Shi Yang eventually slid the parchment scroll into the inner fold of his robes and turned toward the chest sitting near the wall. His hands brushed over the wood, feeling its sturdiness, the metal hinges, and the weight of what lay within.
"How much can I sell these boxes for?" he muttered, fingers drumming lightly against the lid. His lips curved with a faint sigh. "I do need a new sword, after all…"
The curtains stirred as a draft slipped into the room, the soft flutter of cloth matching the restless flicker of his thoughts. He was still measuring possibilities when the door slammed open and hurried footsteps stormed up the pavilion's floor.
"Brother Shi!" Han Jie's voice trembled, her face pale as she rushed inside. Panic glittered in her eyes as she scanned every corner of the chamber. "Were you really confronted by enforcement?"
"They left," Shi Yang said simply. He flicked a spirit stone her way; it clinked against her palm before she could catch her breath. "They left these for us. And it seems like our friend from last night—was, or still is, the City Lord."
Both Han Jie and Xiu Mei froze, shock flashing across their faces. Wei Kunshan—the drunken cultivator, the fool lolling in a wine-soaked haze—how could he possibly…? Yet Shi Yang's voice left little room for dismissal.
"He could either be a clone, or a puppet," Shi Yang went on, his tone low, matter-of-fact. "Something the City Lord—or someone close to him—uses to trail us, to listen, to weigh our words and deeds. Last night wasn't chance. It was a measure, a test to twist into their own conclusions."
He paused, eyes narrowing, before murmuring, "And I'm certain we survived this morning by whim alone."
The weight of his words fell heavy. Han Jie's lips parted, then pressed thin before she finally spoke, her voice taut. "It's a strategic threat. They're showing us… they can find us anywhere, Brother Shi. End us whenever they please."
Shi Yang nodded once. He looked at the two of them, his gaze sharp, unblinking. "Are you fine with that?"
Xiu Mei shifted uncomfortably, clutching at her sleeve, and Han Jie's hands curled into fists at her sides. Neither answered. They didn't need to—Shi Yang could read it plainly in their eyes.
"Of course you're not," he said, softer but no less firm. "And there's a reason I didn't just make you pack and leave. I want to try something in this town."
He turned away, walking toward the window. The wooden floor creaked beneath his measured steps. "I have a strange talent," he admitted, voice low but steady. "For grasping techniques I have no business touching. Sometimes… I can pull apart the threads of things I shouldn't even glimpse."
Reaching the tall window, he pushed the shutter open with a flick of his wrist. Cool daylight spilled in, bathing his figure in pale fire. Below, the street bustled with carriages, hawkers, and passersby. The city lived on, unaware of storms brewing above.
Shi Yang raised two fingers, pressing them lightly to the softness of his cheek, to the faint pad of fat beneath the skin. His eyes narrowed, his Qi stirring as if coaxed by the rhythm of his blood.
"Let's see," he murmured, lips tightening in focus. "Just how far I can push this…"
A ripple shivered across his flesh. Slowly, impossibly, the fat shifted under his fingers—not by muscle, but by will, guided by the faint pulse of his Dao of Blood.
Five days slipped past like the steady drip of water off a cliff. The storm that had once roared inside Shi Yang had not quieted; it had only been bent, turned, and focused into something tangible.
That very morning after his confrontation—when the noose had tightened around his throat and he realized just how close to the blade's edge he stood—he had begun his first plan.
It started with a simple question. Shi Yang asked Han Jie if she needed three middle-grade spirit stones to create a lightning array strong enough to turn beasts to ash. Her lips quirked with faint amusement as she shook her head.
"No need," she said. "I can carve ten thunder arrays from just one."
So Shi Yang pressed two stones into her palm, keeping her prepared, and handed the third to Xiu Mei. "Pawn this. Twenty gold should be enough."
That gold went directly into the lease of a hollow, dust-filled building along one of Yuefen's busier lanes. By the next sunrise, a new signboard hung crookedly above its door, ink still fresh:
Glory Clinic.
Beneath the bold title, brushstrokes announced the charges:
Breast Crafting: starting bid eight copper
Feminization: starting bid five copper
Fat Distribution: starting bid five copper
Complete Body Refinement (all three procedures in one): starting bid one silver
Shi Yang's methods were crude yet exact—more intimate than any sculptor's chisel, more invasive than any apothecary's salve. Where others relied on herbs and pills, he wielded his Dao of Blood like a scalpel, coaxing, reshaping, redistributing what the body already carried.
To draw attention, he made a display of his companions. Xiu Mei—and, to a lesser degree, Han Jie, who had always walked a thin line—no longer dressed in plain men's garb. He painted their lips, shaded their eyes, padded their robes, and with a few subtle pulses of Qi, enhanced their curves until their breasts strained as much as possible against silk. They stood outside the shopfront with lowered gazes and painted cheeks, beautiful in a way that drew sidelong stares.
At first, there was only mockery. A few men sneered, others whispered crude jokes, assuming it was nothing more than stuffed garments and skin papers pressed tight against their chests. Yet curiosity had teeth. Whispers spread—of the two delicate figures outside, of the stranger within who could sculpt flesh like clay.
Within five days, the clinic had drawn its first true trickle of customers. One a day, cautious at first, male consorts began slipping behind the painted door, intrigue marking their bows as curiosity drew them in.
They left changed. A cup size larger, their chests swelling with the softness they craved. Their jaws thinned, cheekbones higher, faces smoothed into something prettier, easier on the eye.
This quickly drew the eyes of onlookers. When a few tried to slip inside, they were turned away. Shi Yang had set his rules clearly: the clinic would accept no more than four daoists a day. The sole exception was for those who had won the auction for the Complete Body Refinement package—an all-encompassing procedure carried out across multiple sessions. Aside from that, nothing could compel him to exceed the number of surgeries he chose to put on the block.
Afterward, the Glory Clinic earned a flood of attention. Practitioners, courtesans, and consorts from Yuefen's red pavilions all found themselves whispering about the new clinic that accepted no more than four patrons each day, where entry was won only through a morning bid, as though at auction.
Some scoffed, calling his rules unjust. Yet for the desperate of Yuefen—those crushed beneath the shadow of the Sage's decree of female extinction—it was enough. Each cut, each reshaping was practice. Every drop of blood and ripple of Qi honed the features of his clients, while sharpening his control until it was keener than any sword.
And more importantly, it was proof of what his Dao could become.
The morning in Yuefen broke clear and sharp, the air tinged with the crisp bite of autumn. Vendors had only just begun setting their wares along the cobbled streets, and the fragrance of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine drifted from nearby stalls. Yet it was not the food, nor the usual bustle of merchants, that had gathered people along this lane.
At the end of the street stood a freshly painted signboard—its bold brushstrokes proclaiming: Glory Clinic. The building itself was plain timber, two stories tall, with lattice windows and a narrow stair that led to its entrance. But it was the air around it that drew whispers. For five days now, strange rumors had clung to this place like incense smoke—rumors of flesh reshaped, beauty reborn, of men walking in and women stepping out.
Those who had already heard of the clinic's work had gathered early, lining the doorway with tight anticipation, their eyes darting toward the shuttered windows as though secrets might spill through the cracks. Others slowed their steps, drawn in by curiosity as they noticed the growing assembly. A few scoffed, sneering at what they believed a charlatan's act. Yet just as many lingered, their expressions wavering between mockery and temptation.
By the time the sun had risen high enough to gild the rooftops, the lane outside was filled with murmurs and sidelong glances, a restless crowd swelling with each passing moment.
It was into this expectant air that Shi Yang finally stepped out of the clinic's door, the signboard of Glory Clinic swaying lightly above him. His teal robe hung loose over his shoulders, chest bared to the cool autumn air, his long black hair glinting under the sunlight. He stood proud and unshaken, the very image of calm dominance.
Above, a great black vulture wheeled in circles, wings spread wide as it cut across the bright sky. Each turn of its shadow across the street made those below shiver—no ordinary bird would linger so loyally. Its gaze was sharp, its presence a silent warning: nothing within these walls escapes my master's eyes.
Han Jie emerged just behind him, her body wrapped in pink silk that shimmered faintly as if alive. She leaned gracefully against the wooden railing, her lips hidden by a crimson veil, though her smile was clear in the curve of her eyes. Raising her hands, she called sweetly, her voice carrying like the pluck of a zither string across the murmuring crowd:
"Honored daoists, come forward. The Daoist Yin Yang has arrived."
The name rippled through the gathering like a stone dropped in water. Murmurs, uncertain laughter, and sidelong glances sparked all at once.
Then, with a bold step, Xiu Mei strode to Shi Yang's right. She wore azure robes tied high against her waist, her long sleeves flowing like river water in the wind. Yet what seized the crowd's attention was the deliberate way she thrust out her chest, proudly puffing it forward as though daring anyone to doubt its fullness.
With a snap of her wrist, she pulled out a thick stack of parchment portraits. Her lips curled in a mischievous smile as she held the top one high for all to see.
It was a crude ink sketch—yet unmistakable. A man, wide-faced, thick-jawed, wearing a bushy mustache and trousers, looked out from the parchment with awkward stiffness.
"This," Xiu Mei declared, her voice ringing with theatrical pride, "was me… before Daoist Yin Yang's divine hand revealed my true beauty!"
Gasps erupted across the street. Some of the younger cultivators laughed nervously, others blinked in disbelief, craning their necks to compare the crude sketch with the delicate, radiant woman standing before them.
Xiu Mei did not stop. With bold confidence, she stepped down the stairs and began handing the portraits into the hands of startled spectators, her smile unyielding.
"See for yourselves!" she said, voice dripping with triumph. "Look upon this face of coarse flesh, this clumsy mustache, this pitiful husk of a man! And now behold the miracle wrought by Daoist Yin Yang!"
Each portrait passed hand to hand, fueling the confusion and curiosity until the murmurs swelled into a frenzy. Some scoffed outright, yet their voices were drowned beneath the sharper tones of disbelief—"Impossible!" "No man could reshape the body like that!" "If it's true…"
Shi Yang stood unmoving at the clinic's door, his shadow tall and steady against the timber walls. His eyes swept across the crowd, calm and sharp, watching the storm he himself had unleashed spread wider with every portrait that slipped through trembling fingers.