The streets of Qingmu Town grew quiet as dusk fell. The crowd that had gathered earlier to watch the Scarlet Flame cultivators drag away the youth now dispersed, their faces pale with fear. No one dared to oppose the sect — not after what happened the last time they burned a village to ash.
But among the shadows, a pair of calm, icy eyes watched every movement.
Wang Chung stood on the roof of a nearby inn, the wind brushing his face. His robe fluttered faintly, and within his chest, his heartbeat was slow and steady — not with fear, but with focus.
> "Scarlet Flame Sect…" he whispered, the name searing through his mind.
He remembered it clearly — the red-robed elders descending from the skies, the screams of his fellow disciples, and the helplessness as his sect was reduced to cinders.
That night, under the dark sky, he swore to repay that pain — not with words, but with blood.
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As the cultivators dragged their captive through the town's outskirts, Wang Chung silently followed from the rooftops. His steps were light, his breathing hidden — a technique he had honed while surviving in the wild.
He counted their numbers. Five in total. Four early-stage Body Refiners and one at the late stage — their leader.
He couldn't take them all. Not yet.
But the weakest one, the man carrying the spirit lantern at the rear, lagged slightly behind. His aura was weak — the perfect target.
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When the group passed through a narrow path outside town, the man suddenly stopped, frowning.
> "Hm? Who's there?"
Before he could turn, a shadow flashed.
A rock whistled through the air and struck the lantern, shattering it. Flames hissed as oil spilled onto the ground.
> "Damn it—!"
He drew his sword — but a faint glint of metal met his throat.
Wang Chung moved like a predator — precise, silent, and cold. His hand wrapped around the man's mouth, his dagger slicing through the soft flesh of the neck. Blood spilled silently onto the dirt.
The man struggled weakly, eyes wide, but it was too late.
Wang Chung lowered the body slowly to the ground, breathing heavily. His hands trembled — not from fear, but from the weight of what he'd done.
His first kill.
He stared at his bloodstained hands, the faint reflection of moonlight glinting off his blade.
> "This… is the price of vengeance," he muttered, voice low.
Inside him, the mysterious bead pulsed once more — stronger this time. A faint warmth spread through his dantian, purifying the chaotic chi caused by the emotional turmoil. His heart calmed.
He searched the man's pouch and found a small jade bottle containing Low-Grade Spirit Essence Pills — crude, but precious for someone at his level.
> "Heaven truly tests me, yet still leaves a path…"
He looked back toward the path where the remaining Scarlet Flame cultivators had gone. His eyes were calm once more.
> "One by one… I'll hunt you all."
That night, he buried the corpse beneath an old willow and sat beside it, meditating. The purified chi surged faster than before, the pill dissolving gently into his bloodstream.
By dawn, his aura had stabilized — he had stepped into the sixth level of the Body Tempering Realm.
From that day, the legend of a silent, hooded cultivator began spreading across the outskirts — a man who appeared only at night and left nothing but corpses of Scarlet Flame disciples behind.
And thus, Wang Chung took his first step into the world of blood and destiny — a path where his humanity would slowly fade, and the Celestial Immortal Emperor would one day rise.
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