The steward's face was colder than carved ice. Repeated knocks had gone unanswered, and with each silent second, a stripe of anger crept up his spine until it burned. Nobody made him wait. He snorted, a short, dangerous sound, and flicked his eyes toward the man at his side.
As if reading the signal, the short, broad henchman with the long vertical scar running down his face let out a snicker. The mark made him look sinister and misshapen, a walking map of old cruelty. He brandished an iron club with a relish that showed a streak of feral delight.
"Kekek… just like the old days, boss," he spat. "If that rat doesn't come out himself, we'll break the gate and drag him out."
The steward's smile was a thin, twisted thing when he answered, voice oily with menace. "If there's any tender playthings inside, I'll have my fun with them." An ugly light burned behind his eyes, the implication behind his words were clear as day.
The henchman licked his lips. His grin spread into something close to a snarl. The other thug nearby let out a sickening, eager laugh. Their hunger was plain as the iron club in their hands.
A soft creak split the charged air as the giant wooden gate swung inward. An unassuming young man stepped out—simple robes, plain bearing, a look of calm on his face like a placid lake. Wang Chen's eyes met the men's, cool and steady; he raised his brows as if mildly puzzled. The confusion on his face was practiced, polite, a mask worn by someone who'd dealt with fools before.
"How can I help you, gentlemen?" he asked, voice even. He didn't let the smallest tremor show.
The steward paid him no mind. The henchmen closed in with deliberate menace, clubs cocked in raised hands. One of them sneered, hatred in every crooked syllable. "Look at him—playing innocent. He dared take over our place. He'll learn his lesson."
The steward's anger hardened; faint threads of killing intent bled from him like cold mist. "Good… good. Does he think the Blood Fang are a pack of mutts to be scorned? First we'll break his legs, then toss him to the Bloodfang bulls." His words were gruesome enough that even the henchmen drew a little closer, the notion of brutality turning their eyes hard and hungry.
Wang Chen's face darkened at the mention of those bulls. He felt a bitter disgust curl under his ribs. There was nothing to be gained by wasting time with this lot. He hadn't come to bargain.
At once the three henchmen moved as one. The heavy clubs—thick as an arm—whistled through the air. If one struck Wang Chen's skull it would have burst like a ripe melon.
The steward watched with cruel satisfaction and gave no sign of stopping them. If Wang Chen died, it was only a body to be disposed of.
Then, as the clubs fell, the steward felt something shift in his chest. The strikes missed—hitting only empty air, their force making the arms that swung them tremble. A gust of wind howled, and Wang Chen's figure was nowhere to be found.
He had vanished without a sound.
The steward's voice tightened into a panicked bark. "Where did he go?" He spun, eyes frantic, but there was no sign of the young man—no robe, no shadow—nothing. A cold prickling ran down his spine. He glanced at his men and saw them standing, pallid, sweat beading on foreheads.
"What is it?" he demanded, too loud and too small.
One of the henchmen pointed with trembling fingers and croaked in near-unison, "Behind you!"
"Behind me?" The steward craned his neck. The space behind him was empty. But if he had been watching his men instead, he would have seen their faces drain of color as if the life was being pulled out of them.
Wang Chen materialized there like a question—silent, composed, impossibly close. He stared at the three henchmen, a smile sliding across his face that plainly did not match the bloodless efficiency of what followed. In his head he cataloged them—slow qi refiner cultivators, clumsy and predictable as the resentful ghosts on the first floor. He'd sized them in a breath, and the amusement in him deepened.
That smile was enough to unnerve them; it turned into a blade. Without drama, Wang Chen flicked his wrist. A white flash, quick as a match strike, and three heads rolled on the ground—eyes wide, mouths frozen in the last second of terror. Blood pool whispered across the floor where they fell.
The steward's eyes bulged. "What have you done?" he shrieked, voice tearing like a banshee. "Do you know what you've done? The Blood Fang won't let this pass. Every member of your household will—"
A hand like iron closed around his throat before he could finish. He was lifted as easily as a sack of grain. The steward tried to struggle, his face going pale, blood leaving his lips.
Wang Chen's eyes were flat and indifferent, predator-cold as he stared into the steward's panic-stricken face. The steward's knees trembled as the reality of his situation sank in.
Inside, his mind raced. He'd survived by cunning and cruelty; now he plotted frenzied bargains. "Fellow Daoist—there is no enmity between us. I was only following Vice Head Zhang's orders. Please—spare me!" His words were flung like a desperate net. He watched Wang Chen's face for any sign—a twitch, a answer—but none came.
Wang Chen's expression didn't change. He didn't even know who Vice Head Zhang was. The steward's last hope curled and died inside him. Wang Chen's lips twitched into a colder smile.
The steward's voice tried one last ploy. "Everything has a price…" he began, greed and fear blending in his tone. Then his eyes widened; a different thought had struck him. His face brightened into a sick hope. Wang Chen's smile grew deeper, amused now in earnest.
"Lead me to your place," Wang Chen said, as casual as asking for tea.
Reality's predecessor had been penniless and hungry; Wang Chen's mouth formed a rueful, mocking thought: "I'm broke," he murmured. "Guess I'll just rob them instead." He smiled at the steward, a small, unsettling curve that made the man's blood run cold.
The steward staggered back, muttering, "You can't—this is Blood Fang territory," his voice thin. He couldn't imagine that the predator before him was laughing off the gang's name as if it were a trifle.
But Wang Chen only tightened his grip slightly, enough to remind the man of how fragile bargains were when made against one who had already chosen violence as language.
However there was one more thing that he needed to know.
Next moment with a small smile he asked, "What year is it?"
The Blood Fang steward blinked as though he had misheard.
"Which year… did you just say?" he repeated, his voice trembling slightly.
Countless questions began to swirl in his mind, but before he could voice even one, Wang Chen gave him a quiet look — calm, expressionless, yet sharp enough to slice through hesitation. The steward instantly swallowed his words and answered.
"Y–Year 454 of the New Stars Calendar!"
Wang Chen fell silent. His gaze dimmed, as if his eyes could see through the walls, through time itself.
"So… it's already been a hundred years," he murmured, his voice laced with something soft — nostalgia, perhaps sorrow. "Time flies too fast."
A sigh escaped his lips. "I just hope that poor girl didn't keep being stubborn…"
For an instant, the image of a girl bloomed in his mind — delicate as peach blossoms, her smile radiant enough to thaw winter frost.
For him, it felt as though he had just closed his eyes under the shade of the Bodhi Tree and woken up moments later. But a century had passed. A hundred years — a blink for immortals, yet a lifetime for mortals like him. Empires could rise and crumble in such a span.
The steward dared not disturb him. He lay motionless on the ground, hardly daring to breathe, until Wang Chen finally gestured for him to rise. Without a word, the steward stood and led the way, his body stiff, Wang Chen following silently behind.