips.
A girl sprawled beneath him—hazelnut hair spilling across the mattress, her body rocked with his relentless movements.
"Ahh~" her mouth opened, her soft voice spilling free.
He grunted, feeling her tightening.
"That's it, you're finally getting better at this~" he moaned in ecstasy, his fingers finding the pink peaks of her mounds, drawing louder moans as he showed her the pleasures of womanhood. Her eyes locked with his, before lowering to watch his member piston into her burning warmth.
He pinched her nipples, making her insides clench and her toes curl. Her back arched, tingling under dual stimulation.
"Yin… Yin Shi," she gasped, arms wrapping tight around his back.
Twitch—twitching.
Her thighs quivered, and he smiled, pistoning harder, faster, cutting through her dripping walls and burying himself deep as he timed his release with hers.
"Ahhhhhh~~" Lianhua's eyes rolled back, showing only white, as a great flood burst against Yin Shi's legs. Her vision blurred to haze, nails tearing his back the only thing anchoring her to reality.
—
Shi Yang sat still, his mind digesting what he had just seen as the building returned to normal. His eyes flickered about, breath shallow, head throbbing.
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the beam overhead.
"So," he whispered, voice hoarse. "I really am the bad guy in this world?"
A soft laugh escaped him. Then another. It echoed in the quiet ruin, cold and sharp.
He rubbed his face with bloody fingers. "A real bastard, huh? Killing girls for power… did I even know her name?"
No answer. His own silence damned him.
He laughed again, louder this time. "Should I turn myself in? Let them hang me properly?"
He looked aside, smirking.
"No way in hell."
Then, like a man punched in the gut, he sagged forward. His strength collapsed all at once. Every part of him screamed for rest. For silence. For oblivion.
And so, with the axe by his side and blood crusting his chest, Shi Yang let his head fall back against the wall and slipped into sleep again.
But this time, he dreamed with red fingers.
The darkness of the ruin thickened as Shi Yang drifted, but his rest did not last.
The sound came first—low, steady, padded steps outside the door. Not boots. Not men. Too soft. Too careful.
His eyes cracked open. His grip fumbled for the axe.
The door creaked.
Two yellow eyes gleamed in the gloom. A black panther slid through the doorway, its body rippling with shadow. Its fur drank the light, edges blurring like smoke, yet its claws clicked sharp on the wood.
Shi Yang forced himself upright. His knees nearly buckled, but he braced the axe against the floor, using it to steady himself.
The beast hissed, lips curling back to reveal fangs wet with spittle.
Then it pounced.
The world narrowed to teeth and shadow. Shi Yang swung the axe upward, catching the panther mid-leap. Steel scraped fur. Pain jolted up his arm as the beast's weight slammed into him. They crashed back into the wall, wood splintering.
The panther's claws raked across his chest. His breath tore free in a ragged cry. He shoved with all his strength, forcing the axe haft between its jaws as it snapped, drool dripping hot onto his face.
"Damn—" His teeth clenched. His arms shook. "You're not taking me yet!"
The panther's strength was monstrous, far beyond any natural creature. He tried to shove it off, but his legs gave way, his back sliding across the floorboards as the weight pressed him down.
The axe haft began to crack.
Shi Yang's vision blurred. His Qi was gone. His body was broken. He was going to be torn apart by a witch's pet.
And then—
The world stilled.
The panther froze mid-snap, fangs inches from his throat. Its eyes were wide, pupils dilated, breath suspended in its chest. Not dead. Not lifeless. Just… stopped.
All sound cut out. The scurrying rats. The distant bells. Even his own heartbeat seemed to stagger.
Shi Yang's head tilted, gaze dragging upward—toward the shattered window.
It was there again.
The vulture.
Perched on the broken frame, feathers slick with blood, talons pressed into the wood as if pinning the world itself in place. Thousands of threads of crimson silk dangled from its beak, swaying in an invisible wind.
Shi Yang trembled. His hand still clutched the axe, but the weapon felt like a child's toy before that sight.
The vulture turned its head, one eye rolling to meet his.
It didn't speak. It didn't move.
But intent poured into him—cold, absolute.
Run.
Shi Yang swallowed hard. His throat burned raw, but he forced air into his chest, forced his body to obey.
He shoved the frozen panther aside, stumbling to his feet. Every step was agony, but the silence carried him, the stillness cushioning his broken body.
He didn't question it. He couldn't.
He staggered to the back of the ruin, shouldered through rotted boards, and fell into the alley beyond. His knees struck mud, his palms scraped stone, but he kept crawling, kept dragging himself forward.
Behind him, the panther remained locked in place. And above, through shattered glass, the vulture watched.
Only when the shadows between buildings swallowed him, when distant shouts began to rise again, did the threads of silence snap.
The world resumed.
The witches would find the ruin. They would see the broken beast, the frozen claw marks, the shattered wood.
But Shi Yang was already gone—bleeding, broken, furious.
And for the first time, terrified not of his enemies, but of himself.