The sun was leaning toward the horizon when towering walls cut across the skyline like a mountain of iron. They were caked with hardened mud, rising into wooden watchtowers where guards patrolled with stern faces. At the base of those walls, dozens of travelers and caravans clustered together, some negotiating their way past the guards, others arguing bitterly about the steep tolls imposed on their goods.
Wu Ming walked toward the gate with steady, unhurried steps, as though the exhaustion that had weighed on his body had suddenly dissolved. His crimson eyes glimmered amidst the bustling crowd, drawing startled glances from merchants and wanderers alike. His presence alone was enough to disturb the air around him—tattered clothes barely clinging to his scarred frame, countless wounds old and new etched across his muscular chest and arms, and on his wrist, the strange black sigil, gleaming faintly as if it were carved into his very flesh.
As he drew near the gate, two guards crossed their spears in front of him. One barked sharply:— "Halt! Your identity? Which caravan do you belong to?"
Wu Ming did not answer. He simply cast a cold, unreadable stare at the soldier, a gaze so sharp that it pierced deeper than any blade. The man faltered, retreating half a step before regaining his composure. His partner raised his voice with more force, as if to mask his unease:— "Stranger! You have no right to enter without clearance. Answer, or we'll treat you as a threat!"
There was silence for a heartbeat. Then, Wu Ming's voice rumbled out, hoarse and raw from disuse:— "City… I want city."
Some of the guards burst out laughing. One sneered mockingly:— "Did you hear that? A fool lost in the wilds! He doesn't even know how to ask for entry properly."
But their laughter ended abruptly. Wu Ming's hand shot out, gripping the nearest guard's spear. With a simple motion, he snapped the iron shaft as though it were a brittle twig. Gasps rose from the watching crowd. The guards stiffened, their knuckles white on their weapons.
Before the situation could escalate further, an elderly man in a long robe embroidered with golden threads stepped forward. His demeanor carried the air of wealth and authority—a merchant, perhaps, or a man of influence. He raised his hand and said firmly:— "Let him pass. Can't you see? This is no ordinary man."
The guards exchanged nervous glances, then reluctantly parted. Without a word, Wu Ming strode past them, indifferent to the whispers and fearful eyes trailing him.
The city engulfed him in a rush of sensation. Spices and roasted meat filled the air, mingling with the laughter of children and the clang of smiths' hammers. Merchants shouted over one another, calling for buyers, while colored banners bearing clan emblems fluttered above the streets.
Wu Ming stood still for a moment, taking it all in. Though his mind was blank of memories, his heart felt an odd heaviness. Something in this city stirred within him, a faint echo of familiarity he could not place.
He walked onward until he reached a modest inn. Above its wooden door hung a sign carved with the image of a smiling dragon. Pushing the door open, he was greeted by the scent of hot tea and rice wine. The lively chatter quieted slightly as eyes turned toward the scarred stranger in torn rags.
Behind the counter stood the innkeeper, a plump woman with her hair tied neatly and a smile that was polite but wary. She asked cautiously:— "A room? Or food?"
Wu Ming's reply was slow, deliberate:— "I want… knowledge."
Her brows shot up, and laughter rippled among a few patrons nearby. One of them snickered loudly:— "Did you hear that? He came to an inn seeking knowledge!"
Wu Ming ignored the mockery. He sat at the nearest table, resting his elbows on the rough wood. The innkeeper, perhaps unsettled by his gaze, quickly placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of him without asking for coin.
As he lifted the spoon for the first time, the black sigil on his wrist pulsed. A faint glow emanated from it, unseen by anyone else. Strange glyphs flickered before his eyes, then shifted and twisted until they became words he could understand:
[First Seal: The Eye of the Translator – The ability to comprehend and read all tongues, old and new.]
His body froze. A sudden pain stabbed his skull as torrents of unfamiliar symbols and languages flooded his mind. Within moments, the voices around him sharpened—every syllable, every dialect, every murmur became clear, as though he had always known them.
He muttered under his breath:— "So… this is the power of the sigil."
His thoughts were interrupted by a thunderous fist slamming onto his table. A hulking man reeking of alcohol loomed over him, sneering:— "You! Wretch. That's my seat. Get up, or I'll break your bones where you sit!"
Wu Ming raised his eyes slowly, meeting the man's drunken glare with chilling calm. He said nothing.
The brute reached to grab his shoulder, but in a blur Wu Ming caught his wrist and twisted. Bone cracked with a sickening snap. The man collapsed to the floor, howling in agony.
The inn fell into stunned silence. Even the innkeeper recoiled, covering her mouth with trembling hands. The fallen man's companions surged to their feet, steel glinting as they drew rusty knives.One snarled:— "You dare hurt our brother? You won't leave here alive!"
Wu Ming's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. He rose to his feet, his shadow stretching long under the lantern light. His voice was icy:— "Those who wish to die… step forward."
Some hesitated, but pride and anger drove the rest to charge.
They never reached him. A single punch blasted the first through a row of tables. A side kick ripped the breath from the second, sending him crashing to the floor, gasping. The third glimpsed only a flash before his skull met stone.
In less than a heartbeat, the brawl was over. Their groans filled the air as they writhed across the floor, weapons forgotten. Wu Ming sat back down as calmly as if nothing had occurred, his expression unchanging.
From the corner of the room, the elderly man from the gate stepped forward. He approached Wu Ming with measured steps and seated himself across the table. With a gesture, he called for a pot of tea, his eyes studying the stranger intently.
— "Stranger," he said quietly, "you wield a power far beyond the ordinary. But power alone is not enough here. This world does not welcome outsiders. If you wish to survive… you must understand its laws."
Wu Ming met his gaze but offered no reply. Still, deep within, he sensed this man might be the key to unlocking his first glimpse of knowledge.
The elder continued:— "This is the City of Huangshan, under the dominion of the Hao Clan. Countless sects, both great and small, reside here, each with its own reach and ambitions. If you seek knowledge, you must choose: join one of these sects… or remain alone, hunted from all sides."
Wu Ming's silence stretched, but his hand tightened around the black sigil. He knew this path would not be simple. He knew blood would be the price.
In the depths of his chest, a vow resounded:— "I will ascend… whether through the sects, or above their corpses."
As night unfurled its shadows over Huangshan, whispers spread across the streets. The tale of a crimson-eyed stranger who crushed men with his bare hands in a humble inn circulated like wildfire.
In the alleys, in the hidden courtyards of clans, and in the secret chambers of sects, hungry eyes turned toward the rumor.A stranger with monstrous strength. A man bound to a mysterious sigil. Was he a threat to be eliminated? Or an opportunity to be seized?
Wu Ming himself did not yet know that the steps he had taken into Huangshan were only the first. Behind those walls lay struggles far greater than he could imagine—conflicts that would either shatter him… or forge the path to his forgotten destiny.
The wooden inn door closed behind him with a long creak, leaving the night's whispers of the city to seep into the dark alleyways. The old sheikh's words still echoed in his mind, low and steady: "This world does not welcome strangers. If you want to survive, you must understand its laws." He lifted his head lightly, a silent nod of thanks more than an answer.
He stepped out into the streets, where the city pulsed with shadows and light—the clamor of people, the clatter of wooden wagons, and the footsteps of passersby. The alleys were narrow, and the old houses were covered with cracked red-tiled roofs reflecting the glow of swinging oil lamps. Every corner seemed to whisper secrets, every street portended danger. The smell of wet wood mixed with the aroma of roasted meat and spices, as if the city itself was breathing both life and peril at the same time.
Wu Ming felt the black band fastened to his wrist. A dim light glowed from it softly, as if it were watching his steps. He did not yet understand its meaning, but he felt both reassurance and mystery in equal measure. His body was still somewhat weak, the result of internal wounds that had not yet healed since the moment he awoke in this accursed world. Yet his silent instincts drove him forward, a strange inner force telling him that only the strongest survive.
He moved through the alleys, avoiding large gatherings whenever possible. He noticed the city's disparities: some neighborhoods were narrow and desolate, with crumbling buildings covered in mud and old wood, while other quarters were lit by sectarian decorations—colorful flags and torches adorning the high rooftops. The sounds of nightlife came from all around: vendors calling out their goods, children running between the cobblestones, and street thieves watching the crowds with sharp eyes. Everything in the city pulsed with life, yet at the same time it was teeming with danger.
He arrived at a small crowded market, where the crowd had gathered around an elevated wooden platform. On the platform stood a huge man, muscular and covered with old scars, watching challengers attempt to defeat him for money. The cheers and shouts filled the air, and bets flew around in old metallic coins—taels, the city's currency.
He stood at the edge of the crowd, his eyes observing, his body feeling the ground, the danger, and the opportunity all at once. This event was more than just entertainment; it was a chance to earn food, clean clothes, and perhaps a warm place to stay for the night. He had nothing to offer except the mysterious token. Quietly, he placed it on the table instead of the required taels. An eerie silence fell over the place, then the announcer laughed in astonishment: "Betting on something mysterious? Well then, let's begin!"
He climbed onto the platform, hiding his true strength. Every movement was calculated, feigned to appear tired as if he were suffering from severe exhaustion. He delivered blows and jabs with limited force, avoiding defeat while carefully watching his opponent. Each punch he took hurt him, reminding him of his old internal injuries, but it did not stop him from maintaining complete control of the fight.
He endured ten strikes in a row, controlling himself astonishingly well. The crowd began to scream in amazement, tossing some taels at his feet as a reward. However, the huge man was not satisfied. His eyes filled with rage, and he gathered his five men and followed Wu Ming into the alleyways, believing the stranger to be weak and deserving of punishment.
Wu Ming felt them immediately. He stayed silent, planning to draw them away from the eyes of the crowd. He led them to a dark, narrow alley where darkness mingled with the ancient walls. There, without any hesitation, he pounced on them. His strikes were fast, precise, cold, bone-crushing, calculated in every move. The sound of screams rose, mingling with the scent of iron and blood, and the fight was not just an attempt to survive, but a display of Wu Ming's deadly power.
When he finished eliminating them all, he felt his body go numb, a deep internal pain, but nothing could stop him. His instincts took over, and his thirst for blood awakened. He gnawed at the blood of the slain, but soon rejected it with contempt, spitting it onto the ground: "Rotten blood… not worthy of the rank I need. I will not feed on this; I need a stronger source."
Afterward, he decided to look for clean clothes. He reached a small shop, but his torn and blood-stained appearance made him seem almost like a beggar. The shopkeeper tried to drive him away with a harsh tone: "Don't come in here, man… we don't serve beggars."
Wu Ming did not raise his voice. Instead, he took out some taels from his pocket and placed them on the table. The change was immediate; the shopkeeper's expression filled with surprise and sudden respect. He smiled warmly and opened the door for him: "Ah, of course, please come in, my guest… pick whatever you like!"
Wu Ming chose practical clothes, black with white threads on the sides. They weren't particularly nice, but they were comfortable enough to move freely. After paying, he headed straight to the inn, where the innkeeper waited for him.
When he entered, her initial reaction was not positive. She saw him covered in dust, stained with blood and dirt; her hair even slightly rose in surprise, and her eyes examined him with caution. "My God… who are you?" she whispered to herself, her voice trailing off into silence.
Wu Ming went to the inn's bathroom and washed the blood and dirt off his body, feeling a small surge of power seeping into him as he cleansed himself. He put on his new clothes, feeling comfortable for the first time in a long while. However, the cold look in his eyes did not fade, and his body remained tense even after cleaning.
The next morning, Wu Ming came down to the inn's main room, preparing to explore the city again. The innkeeper was a little shocked by his appearance; the clothes were simple, but they did nothing to conceal his rugged, handsome features and the icy coldness that pierced his gaze. She murmured to herself softly: "This stranger… his power is not natural, and so far he seems merciless."
Wu Ming said nothing, simply passing by her, a dark red gleam shining in his eyes under the morning light. Every step he took was a lesson, and everything around him was a test of his strength and patience—from the market to the alleys and even the next arena where he would face even greater challenges. He whispered to himself, "I will not let anyone stop me… whether through the sects, or over their skulls…" His eyes sparkled in the crowded city as he walked on. Every step brought him closer to knowledge and power, and every small lesson here paved the way for an even bigger, deeper confrontation in this harsh world.