The golden staircase shimmered faintly in the horizon, distant yet close, endless yet beginning nowhere. Its radiance pulsed like a heartbeat above the clouds, an eternal reminder of something beyond mortal reach. Beneath that illusion, upon soil littered with bones and dried blood, a lone figure walked with heavy steps.
His tall frame, nearly one hundred eighty centimeters, carried the weight of countless scars. His skin was marred with wounds, some sealed, others fresh, bleeding slowly. His long black hair hung in filthy strands across his face, obscuring features that might once have been handsome. What could be seen were eyes—deep crimson, cold and devoid of warmth, eyes that promised neither mercy nor kindness.
He did not remember his name. Not his birthplace. Not his past. All that he possessed was a tattered robe hanging loosely from his battered body, and the indestructible black insignia clenched tightly in his palm. The ancient sigils engraved on it glowed faintly, but their meaning was lost to him.
For a moment, he stood still, staring at the horizon where the staircase touched the heavens. But then, the silence broke.
A cry echoed in the distance. Not the cry of beasts, but of men—desperate, pleading. The sound of swords clashing followed, and cruel laughter filled the air.
He turned toward it. His crimson gaze narrowed.
Through the twisted trees of the wasteland, he found them—bandits. A dozen men in ragged armor surrounded a small caravan. Two wagons stood still, their wheels stuck in the mud. Families clung together, fear written on their faces, while the bandits mocked and jeered, swinging their crude blades.
"Hand over the goods! And maybe we'll let you keep your miserable lives!" one of them sneered.
The travelers shook, some trying to protect their children.
The nameless man—Wu Ming—watched in silence. His first thought was not pity, nor anger. Instead, he wondered: If I crush these insects, perhaps those mortals can tell me where the nearest city lies.
His lips curved into a faint, cold smile. He stepped forward.
The bandits did not notice him at first, too absorbed in tormenting their victims. But the sound of his bare feet against the dirt finally caught their attention.
One of them snarled. "Oi! Another traveler? Hah, bad luck for you, stranger. Toss over your belongings and we might—"
Before he finished, Wu Ming moved.
A fist lashed out, swift and merciless. The bandit's chest caved in with a sickening crack, his body flying backward like broken glass. Silence followed, broken only by the horrified gasp of both bandits and captives.
"What—what is he?!" another stammered.
Wu Ming's crimson eyes glowed faintly as he advanced. "Filth." His voice was low, almost a whisper, yet carried a weight like iron.
The bandits rushed him all at once, screaming curses. Blades swung, daggers stabbed, arrows whistled through the air. Yet Wu Ming did not dodge.
One step. His fist shattered a sword mid-swing, and the man holding it collapsed, head crushed into the soil.Another step. A kick tore through two bandits at once, their ribs splintering like dry wood.A third step. His hand pierced the throat of a screaming foe, blood spraying like crimson rain.
To him, it was not a battle. It was slaughter. Each motion was simple, almost lazy, yet each held a destructive force beyond mortal comprehension.
Within moments, the dozen men lay broken, their blood soaking into the earth. Not one remained breathing.
The travelers stared in disbelief. The children hid behind their mothers, trembling at the sight of the crimson-eyed stranger who killed as easily as breathing.
Wu Ming crouched, his hand drenched in blood, and raised it to his lips. He tasted it, eyes closing for a moment. A strange calmness filled him. The iron tang of life itself… it fueled the icy void within.
When he looked again at the survivors, they flinched as if before a beast.
"...The nearest city," he said, voice cold, commanding. "Tell me."
The leader of the caravan, an older man with trembling hands, stammered, "T-the city… yes, honored one… half a day's journey east, following the old road. Y-you'll reach Huangshan City…"
Wu Ming studied him for a moment. Then he nodded once. "Good."
Without another word, he turned and began walking east. The captives remained frozen in silence, not daring to call after him. Relief and terror mingled in their gazes, for they realized they had lived not by chance, but by his choice.
The wasteland stretched endlessly. Wu Ming walked with steady strides, the insignia in his palm growing heavier with each step, as though it resonated faintly with something in the distance. At times, he would glance at the golden staircase shimmering faintly above the horizon, but it never grew closer.
His body did not tire, though wounds throbbed across his skin. What occupied him was not pain but thought.
He remembered nothing. Yet instinct guided his every movement—how to strike, how to kill, how to sense danger before it came. He wondered if his past was drenched in blood, or if violence was simply etched into his very soul.
As the sun dipped lower, shadows stretched across the land. He saw in the distance the faint outline of walls—Huangshan City. Smoke rose from chimneys, and lights flickered in the dusk. Civilization.
His eyes narrowed. Civilization meant knowledge. Knowledge meant answers.
But deep inside, as the insignia pulsed faintly against his chest, he knew one thing with certainty: the answers he sought would not be gentle. They would be drenched in blood.
Wu Ming's cold smile returned as he stepped toward the gates. The journey had only begun.