The first breath was a struggle, a ragged gasp that tore through his chest like a rusty saw. Jiang Dao pushed himself up from the cold, unyielding earth, his face the color of old ash. Every muscle fiber screamed in protest, but he forced his hands into a respectful clasp, bowing toward the figure standing over him.
"Daoist," he rasped, the words scraping against his dry throat. "I owe you my life."
Daoist Qingsong, seeing consciousness return to Jiang Dao's eyes, immediately ceased the flow of spiritual energy he had been channeling. He looked relieved, though the lines of worry on his forehead remained etched deep. "Brother Jiang Liu, tell me—what happened before I arrived? How did you fall?"
Jiang Dao coughed again, a weak, wet sound. He kept his expression pained, masking the sharpness of his mind. "The day after you departed, I heard… sounds. Strange, dissonant noises drifting from the mouth of Huangfeng Valley. I only intended to investigate, to see if the threat was real. But the moment I stepped past the valley's threshold, the world spun. I was struck from the shadows before I could even draw a breath."
"An ambush," Qingsong muttered, his expression darkening. "That sound was likely a psi-illusion woven by the Evil Demons, a siren song designed to lure the curious to their deaths. I am surprised it ensnared you, Brother Jiang, but to knock you unconscious in a single stroke… that was no ordinary foot soldier. You likely encountered a Sect Guardian."
"I see," Jiang Dao said, exhaling a breath he had been holding. "I am fortunate to be alive."
"Fortunate indeed," Qingsong agreed. "If anything had happened to you, my conscience would have known no peace."
Around them, the groans of the waking wounded began to fill the air. Other survivors were stirring, their faces pale masks of shock. As clarity returned, a wave of panicked chatter erupted, followed quickly by a chorus of gratitude directed at Daoist Qingsong.
While the survivors licked their wounds, the four elite masters—led by the middle-aged scholar—were conducting a final, frantic sweep of the underground palace. Their expressions, however, were not those of victors. They were the faces of men who had gambled and lost.
The palace was empty. The prize was gone.
The entity that had breached the sanctum earlier had been surgical in its objective. It had come for the Purple Spirit Flower, and it had taken it. The only remnants of the intruder were a discarded wrought-iron mask and a pile of unrecognizable, necrotic flesh.
It defied logic. The Purple Spirit Flower was known for its overwhelming, permeating fragrance. Even sealed in a box, the scent should have lingered, a heavy perfume hanging in the air. Yet, the chamber smelled of nothing but dust and decay. It was as if the flower had been erased from existence.
The four masters exchanged glances. The frustration was palpable, a heavy weight in the room, but eventually, the old man with the wrapped headcloth sighed.
"What is fated to be yours cannot be escaped; what is not fated cannot be forced," he said, his voice sounding ancient and weary. "This, it seems, was not written in our stars."
The middle-aged scholar offered a bitter, tight-lipped smile and shook his head. They had traveled thousands of miles, expended resources, and fought bitter battles, only to miss the crown jewel. Still, the raid hadn't been a total failure. The accumulated wealth of the Night Worship Sect and the resources of Huangfeng Valley were substantial. It was a consolation prize, but it would have to suffice.
"Let us leave this place," the scholar said, smoothing his robes. "We should check on the survivors."
As the four masters approached, the group of battered Spirit Removers fell silent, bowing deeply in reverence. These were the titans of their world, figures of immense power compared to the rabble.
The masters nodded, their eyes scanning the crowd with detached interest until the old man with the headcloth fixed his gaze on Jiang Dao.
"Little brother," he rasped. "You are the one called Jiang Liu?"
The air temperature seemed to drop. The other three masters turned in unison, their gazes locking onto Jiang Dao like hawks spotting a field mouse. There was a weight to their attention, a speculative hunger that made the skin on Jiang Dao's back crawl.
This is it, Jiang Dao thought. Qingsong told them.
They suspected he was the human vessel of a Fire Flood Dragon.
In this world, the blood essence of a Fire Flood Dragon was a treasure beyond price. For cultivators in the Dragon Realm, a single drop could advance their power by leaps and bounds. More than that, if he truly was a dragon in human form, recruiting him into the Shenwu Gate would bring unimaginable prestige to their sect.
"I am Jiang Liu," Jiang Dao said, keeping his voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding his system. "I thank the Seniors for their aid."
Whoosh!
The gratitude had barely left his lips when the middle-aged scholar raised a hand. A ribbon of blinding white light shot forth, coiling around Jiang Dao's body like a python. It tightened instantly, binding his limbs and freezing him in place.
"Senior Dan!" Daoist Qingsong stepped forward, alarmed. "What is the meaning of this?"
Jiang Dao's heart turned to ice. He didn't struggle. He knew it would be futile.
"Peace, Qingsong. Do not be nervous," the scholar said, his smile failing to reach his cold, calculating eyes. "I merely wish to verify something."
A bone brush, white as polished ivory, materialized in the scholar's hand. He stepped into Jiang Dao's personal space, the air humming with tension. With a delicate, painterly motion, he swiped the brush across Jiang Dao's forearm.
Pfft.
It wasn't a cut; it was a violation. A stinging, cold radiated from the brush, biting into his soul, followed immediately by a searing, physical pain.
"Senior," Jiang Dao growled, his voice low and dangerous. "What are you doing?"
The scholar ignored him. He flicked his wrist, and a single drop of blood rose from Jiang Dao's arm, hovering at the tip of the scholar's finger. It was a dark, scorching crimson.
In a blur of motion, the other three masters vanished from their spots and reappeared huddled around the scholar, their eyes wide and burning with greed as they scrutinized the floating droplet.
"The Yang energy is intense… blazing," one muttered. "And the fire poison is potent."
"But the essence…" The middle-aged woman frowned, leaning closer. "It is low-grade. There is no resonance. No Dragon Might."
"Incorrect," she straightened up, the light in her eyes dying out instantly. "This is not a Fire Flood Dragon body. It is a deception. Just a mundane bloodline that happened to mutate due to an excess of Yang energy and fire poison."
The disappointment in the group was palpable. It was the collective sigh of gamblers who had scratched a lottery ticket only to find a blank space. Unwilling to give up immediately, they grabbed Jiang Dao's arm, swiping their own fingers across his skin to draw fresh samples, tasting and sniffing the blood like sommeliers.
Minutes passed. The verdict was unanimous.
"Garbage," one muttered. "Not a trace of the dragon bloodline."
"I told you. The Fire Flood Dragon is a myth, likely extinct for centuries."
"Neither dragon nor beast," the scholar said, wiping his hand on a cloth. He looked at Jiang Dao, the hunger in his eyes replaced by mild boredom. "Where do you hail from, boy?"
They had completely missed the one-armed old man in the back of the crowd. He was watching the scene with a strange, guarded expression, sniffing the air where the blood had been spilled, a fleeting glint of recognition in his eyes that he quickly suppressed.
"Seniors," Jiang Dao said, feigning the confusion of a country bumpkin. "I am from a fallen family of Spirit Removers. I am the last of my line. The fire in my blood… it comes from a strange fruit I ate as a starving child. That is the only reason I reached the Dragon Realm so quickly. It was luck, not lineage."
He kept his internal temperature cool, suppressing the urge to strike. They had looked at him not as a human, but as livestock to be butchered for parts.
"I see," the scholar nodded dismissively. The mystery was solved, and with it, their interest evaporated. The atmosphere shifted from intense sc.