A guttural growl echoed, not from the room, but from deep within Jiang Dao's own stomach.
Suddenly, a ravenous hunger seized him, the kind of gnawing emptiness you'd feel after being starved for a week.
"Hungry," he rasped, "so damn hungry."
His eyes were bloodshot. He spotted the bowl of lotus porridge on the table, grabbed it, and drained it in a single gulp. It didn't even touch the sides. The hunger remained, a burning pit inside him. He stormed out of the room to demand dinner.
Thirty minutes later, Jiang Dao was seated at the table, tearing into his food like a man possessed.
A whole roasted chicken disappeared in a few savage bites. A massive pork knuckle was stripped to the bone in seconds. He lifted an entire tureen of meat broth and poured it down his throat without stopping for breath.
His maid, Biyu, watched from the side, her face pale with a silent, growing horror. She couldn't help but wonder if her master had been taken over by some malevolent spirit.
Finally, a deep belch escaped him. Jiang Dao set down his plate, the fire in his stomach slowly banking to embers.
"Biyu, clear this away," he said, dabbing his mouth with a silk napkin.
The maid scurried forward to collect the dishes.
I wonder if it's going to be like this every time I level up, Jiang Dao thought as he walked out of the room, a frown creasing his brow. I can't keep eating like an animal.
But as unsettling as the hunger was, the raw power now surging through him was undeniable. Clothed, you couldn't tell, but beneath his robes, lean, powerful muscles rippled across his back, arms, and legs—a testament to his newfound strength.
He wandered into his private courtyard and picked up a long staff. He gave it a casual twirl, and it whistled through the air. Then, with a sudden, explosive movement, he brought it down on a solid stone bench.
Crack!
The bench shattered like porcelain under a sledgehammer, sending sharp fragments flying in every direction.
A grim smile touched Jiang Dao's lips. The force of that casual swing was already stronger than Pang Lin's best shot. And he hadn't even been trying. If he'd used one of his actual combat techniques, the devastation would have been unimaginable.
Suddenly, a sound caught his attention.
Jiang Dao set the staff down and moved from the courtyard to a covered walkway that offered a view of the main estate. In the distance, he saw several of the younger, prettier maids weeping quietly, their faces etched with dread. An old matron was herding them toward the quarters of the Daoist, Changbai.
Jiang Dao's expression hardened. That old bastard is at it again, preying on the innocent.
But what could he do? What could his family do? They were trapped, forced to play the part of accomplices while that man did as he pleased.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to turn away, a cold fury simmering inside him.
Before long, dusk settled over the estate.
The maid Biyu returned to help him undress for the night. As Jiang Dao lay in bed, a single thought consumed him: would the dream return?
The room was dark and still. The night in Hengzhou City was always quiet. Soon, he drifted off.
He slept through the night, undisturbed.
The next morning, Jiang Dao's eyes snapped open. He sat bolt upright, a confused frown on his face.
Nothing happened.
Had his nightmares… stopped?
Could it be the martial arts? He wondered. With sixty years of power coursing through me, is my life force so strong that even the spirits in my dreams are afraid to come near?
A surge of hope and excitement washed over him. But just as quickly, it was shattered by a commotion from the front courtyard. He frowned and climbed out of bed.
"Biyu," he called out while pulling on his clothes, "what's going on now?"
The door creaked open, and Biyu rushed in, her face a mask of terror. "Master, last night… an evil spirit… it was in the house. Some of the maids… they're dead."
"What?" Jiang Dao's blood ran cold. He finished dressing in a flash.
A few moments later, he was in the front courtyard.
A dozen guards stood in a grim circle, their faces heavy. The rest of the household staff was gathered nearby, murmuring in panicked tones.
His father, Jiang Dalong, the family head, stood at the center of it all. He wore a simple skullcap and a short black jacket, his hands nervously rolling two large walnuts in his palm. His gaze was fixed on the bodies lying on the ground.
The Daoist, Changbai, was crouched over them, conducting a methodical examination.
Their deaths had been horrific. Their bodies were withered husks, as if every drop of life had been drained from them.
"Father. Master Pang," Jiang Dao said as he approached.
"Young Master," Pang Lin acknowledged with a low nod.
Jiang Dalong gave his son a glance before turning back to the Daoist. "Well?" he demanded, his voice low and tight. "Where is this spirit? Is it still here?"
Changbai's face was grim. He finished his inspection and rose to his feet with a heavy sigh. "Master Jiang," he said, "we should discuss this in private."
"In private?" Jiang Dalong's expression soured. Was it really that bad? He knew exactly what that meant: the Daoist didn't want to cause a mass panic. And that could only mean one thing.
This was something even Changbai wasn't sure he could handle.
"Very well," Jiang Dalong said, his voice heavy. "This way."
He led the Daoist toward his study. Jiang Dao's mind raced as he fell in step behind them.
Inside the study, Jiang Dalong motioned for the Daoist to sit. "Jiang Dao, close the door. No one is to enter."
Once the door was shut, he turned to the old man. "Please, Daoist. Speak freely."
Changbai's gaze was dark. "Your family is in grave danger," he began. "What you're dealing with… I'm not sure even I can stop it."
"What is it?" Jiang Dalong pressed. "What kind of spirit?"
"I know it by one name: the Spirit Child," the Daoist said. "It is an omen of absolute disaster. Its appearance means hundreds will die. And the most terrifying part is, they never hunt alone. They are a nest, and behind that nest is always a greater, more powerful entity pulling the strings."
His voice dropped lower. "In all my travels across the Daye Dynasty, I have faced the Spirit Child only twice. Both times, nearly a thousand people perished. The first time, it wiped a three-hundred-year-old martial sect off the map in two days. The second time, it killed nearly half the people in an ancient city."
"What?" Jiang Dalong looked utterly horrified. "Are you saying my family is doomed? Daoist, I'm begging you, you have to save us." He bowed his head, pleading, while simultaneously pulling a thick stack of banknotes from his sleeve and pressing them into the Daoist's hand. "If my family survives this, I swear, we will give you half of our entire fortune."
Jiang Dao stood silently to the side, trying to gauge if the old man was telling the truth or just spinning a terrifying tale to extort his father.
"Dealing with the Spirit Children is one thing," Changbai said. "Dealing with what controls them is another. We could be facing a terrifying power here." His hand, however, seemed to act on its own, closing around the stack of bills. He could feel its thickness and, without breaking eye contact, discreetly slipped it into his sleeve.
"Master Jiang," he said with a sigh, "fate brought me to your family, and I will not abandon you. I will do what I can. I'll buy you as much time as possible. But if the worst should happen, you cannot blame me."
"Of course, of course," Jiang Dalong said, bowing repeatedly. "Just do your best."
"Daoist," Jiang Dao spoke up for the first time, "you said there might be a 'power' behind them?"
"Indeed," Changbai nodded. "It's the only explanation. They appear from nowhere, vanish without a trace, and never leave any evidence behind."
"So who are they? What is this power?"
"I do not know," the Daoist admitted, shaking his head. "And there is another problem. These spirits are creatures of darkness. They hide during the day. They only emerge at night." He leaned forward, his eyes grim. "So even if we wanted to find them… we couldn't. Not until night falls."