The violence had ceased, leaving behind a silence so heavy it felt physical. Jiang Dao's monstrous form began to recede, his hulking frame folding back into the dimensions of a man. As his skin cooled and his bones settled into their human configuration, he stood amidst the wreckage of a battlefield that looked like it had been visited by a localized hurricane of gore.
Everywhere he looked, the remnants of the Spirit-removers lay scattered—shredded silk, broken talismans, and what little remained of those who had dared to stand in the crossfire. His own clothes had been sacrificed to his transformation, leaving him standing in the cooling mist with nothing but his own grit. His gaze shifted, settling on Xu Zifeng, who was currently trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while nursing his own wounds.
"Brother Xu," Jiang Dao said, his voice returning to its calm, resonant bass. "If you wouldn't mind, I find myself in a bit of a predicament. How about you lend me your trousers?"
Xu Zifeng froze. His face went through a rapid-fire succession of emotions—shock, disbelief, and finally, a searing, humiliated rage. He took a stumbling step back, clutching at his own robes as if Jiang Dao were a common bandit. "You… you want my what?"
"It's a simple request, Xu. I can't exactly walk back into town like this," Jiang Dao replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Unless, of course, you're unwilling. If that's the case, I'll just strip them off your master. I doubt he's in any position to argue."
He turned his gaze toward the old Taoist, whose current state was a testament to Jiang Dao's sheer brutality. The elder's head had been compressed into a literal, geometric cube—a horrifying feat of strength that defied the laws of biology.
The Taoist's muffled voice emerged from his squared jaw, frantic and pained. "Xiaofeng! Don't be a fool! Give him the damn pants!"
"Master, I can't possibly—"
"Now, Xiaofeng! Do you want me to lose what's left of my dignity?" the Taoist hissed.
With a face turned crimson enough to rival the sunset, Xu Zifeng surrendered. He stepped behind a shattered pillar, the sounds of rustling fabric punctuated by his own quiet curses. A moment later, a pair of trousers sailed through the air, landing at Jiang Dao's feet. Jiang Dao pulled them on. They were tight—Xu Zifeng was a lithe man, and Jiang Dao, even in his human form, was built like a wall of corded muscle. The hems ended at his mid-calves, giving him the appearance of someone wearing oversized capris, but they covered the essentials.
He didn't linger on the fashion choice. Nearby, the Mandate Artifact lay—a thing of terrible, latent power. He found a tattered, heavy cloak among the debris and wrapped the artifact with meticulous care. He didn't just wrap it; he wove his own inner Qi around it, creating a pressurized seal that choked out any lingering aura. To the untrained eye, it was now just a lumpy bundle of rags.
Before they left, Jiang Dao moved through the clearing like a ghost of the battlefield, systematically destroying what remained of the corpses. He used bursts of white-hot Qi to incinerate evidence and crush bones to dust. By the time he was finished, the site held no secrets. No one would be able to track the lineage of the killers, and nothing—not even a scrap of demonic soul—was left to linger.
"Alright," Jiang Dao said, slinging the bundle over his shoulder. "Let's move."
They were barely clear of the lingering red mist when a figure appeared on the horizon, skittering between the shadows of the dead trees. Jiang Dao sensed him before he saw him.
"Prince Nanling?" Jiang Dao called out, his hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of his blade.
The Prince skidded to a halt. He looked disheveled, his eyes darting around the clearing with a mixture of hunger and terror. When he saw Jiang Dao standing there—relatively unharmed and accompanied by the battered remains of the Celestial Master Mountain group—his expression shifted into a mask of feigned concern.
"Gang Leader Jiang! You're alive," Nanling said, rushing forward, though he kept a respectful distance. "I saw the chaos from the ridge. What happened? Where is the Mandate Artifact?"
Jiang Dao let out a long, weary sigh, a masterclass in calculated disappointment. "You're late, Your Highness. To be blunt, the artifact is gone. A creature from the Path of Questioning Immortality—a fox spirit of immense power—intervened. It took advantage of the carnage, snatched the prize, and vanished into the fog. Most of the survivors are currently half a province away, chasing a shadow."
The old Taoist, sensing the play, coughed up a splash of blood for dramatic effect. "It's true. The beast caught us off guard. I'm lucky to have my life, even if my… my current state is less than ideal."
Nanling looked at the Taoist's cube-shaped head, his eyes widening, but he didn't dare comment on it. His mind was clearly racing. The Path of Questioning Immortality was a formidable name, and if they had the artifact, the political landscape of the Great Yu Empire was about to become a slaughterhouse.
"A fox spirit…" Nanling muttered, the gears of ambition turning. Then, his eyes snapped back to Jiang Dao. "And the poison? I saw you swallow the Corpse Demon's pill. How are you still standing?"
Jiang Dao shrugged, the movement tightening the fabric of his borrowed pants. "I have my ways. I forced the toxin out through my pores before it could take root. I planned to infiltrate the Thirteen Corpse Demon Mountain and strike from within, but now that the artifact is gone, it's all for naught. A wasted effort."
He stepped closer to the Prince, his shadow looming over the smaller man. "Tell me, Your Highness. Now that the prize is lost, what are your plans? You wouldn't happen to be harboring any… resentment over our previous disagreements, would you?"
The air between them grew cold. Nanling felt the sheer weight of Jiang Dao's presence—a pressure that suggested that if he said the wrong word, his head would match the Taoist's in shape.
"Resentment? Heavens, no!" Nanling squeaked, waving his hands. "Those men you killed… they were merely followers. In this world, strength is the only law. I would be a fool to seek a quarrel with a man of your caliber. In fact, I'm willing to swear the Blood Poison Curse right here. I will never speak a word of your involvement in these day's events. If I break it, may the heavens strike me down and my blood turn to ash."
Jiang Dao smiled—a sharp, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes. He patted Nanling on the shoulder, nearly knocking the wind out of him. "I like your pragmatism, Prince. Let's head back."
Two days later, the sun beat down on the courtyard of the Blazing Flame Gang's headquarters in Qianyuan City.
Prince Nanling sat in a rattan chair, sipping tea and trying to look like he belonged. Next to him, the old Taoist sat in brooding silence. His head was still a cube. Despite two days of healing chants, medicinal salves, and sheer willpower, the shape remained. It was as if Jiang Dao's grip had rewritten the very geometry of his skull. Every time a servant walked by, they had to bite their lips to keep from laughing, a fact that made the Taoist's aura grow darker by the hour.
His disciples, Xu Zifeng and Zhao Ziling, were effectively under house arrest. Jiang Dao had invited them to stay, but the invitation carried the weight of an ultimatum. While the world outside was descending into madness, Jiang Dao's corner of the empire remained an island of terrifying calm.
News of the Mandate Artifact had hit the Great Yu Empire like a thunderclap. The rumors Jiang Dao had planted—of the fox spirit and the Path of Questioning Immortality—had spread with lightning speed, fueled by Nanling and the Taoist's own reports to their superiors. In the halls of power, the great clans were already mobilizing for a war against the fox spirits.
Meanwhile, at the Thirteen Corpse Demon Mountain, the air was thick with the scent of rotting meat and ancient rage. Their Spirit Corpse Ancestor was dead, and their greatest treasure had vanished. They didn't care about Jiang Dao anymore; they were too busy howling for the blood of the "foxes" who had humiliated them.
Deep within the inner sanctum of the headquarters, Jiang Dao sat cross-legged on a stone dais. The Mandate Artifact was laid out before him. Without its wrapping, it looked like a mummified bear paw, dark red and pulsing with a faint, rhythmic heat. Twisted veins laced the surface, and the claws were sharp enough to cut through the air itself.
He reached out, his hand hovering over the object. He could feel the malice radiating from it—a sentient, ancient hunger that wanted nothing more than to consume the soul of whoever touched it.
Jiang Dao didn't hesitate. He flooded his hand with Hot Poison Astral Qi and gripped the artifact.
The reaction was instantaneous. A roar that wasn't a sound, but a psychic scream, tore through his mind. His vision went white as a titanic image of a primal demon surged into his consciousness, baring teeth the size of swords. The artifact's Yin energy surged up his arm like liquid ice, clashing violently with his own scorching Qi.
His right hand began to mutate. The bone structure groaned, lengthening and thickening. Spikes of calcified bone erupted from his knuckles, and his skin took on a dark, bruised hue. He felt the urge to kill, to rend, to tear the world apart.
"Quiet," Jiang Dao hissed through clenched teeth.
He pushed back. His internal furnace roared to life, his Hot Poison Qi acting like a blast furnace that began to smelt the artifact's energy. He wasn't just resisting it; he was digesting it. The agonizing cold was slowly tempered, turned into a raw fuel that his system greedily absorbed.
After an hour of intense struggle, the mutation receded. His hand returned to its human shape, but it felt different—denser, more lethal. He opened his status panel in his mind's eye. His strength and speed hadn't changed, but his Heavenly Demon Poison Sand Palm was flickering, evolving under the influence of the artifact's essence.
He exhaled a cloud of steam. He had reached a plateau. To go further, to truly master this power, he needed a more robust foundation. He needed to see if his power could be replicated, or at least shared.
He summoned Guo Dutian to his chamber.
The loyal subordinate entered, kneeling immediately. "Gang Leader, you called for me?"
"Guo Dutian, you've been with me since the beginning," Jiang Dao said, his voice echoing in the small room. "I'm going to try something today. A gift of power. But I will be honest with you—this is an experiment. If your body cannot handle my Qi, you may not survive the hour. Do you accept?"
Guo Dutian didn't hesitate. He looked up, his eyes filled with a terrifyingly pure devotion. "My life has belonged to the Blazing Flame Gang since the day you took command. Do what you must."
"Close your eyes. Don't resist."
Jiang Dao placed his palm on the crown of Guo's head. He didn't dump his energy into the man; he threaded it, thin needles of Hot Poison Qi snaking into Guo's meridians. He was shocked by how fragile the man felt. To Jiang Dao, Guo's internal pathways felt like brittle glass tubes compared to his own reinforced steel.
As the energy flowed, Guo Dutian's face contorted. His skin turned a sickly, bruised purple, and steam began to rise from his shoulders. He let out a muffled scream, his teeth grinding together so hard they threatened to shatter.
Jiang Dao pulled back just as he felt Guo's heart falter. He had transferred roughly fifty years of his refined cultivation—a mere fraction of his total pool, but to a normal man, it was an ocean.
Guo Dutian collapsed, gasping for air, his body trembling with a new, violent heat. After a few minutes, he pushed himself up. He looked at his hands, which were now imbued with a faint, reddish glow. He struck out at a training post in the corner of the room. The solid oak shattered into splinters as if it had been hit by a sledgehammer.
"I… I feel like I could uproot a mountain," Guo whispered, his voice trembling.
Jiang Dao nodded, a cold satisfaction settling in his chest. "You've gained fifty years of my astral Qi. Your body is weak, but the energy will reinforce you over time. Use it well."
As Guo Dutian bowed and left, Jiang Dao looked back at his status panel. The number of years in his Innate Fire Demon Astral Qi had dipped, but with a simple mental command, he spent his accumulated points. The numbers blurred and spun, resetting his cultivation back to its nine-hundred-year peak.
He stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the city. The pieces were moving. The empires were at each other's throats. The demons were hungry. But as he flexed his hand, feeling the latent power of the Mandate Artifact humming in his veins, Jiang Dao knew one thing for certain.
The dust hadn't settled. It was only just beginning to rise.