Jiang Dao exploded into motion.
One moment, he was standing still, the next he was a blur, a wave of shadow and pressure crashing down on Hu Biao. His Eagle Claw strike sliced through the air—a flash of brutal precision aimed directly at the man's skull.
Hu Biao's face twisted in disbelief. The poison mist… it should have crippled him. How was Jiang Dao completely unaffected?
He threw up a hand to defend himself, a desperate, clumsy block. It was useless. Jiang Dao's claws tore through his palm like it was paper, splintering bone before latching onto his forehead. There was a sickening crunch as his skull fractured.
A strangled scream died in Hu Biao's throat. He never stood a chance. Jiang Dao snatched him up by the head and, with a flick of his wrist, hurled the corpse a good twenty feet, where it slammed into a tree and crumpled to the ground like a bag of trash.
Nearby, Fan Hu froze, his own attack forgotten. The blood drained from his face, leaving a mask of pure terror. He was paralyzed, his eyes wide, a tremor running through his entire body.
"You're… you're a demon…" he stammered. "You have to be."
He knew Hu Biao's strength. The man was a master, at the very peak of the Blood Condensation Realm—an expert you'd be lucky to find anywhere in the Great Ye Dynasty. And Jiang Dao had just killed him with one hand.
The other men stumbled back, their bravado gone, replaced by a primal fear.
Jiang Dao materialized in front of Fan Hu. He seemed to fill the night, his shoulders broad, muscles coiled with power. He looked down, his eyes as cold and empty as a winter sky.
"Nobody moves," he said, his voice low and flat. "You move, you die. Now talk. Who sent you? Was it the Left Protector?"
"I… I…" Fan Hu's lips trembled. Survival instinct finally kicked in. He spun on his heel and bolted.
Seeing their leader run, a few others broke ranks, crying out in panic as they scattered into the woods.
A flicker of ice entered Jiang Dao's eyes. He shot a palm forward. The air itself seemed to roar, a thunderclap ripping through the night as his strike connected with Fan Hu's shoulder.
Fan Hu screamed—a raw, agonized sound. His shoulder simply ceased to exist, erupting in a spray of blood and bone. He was thrown through the air, hitting the ground in a heap. "Don't kill me!" he shrieked.
But Jiang Dao was already moving past him. His long saber hissed from its sheath, a streak of cold moonlight in the dark. He flowed through the fleeing men, a whirlwind of death.
Mad Demon Blood Soul Saber.
Splashes of crimson painted the forest floor. In seconds, it was over. The runners lay dead. None had escaped.
Jiang Dao sheathed his blade and walked back to the broken form of Fan Hu. He was an immovable, towering figure, his gaze burning in the darkness.
Fan Hu was drowning in his own blood, his mind fractured by terror.
"Don't kill me," he sobbed. "I'll tell you. It was the Left Protector. He sent us… The mist was Golden Wave Poison. One breath is supposed to be fatal…"
"The Left Protector," Jiang Dao repeated, his voice laced with killing intent. He knew it.
Boom.
His hand came down, a final thunderclap that drove Fan Hu's head into his own chest cavity. The man was beyond dead.
So, it was him, Jiang Dao thought. Just wait. Once I'm a little stronger, I'll crush him myself and be done with it.
He pulled open his shirt. A network of angry red veins pulsed across his chest, the poison still writhing under his skin. He had felt it the moment he'd breathed it in, but his internal training, the Health Preservation Skill, had kicked in, fighting off the toxin and allowing him to expel most of it. Without it, he would have been the one lying dead. It was a stark reminder: never underestimate the wolves in the Blazing Flame Gang.
He took out a dagger, made a swift, clean cut, and began to bleed the last of the poison from the wound.
Finally, he turned to the seven or eight remaining men, who were still frozen in fear.
"Relax," he said, his tone softening just enough to be reassuring. "Hu Biao and Fan Hu came to kill me, so I killed them. It's that simple. You didn't make a move against me, so I won't touch you. All you have to do is tell them what happened here. Now, let's go. Time to see this Little Stone Temple."
The men, pale and trembling, let out a collective, silent sigh of relief.
One of them hurried forward. "Hall Master Jiang, I have some Golden Sore Medicine. If you'll allow me." He offered a small porcelain bottle.
Jiang Dao took it, uncorked it, and gave it a cautious sniff. He glanced at the man, then nodded and sprinkled the powder on his wound before wrapping it with a strip of cloth.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Du Feng, sir. A squad leader from the Flying Leopard Hall."
"Your Hall Master is dead," Jiang Dao stated. "Report to the Flying Eagle Hall from now on. I'm making you a manager."
"Thank you, Hall Master!" Du Feng exclaimed, his face breaking into a wide grin. A manager. It was a huge step up, a position that came with power, influence, and plenty of profit.
The others looked on, stunned. But the move worked. If Jiang Dao was promoting a man he'd just met, he clearly wasn't planning on murdering the rest of them. Their fear finally subsided.
The group set off again. Their horses were dead from the poison, so they walked. As he moved, Jiang Dao could feel the Health Preservation Art already knitting his flesh back together. To anyone watching, he looked completely unharmed.
The mountain loomed, a hazy shadow in the quiet dark. Half an hour later, they saw it: a massive temple complex.
A wide plaza of bluestone pavers spread out before it, lined with carved stone railings. In the center sat a huge, ancient censer, its bronze skin mottled with rust. Weeds choked the cracks in the stone, but you could still see the ghost of the temple's former glory.
Suddenly, Jiang Dao's eyes narrowed.
There were people at the temple gate. A dozen of them, dressed like wandering swordsmen, their faces hidden by wide-brimmed hats. They were knocking at the heavy wooden doors. One man stood out—dressed like a merchant, maybe fifty years old, but the expensive black boots on his feet screamed 'government official.'
"Hall Master, company," Du Feng whispered.
"Ignore them," Jiang Dao murmured, striding forward.
The group at the gate noticed their approach. Hands tightened on the hilts of swords. Eyes, sharp and wary, locked onto Jiang Dao's party.
"Easy," a man at their front muttered to his companions. "They might not be hostile."
Jiang Dao's group reached the gate, forming a second, tense crowd in the plaza. Du Feng stepped up and began knocking on the heavy door ring. No one spoke. The two groups just watched each other, the air thick with suspicion.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The sound echoed in the dead of night.
After what felt like an eternity, there was a shuffling from inside. A bolt slid back, and one of the doors creaked open a few inches. A young novice monk holding a paper lantern peered out.
"Who are you?" he asked, his voice cautious. "What business do you have here so late?" The door was still chained from the inside—a smart precaution.
Du Feng put on a friendly smile. "Apologies, Little Master. We're weary travelers who got caught by the dark. We were hoping we could beg for a roof over our heads for the night."
"Us as well!" one of the swordsmen called out. "We're just looking for a place to rest."
The young monk hesitated. "I… I'll have to ask the Head Monk. Wait here." He disappeared back into the darkness.
With the monk gone, the leader of the other group finally spoke. "You're men of the martial world, I take it," he said, his eyes on Jiang Dao. "My name is Li San. And you are?"
"Jiang Da," Jiang Dao replied, his voice flat.
"Jiang Da?" Li San's brow furrowed. The name was obviously fake. Then again, so was his. "Brother Jiang," he continued, his eyes glinting, "if I'm not mistaken, that's the uniform of the Blazing Flame Gang you're wearing."
There was no hiding it. The black robes, the crimson flame embroidered over the heart—it was the unmistakable mark of the gang, a symbol of fire burning in the darkness.
"You're right," Jiang Dao said calmly. He then glanced at the man in the official's boots. "And you folks… You seem to have ties to the imperial court."
Several of the swordsmen tensed, their grips tightening on their weapons. They instinctively shifted to shield the older man.
Li San held up a hand to calm them. "We've had dealings with the court, it's true. We've also had dealings with your Blazing Flame Gang. In fact, I've had the honor of meeting your leader once. I trust you won't make things difficult for us."
"I mind my own business," Jiang Dao said. "Nothing more."
"Good." Li San nodded slowly. Behind him, his men still looked uneasy. They didn't trust this stranger. The safest play would be to kill him and his men right here, to silence them for good. But when they looked to their leader, Li San gave a subtle, firm shake of his head. He couldn't get a read on Jiang Dao, and that meant the man was dangerously powerful. Attacking him would be suicide. His men understood, lowering their eyes.
The young monk returned, struggling to unlatch the heavy gate. "The Head Monk has agreed to let you stay," he announced.
"Our thanks, Little Master," Jiang Dao said. He picked up a small stone Buddha statue he'd been carrying and stepped inside first, his men following close behind. Li San's group entered after them, keeping a careful distance.
"Little Master," Jiang Dao asked, "is your master still awake? I'd like to pay my respects."
"He is doing his evening meditation," the boy hesitated. "I'm not sure if he's taking visitors."
"Please, lead the way," Jiang Dao insisted. "I'd like to donate to the temple's upkeep."
"Oh. Well, alright then."
After showing both parties to their separate quarters, the novice led Jiang Dao and his men deeper into the temple grounds. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper. As they walked, a sense of unease settled over Jiang Dao. The place was unnaturally dark.
"Don't you light lamps here at night?" he asked.
"The temple is poor," the boy explained. "We can only afford to light the Head Monk's room."
"I see." Jiang Dao turned to Du Feng. "Tell the men to stay sharp."
"Yes, Hall Master."
They crossed a silent courtyard flanked by rows of pitch-black buildings. Finally, they reached a small, isolated yard. Only the room at the far end showed a flicker of light from within. The soft, rhythmic tok-tok-tok of a wooden fish and a low, droning chant drifted out.
"Head Monk," the novice called from the door. "These gentlemen wish to donate."
The chanting stopped. An old, reedy voice replied, "Amitabha. My Buddha is merciful. Please, come in."
Jiang Dao pushed the door open. The air inside was thick with the scent of sandalwood. The room was stark: a Buddha statue, a prayer mat, a wooden fish, and a frail old monk. The monk's beard and eyebrows were a shock of white against his withered skin.
"Greetings, Master," Jiang Dao said with a respectful bow. "May I ask your name?"
"This humble monk is Fa Ning," he replied, his palms pressed together.
"Master, I've come to donate, but also to ask you a question." Jiang Dao sat, placing the stone Buddha statue on the floor between them. "Does this look familiar to you?"
Fa Ning picked up the statue, his brow furrowed in concentration as he turned it over in his hands. "It is a simple statue of the Buddha. What is it you wish to know?"
"Did it come from this temple? Have you lost one recently?"
"Our temple has been quite peaceful. We have not lost any statues," Fa Ning said. "Besides, all of our statues are much larger. The smallest is at least a meter tall."
"So it's not yours?" Jiang Dao pressed. "Then do you know what the inscription on the bottom means?"
"I'm afraid not," the monk said, shaking his head as he handed the statue back.
Jiang Dao took it, his mind churning. "Thank you, Master." He placed a silver bank note on the floor. "Here are a thousand taels for the temple. Please, accept it." He stood and left.
As the door closed behind him, the chanting and the rhythmic tapping of the wooden fish began again. Jiang Dao paused, a cold knot forming in his stomach.
Something's wrong.
The monk's chant… it had the same unnerving quality as the one he'd heard from those two dead gang members. It created a strange, hollow sense of clarity in his mind. The words were different, but the feeling was identical.
This old monk… is he even human?
"Du Feng," he said in a low voice. "Tell everyone: no one leaves their rooms tonight. No matter what they hear."
"Yes, Hall Master."
Across the temple grounds, Li San and his men were huddled in their room around a single oil lamp.
"Brother Li, is that man from the Blazing Flame Gang really that strong?" a woman asked. "You didn't think you could take him?"
Li San shook his head. "I can't see through him. It's better not to take the risk. We leave at first light. I'll take the first watch." He turned to the man in the official's boots. "General Yue, surely you believe us now. There are traitors in the court who want you dead. We were hired to get you to safety. For now, you must endure these humble conditions."
The man—General Yue—let out a heavy sigh. "To think they would conspire with the northern barbarians to have me killed… I am in your debt. If I make it to the capital and see the Emperor, I swear I will convince him to march north and reclaim our lands."
"You are the only one who can save the Great Ye Dynasty, General," Li San said earnestly.
As the night deepened, Jiang Dao waited until his men were settled. Then, his eyes cold and sharp, he slipped out of his room. He leaped silently onto a nearby roof, his gaze sweeping across the sprawling, silent temple. The air was cold, heavy with a strange, unnatural yin energy.
He began to move, a ghost flitting across the rooftops.
For half an hour, he explored, circling the grounds. The place was dead silent. He saw no one but the old monk and the young novice. Stranger still, most of the buildings were falling apart, clearly abandoned for years. Courtyards were choked with weeds, halls were draped in thick cobwebs, and some roofs had collapsed entirely.
This isn't right. None of this is right.
He stopped before the Sutra Pavilion, the temple's library. It was a wreck. A place of knowledge, central to any temple, should never be this neglected—especially not by a monk who seemed to do nothing but chant.
He turned and raced back toward the Head Monk's quarters. But when he arrived, he stopped dead.
The room he had just left was a ruin. The door was broken and hanging off its hinges, the windows were shattered, and the inside was pitch black. It looked nothing like the simple, clean room he had been in just an hour before.
His hand on his saber, Jiang Dao crept inside.
The air was stale, thick with the dust of ages. The Buddha statue was toppled over. The prayer mat and wooden fish were tossed aside, coated in a thick layer of grime.
It was all an illusion. None of it had been real.
He took a sharp breath as a horrifying thought struck him. If the monk was a lie, then the temple itself was a trap.
The men.
He spun around and sprinted back towards their rooms, his heart pounding in his chest. If the monk wasn't what he seemed, Du Feng and the others were in mortal danger.