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Shao Yun no longer wasted his breath arguing with the madman before him. Wordlessly, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a bottle of moonshine.
He yanked out the cork and poured the entire bottle over Scaramouche in one go.
In an instant, the crystal-clear liquor streamed down Scaramouche's clothes, soaking his collar and releasing a sharp, choking stench of alcohol that quickly filled the air.
The bottle emptied within seconds, yet Shao Yun's movements showed no sign of stopping.
He tossed the empty bottle aside, reached again into the Legend of the East satchel, and drew out another bottle of moonshine.
With a gentle twist of his fingers, he removed the cork, lifted the bottle, and let the burning liquid cascade once more over Scaramouche's body.
And so, it continued—bottle after bottle—a relentless downpour like an unending storm, drenching Scaramouche completely.
By the time the thirteenth bottle ran dry, Scaramouche was soaked through.
From head to toe, inside and out, he was completely saturated in the pungent liquor.
His clothes clung tightly to his skin, the damp fabric nearly fusing with his flesh.
Droplets of alcohol trickled from the edges of his clothes, gathering into a small shimmering puddle at his feet.
The reek of alcohol around him grew almost unbearable—acrid, suffocating, enough to make him frown uncontrollably.
Baffled and helpless, Scaramouche finally spoke. "What are you trying to do?"
Shao Yun's face remained calm, his expression unreadable as he replied, "I've wanted to kill you for a long time."
"I've imagined many ways to do it, you know? Maybe I should use a shotgun, blast you into pieces, scattering your flesh everywhere."
"Or perhaps I could take a machete, slice you right down your spine, and split you clean in half…"
Slowly, Shao Yun extended both index fingers, pointing straight at the man cowering on the ground.
Then he clenched his fists tightly—so tightly that his knuckles turned pale.
"But just now, what you said made me furious. It made me disgusted! So, I won't let you die easily—not a chance you'll die peacefully!"
Scaramouche was completely enveloped in the terrifying aura radiating from Shao Yun.
A wave of primal fear surged within him, devouring the last traces of arrogance and reason he possessed.
His eyes widened as he screamed, "Then why are you pouring alcohol on me? What the hell are you going to do?"
At his words, Shao Yun suddenly threw his arms wide and roared, "This isn't ordinary liquor—it's moonshine! It's highly flammable! Just one spark, and it'll burst into roaring flames!"
The moment Scaramouche heard the word burn, he lost control.
He shrieked hysterically, "No! Don't! Cut me! Hang me! Anything but that, please!"
But Shao Yun ignored his desperate pleas. He scraped a match against the sole of his boot—shhhk—and the match head flared to life with a small, trembling flame.
Staring into that tiny glow, Shao Yun's eyes reflected a strange and complicated light.
After a pause, he looked back at Scaramouche, who was trembling uncontrollably on the ground, and said coldly, "You know, a wise man's father once said, 'If you stare at the flame long enough, you can see all the world's changes within it.'"
"Perhaps, in these flames, you'll find the way to truly become a god."
Scaramouche's entire body shook violently, his breathing shallow and rapid, every inhalation carrying the sting of icy dread down his throat.
"You… you're going to burn me? Burn a god alive? You've got to be joking!"
Shao Yun blinked, his brow furrowed, as if he were actually considering those words.
After a moment, he nodded slightly. "Hmm. You might have a point… burning you to ashes might be too plain. I suppose this feast deserves a little more flavor."
He reached again into his Legend of the East satchel.
A faint metallic sound rang out as his fingers emerged holding a silver coin that shimmered under the flickering light of the match.
The dazzling glint of silver danced before Scaramouche's eyes—and with it came a wave of indescribable dread.
There was something dark, something evil lurking behind that glow—a power so deep that any mortal gaze upon it would be doomed eternally.
Indeed, this was no ordinary coin. It was one of the Thirty Silver Coins of the Thirteenth Disciple.
Holding the coin between his fingers, Shao Yun said calmly, "To be honest, I still don't really know what this thing does."
"But if the last guy who had it killed himself and went straight to hell—maybe it'll take you there too."
Then he raised both the gleaming coin and the burning match, looking for all the world like a demon risen from the depths.
"Now," he said coldly, towering over the fallen Scaramouche, "go to hell."
He flicked his finger lightly.
The silver coin spun through the air in a brilliant arc and struck Scaramouche squarely on the head with a sharp ding!
It bounced off, clattered across the floor, and came to rest in the spreading pool of moonshine.
In that same moment, Scaramouche's horrified eyes caught a spark flying toward him—death itself, racing closer and closer.
The spark met the soaked fabric, and suddenly—whoosh!—the flames erupted wildly.
Fire, furious and hungry, devoured everything around it. Black smoke coiled upward like writhing serpents, thick and suffocating.
Scaramouche screamed—a sound so raw, so wretched, it chilled the blood. He rolled across the floor, thrashing desperately to put out the flames.
But the moonshine burned too fiercely to be tamed—especially with the coin's blessing.
The merciless fire licked his skin, turning everything it touched to char. His once-fine clothes disintegrated into ash in mere seconds.
His screams grew hoarse, then weaker, until only a rasping, animal croak escaped his throat—a sound that clawed at the soul.
And then, at the height of his agony—silence.
His body stopped moving.
The flames continued to feast on him for a while longer, until finally, they began to fade.
The stench that lingered was unbearable—the bitter, acrid scent of something burned far beyond recognition.
Minute by minute, the fire dwindled, and at last, all that remained was a blackened, unrecognizable corpse.
Shao Yun looked down at the charred remains, a cold, disdainful smile curling across his face.
Once the corpse cooled, he knelt and retrieved the silver coin from the ground.
Remarkably, despite the inferno, the coin was completely untouched—flawless, gleaming even brighter against the surrounding ash.
Satisfied, Shao Yun slipped it safely back into his satchel.
Then, he drew the machete—the one said to be gifted by the devil himself.
With a swift motion, a flash of cold steel split the air—and Scaramouche's burnt head rolled from his body, thudding across the floor.
Shao Yun picked it up. After all, he needed proof for Yae Miko; otherwise, how would she know he'd fulfilled her request?
This head—this ruined, blackened head—would be that proof.
Scaramouche's face was unrecognizable, the damage far too severe.
Only by close inspection could one even tell who it once belonged to.
Shao Yun studied the scorched head calmly, without an ounce of pity or fear.
Then, as the stench of burnt flesh reached his nose, he frowned slightly, disgust crossing his face.
"What in the world did your dear mother, Beelzebul, make you out of? What is that smell? Forget it—go ask her yourself."