The air was thick with dust and the coppery tang of blood.
Charred splinters drifted lazily through the haze, glinting faintly in the sunlight like ashen snowflakes. The once-bustling street now stood in stunned silence, the ruin of the Blood Fang facility looming like a gutted carcass.
Drawn by the explosion, people had gathered in wary clusters along the alleys, whispering behind trembling hands. Faces pale, eyes darting — curiosity warred with fear. None dared to get too close to the smoldering wreckage.
After all, everyone in the Imperial City knew whose property this was.
The Blood Fang Gang.
And the Blood Fang never forgave.
Stories of their cruelty spread like infection: families who vanished overnight, neighbors dragged away screaming, entire bloodlines turned into "production crops" for their blood pills — living bodies harvested drop by drop until nothing remained but husks.
Death was mercy compared to that.
So the crowd watched from afar, hearts pounding, hoping they wouldn't be noticed.
Then came the tremor.
A low vibration rippled through the ground — the rhythmic impact of chained feet against stone.
The murmurs died instantly. Every head turned.
Out of the distant haze emerged a blood-colored carriage, its surface slick and glassy, glistening as though it had been carved from wet flesh. The faint stench of iron and decay followed in its wake.
The dozen men pulling it stumbled forward on bleeding feet, their wrists and necks bound by thick chains that dug into raw flesh. Their eyes were glassy, drained of will — bodies that moved only because they feared to stop.
Blood Servants.
The word passed silently through the crowd, chilling every heart.
These were cultivators once — people who had failed to repay their debts to the Blood Fang. Now, their lives were currency, spent until the last drop.
A ripple of panic spread. Mothers clutched their children. Merchants shut their stalls with shaking hands. Within moments, the street was half empty as people fled into side alleys, praying they wouldn't ne noticed.
Then the carriage came to a halt.
The door creaked open, and a man stepped down.
He was tall, well-groomed, and disturbingly composed. His black robes were spotless despite the carnage around him, his expression smooth and unreadable. Even his beauty seemed cruel — the kind of handsomeness that promised danger rather than comfort.
Someone in the retreating crowd stumbled and fell, the sound sharp in the silence.
The man's gaze snapped toward it — cold, precise, and merciless.
The unfortunate bystander froze, eyes wide, breath locked in his throat. For a long, unbearable second, the man simply looked at him. Then, with a faint tilt of his chin, he turned away — as if the man no longer existed.
But by then, the onlooker's clothes were drenched in cold sweat.
A whisper rippled through what remained of the crowd.
"Vice-Head Zhang…"
Recognition spread like wildfire.
One glance at his crimson insignia confirmed it — the Vice-Head of the Blood Fang Gang himself had come.
Those who hadn't yet fled now did, scattering like frightened birds. Within seconds, the street was barren.
Zhang's gaze lingered on their retreating backs, his frown deepening. "Pathetic," he muttered. Then his eyes shifted back toward the collapsed structure.
The frown hardened into a scowl.
Blood Fang's blood pill production was already behind schedule, and now one of their largest facilities had been obliterated overnight. To him, it was no accident — it was sabotage.
But who would dare?
The Imperial City looked peaceful on the surface, yet beneath its glittering facade, four major gangs carved up the city like wolves over a carcass. Each one was backed by a noble family, each vying for dominance in the shadows.
Zhang spat to the side, his saliva streaking red in the dust. "Damn those noble parasites. We do the killing, they take the coin."
He started walking toward the wreckage, boots crunching over scorched rubble. Several Blood Fang subordinates hurried out to meet him — faces pale, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion.
"Vice-Leader Zhang!"
One of them, a grizzled man missing half an ear, bowed deeply before stammering, "There were no survivors, sir. All killed in one strike. We believe… it may have been a Foundation Building expert."
Zhang's eyes narrowed to slits. "A Foundation Building expert? Here? Don't insult me. If one had acted, I would've felt it."
He stepped forward and knelt by a severed corpse half-buried in soot. The cut was clean — unnaturally clean — like glass split by a master craftsman. He extended two fingers and brushed the edge lightly. A faint pulse of energy lingered there — sharp, precise, suffused with intent.
His lips thinned. "A sword cultivator…"
The word carried both solemnity and hatred.
Sword cultivators were unpredictable — fanatics who sought truth through the blade, caring nothing for law or consequence. To them, slaughter was philosophy.
If one of them had destroyed this place, the loss was understandable.
but that didn't mean it was forgivable.
He straightened, his calm mask slipping just enough to reveal the cold fury beneath.
"Send word to the Divine Hall." His voice was like frost. "Find out who the cultivator was before the sunrise. I don't care what it costs."
The subordinates bowed and scurried away.
Zhang's eyes lingered one last time on the ruins before turning toward his carriage. The Blood Servants strained as the chains tightened again, dragging the gruesome vehicle forward.
Behind him, the Blood Fang Gang began their frantic investigation.
But the man responsible was already gone — shopping.
---
The scent of herbal incense and alchemical smoke hung heavy in the air of the apothecary. Rows upon rows of polished wooden shelves stretched across the hall, lined with gleaming bottles and jade boxes. Young men and women drifted between them, murmuring to attendants, picking up products they didn't need but suddenly wanted.
Wang Chen watched them with faint amusement.
"No matter the world," he said under his breath, "the spirit of capitalism never dies."
His robes brushed the polished floor as he moved through the aisles, scanning the price tags. The "Vitality Strengthening Pill" caught his eye — its golden label practically shouting its worth.
Then he saw the price.
Twenty spirit stones. For one pill.
He let out a low whistle. "Why not just rob people directly?"
his shock was undestandable, usually these pills cost cost two or three spirit stones, pills that could have some effect on late qi refining cultivators would cost dozens of spirit stones.
moreover earning spirit stones in this chaotic world was hard.
Still, after the Blood Fang raid, his pockets were heavier than usual. He could afford it — barely.
He remembered the night before: the raid, the slaughter, the looting. Gold, pills, artifacts — he had taken everything that wasn't nailed down. Surviving in this world without taking risks was a fool's fantasy.
"Looting," he mused with a smirk, "is just forced redistribution of wealth. Heaven should be thanking me for balancing karma."
He turned to leave — then paused. A flicker of crimson caught his eye.
A bottle on a nearby shelf was filled with small, red pills. They glimmered faintly, a metallic scent drifting from the stopper. He sniffed, frowning. The smell was sharp… coppery.
Familiar.
His pupils contracted. Blood pills.
The Blood Fang's product — right here, sold openly under another name.
His lips curled into something between irony and disgust. "Even the market's got fangs."
---
Somewhere else, a faint drip… drip… drip echoed in the dark.
Lin Huang stirred.
For a moment, he felt weightless — then the weight came crashing back, crushing his chest and limbs. He gasped, clutching at the emptiness where chains had once been.
Silence. No screams of chained crops. No stench of rot.
Only… the faint scent of wood polish.
He blinked, disoriented. "Where… am I?"
The words came out cracked and raw, his throat rasping like sandpaper. His voice sounded foreign, alien — as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
He tried to move, but his legs buckled immediately. Months of suspension had left his body frail and unsteady. The floor rushed up to meet him, pain blooming in his knees.
Gritting his teeth, Lin Huang forced himself up, blinking against the sudden light. His eyes darted around warily. The space was clean, almost serene — wooden floors, weapons neatly arranged, morning light spilling in through open windows.
This wasn't the Blood Fang's dungeon.
This was… a dojo?
A neon sign outside glowed faintly through the mist:
Phoenix and Dragon Dojo.
Before he could make sense of it, the door slid open with a soft click.
Light poured in, washing over the polished floorboards. A shadow fell across him — tall, steady, carrying the faint smell of steel and sweat.
The man from the Blood Fang raid stood there, eyes calm, expression unreadable. A faint smile tugged at his lips — not kind, but measured. The sort of smile that could either save a life or end one.
"You're finally awake," Wang Chen said, voice smooth as still water.
Then, with a glint of dry amusement, he added softly:
"Welcome back to the living."