The ruined chamber was an oven, baking in the heat of a localized hell.
Flames of the Extreme Yang Divine Fire roared, licking the walls and turning the floor into a scorched, pockmarked landscape of slag and ash. In the center of this inferno stood Jiang Dao. His massive right claw was clamped tight around the throat of a Corpse Demon Ancestor, a creature that had once been a figure of supreme nightmares but was now reduced to a whimpering, broken thing.
The demon's chest was cratered inward, its limbs snapped like dry twigs. The dense, black necrotic aura that usually shrouded it had been burned away, leaving only twisted flesh sizzling under the relentless assault of Jiang Dao's Yang fire. The golden flames were not merely hot; they were the demon's natural predator, burrowing into its pores and boiling its marrow.
On the far wall, a smear of sludge and ash was all that remained of the Spirit Corpse Ancestor—a stain that had been burned so thoroughly it ceased to exist as matter.
"Cough... You..." The Corpse Demon Ancestor in Jiang Dao's grip wheezed, its voice a horrific rattle of pain. "You'll get nothing from me... The others... they will avenge me..."
The fire intensified. It ate into the creature's internal organs, melting viscera that was supposed to be as tough as divine iron. The demon's throat seared shut, choking off its defiant roar into a silent scream.
"You have a hard mouth," Jiang Dao rumbled, his voice bored. "If they were going to avenge you, they would have been here the moment I started tearing this place apart. They aren't here. Which means they either ran, or they're hiding."
"They will... avenge me..." the monster gurgled one last time.
Smack.
Jiang Dao didn't bother with a witty retort. He simply swung his heavy hand, slapping the Corpse Demon Ancestor with enough force to vaporize its head. The headless torso ignited instantly, consumed by the golden blaze, and Jiang Dao tossed the burning refuse aside like a used rag.
He stood amidst the wreckage, brows furrowed, eyes burning with an internal light. He scanned the sprawling complex of small, pitch-black huts that lined the mountain.
Where are they?
The commotion he had caused was seismic. It was impossible that the other Ancestors hadn't heard it.
"Either they aren't on the mountain," Jiang Dao mused aloud, the flames dancing across his skin, "or they are all asleep."
If it was the latter, today was going to be a slaughter. There was nothing he enjoyed more than crushing pests that didn't have the energy to fight back.
Suddenly, a prickle of instinct hit him. Jiang Dao whipped his head around.
A blur of red shadow darted through the periphery of his vision, fleeing toward a distant black hut.
An Evil Spirit?
Jiang Dao moved. Despite his mountainous bulk, he possessed the explosive speed of a striking viper. He didn't run so much as transverse the space, a juggernaut of muscle and fire.
Boom!
He crashed through the wall of the black hut, wood splinters turning into shrapnel. The Yang fire clinging to him obliterated the room's accumulated Yin energy in a hiss of steam.
The room was empty. Save for a solitary coffin, the only decoration was a painting hanging on the far wall.
Jiang Dao narrowed his eyes at the scroll.
It was a masterpiece of detail, depicting a bustling market scene. It was densely packed with ink-wash figures—peddlers shouting their wares, nobles preening on balconies, a wedding procession clashing with a funeral march. The streets were claustrophobic, the figures painted with such uncanniness that they seemed to vibrate with life.
Jiang Dao scanned the rest of the room, feigning disinterest. But as he turned his back, the painting changed.
In the center of the inked crowd, a man in a groom's robe, a large red flower pinned to his chest, blinked. His painted eyes shifted, locking onto Jiang Dao's broad back.
Jiang Dao sensed the gaze. He spun around. The figure in the painting froze instantly.
"Cute," Jiang Dao grinned, his teeth flashing like a shark's. "Let's see how long you can hold that pose."
His hand, the size of a dustpan, stabbed forward.
Boom!
The Extreme Yang Divine Fire erupted from his fingertips, washing over the scroll.
A shrill, ear-splitting scream tore from the paper. Smoke billowed as the ink boiled. Jiang Dao's fingers clamped down on something incorporeal yet solid, and he yanked.
A twisted red shadow was dragged kicking and screaming out of the two-dimensional world.
It was a grotesque thing in a blood-red robe. Its face was a pale, narrow strip only two fingers wide, dominated by massive, watery eyes and a pointed skull. Its face looked caked in layers of cheap cosmetic powder, giving it the appearance of a mournful, deadly clown.
"Spare me! Don't kill me!" the spirit shrieked, its voice like grinding glass.
Jiang Dao held the writhing creature up to his face. "You're from the Thirteen Corpse Demon Mountains? Good. I finally found a tongue that still works. I'm looking for your Ancestors. Take me to them."
"The... The Ancestors are in deep hibernation," the spirit stammered, trembling as the heat from Jiang Dao's hand singed its ectoplasm. "I... I dare not disturb them."
"Relax," Jiang Dao smiled, a terrifying expression that promised violence. "I won't tell them you led me there. Just point the way. Don't ask questions."
He injected a pulse of Extreme Yang fire into the spirit's body, a burning leash that locked its form in place. Then, he dragged it out of the hut.
They were sleeping. It was the best possible news. Jiang Dao was a pragmatist; if he could exterminate the root of this evil while it was napping, he wasn't going to wait for a fair fight.
The Evil Spirit, smoking and convulsing from the pain of the fire, had no choice. It floated ahead, guiding Jiang Dao through the labyrinthine compound. Jiang Dao kept his senses extended, waiting for an ambush, but the silence remained unbroken.
They passed through rows of ominous black structures until the spirit stopped before an unassuming, dilapidated shack.
"There... an Ancestor is sleeping inside..." the spirit whispered, cowering.
Jiang Dao's eyes lit up. He peered into the gloom. The shack was bare except for a massive, heavy coffin the color of dried blood. The air around it was frigid, thick with the smell of old graves.
"It's in the box?"
"Yes... Yes."
Jiang Dao's smile widened. He raised his left hand. The muscles in his forearm coiled and expanded, twisting unnaturally as the limb grew larger. A layer of golden fire coated his palm, and his five fingers hardened, taking on the metallic sheen of divine iron daggers.
The Fire Demon God-Tearing Hand.
Boom!
He moved faster than thought.
The wooden lid of the coffin exploded into splinters. Jiang Dao's claw plunged into the darkness, grabbing the corpse resting within.
The creature was massive, covered in coarse black fur and shrouded in a protective layer of corpse gas. It had been in a fugue state of deep cultivation, but the sudden intrusion triggered its survival instincts. Its eyes snapped open, revealing blood-red pupils dilated with shock.
It was too late.
Jiang Dao's claw was already there. With a wet crunch, his fingers pierced the top of the monster's skull, shattering bone and brain matter before driving down deep into its chest cavity. The Yang fire surged through the connection, turning the inside of the monster into a furnace.
The Corpse Demon Ancestor didn't even have time to scream. It died in its bed, obliterated in a single stroke.
Whoosh!
The corpse ignited. The corpse gas meant to protect it became fuel, accelerating the melting process until the body was nothing but a blackened skeleton in a pool of sludge.
Jiang Dao withdrew his hand, shaking off the gore as the golden flames flickered and dimmed. He looked at his hand, then turned his gaze to the petrified Evil Spirit in his grasp.
"Alright," he said cheerfully. "Where are the other three?"
The spirit was shaking so violently that it was blurring. "Lord... if I show you... Will you spare me?"
"Be a good boy and listen, and I'll spare you." Jiang Dao patted the spirit's head with his massive palm. It felt like petting a wet dog.
"I... I don't believe you! You're a monster! I don't believe you!"
Panic overrode the spirit's self-preservation. It opened its impossible mouth and screamed.
Ahhh!
It wasn't just a sound; it was a weapon. Layers of invisible sonic waves rippled out, blasting through the walls and echoing across the mountain.
Rumble!
The ground shook. Nearby buildings began to crack and detonate. Deep below the earth, ancient, malevolent consciousnesses began to stir.
Jiang Dao's face went cold.
"I offer a toast, and you choose to drink poison."
Squelch.
He yanked his hand back. The Evil Spirit's head came with it, torn clean off its shoulders. Black ichor sprayed across the floor. The headless body thrashed for a second before the Yang fire consumed it, turning it to ash before it hit the ground.
Jiang Dao stepped out of the shack, his body radiating heat. The stinging pain of overusing the Extreme Yang Divine Fire pricked at his nerves, but the adrenaline suppressed it. He looked around at the awakening mountain.
"Since you woke them up," he bellowed, his voice drowning out the rumbling earth, "then let them come! I'll save time and kill them all at once!"
He stomped his foot, cracking the bedrock, and prepared for war.
Far away, across the vast and desolate world, a different kind of war was being waged.
The wind here did not carry the scent of fire; it carried only ice.
It was an endless winter. In a small village crushed under the weight of snow, silence reigned. The villagers were frozen in tableaux of daily life—slumped over dinner tables, collapsed in hallways. They were not dead, but they were fading. Frost crept over their skin, turning flesh to blue ice.
From the center of their foreheads, wisps of spiritual energy drifted upward, converging in the sky above the village square.
There, a distortion in reality pulsed with blinding white light. A low, rhythmic humming filled the air—part lullaby, part sacrificial chant.
As the chant grew louder, the blizzard ceased. The snow covering the village began to melt unnaturally fast.
High above, the white light coalesced into a towering avatar. A blurry figure, thirty meters tall, stood with feet of cloud and a head crowned with silver hair. A gemstone embedded in its forehead pulsed like a second heart.
"The human world..." the avatar spoke, its voice ancient and weary. "A scent I have missed."
Clang!
A single, crisp note of a copper gong shattered the atmosphere.
The sound was absolute. It cut through the chanting, causing the towering white avatar to ripple and shrink.
From the receding snow, a figure emerged. He was a scarecrow of a man, gaunt and skeletal, wrapped in tattered black robes. He wore a battered felt hat, and his skin looked like scorched leather.
In his left hand, a copper gong. In his right, a mallet. At his waist hung a black token that glowed with an inner light: [Night Watch].
"Does the Watchman walk in the daylight now?" the white avatar asked, its voice booming with the weight of a god.
"The Watchman does not guard the night," the gaunt figure rasped, striking the gong again. "We guard the humans in the darkness. Wherever the shadow falls, we appear."
Clang.
"And what has your protection brought them?" The avatar gestured to the frozen wasteland. "Look at them. Frozen. Starving. Suffering. Is this the dignity of humanity? Surrender them to us. We ask only for a tithe of faith, and in return, we give them warmth. Bliss. A dream without pain. Why do you deny them this?"
Clang.
The Watchman walked forward, his rhythm unbroken. "You ask for faith, but you take their souls. You give them dreams, but you leave them as husks, sleeping eternally while you feed. A puppet life is no life at all."
"And what is the meaning of your resistance?" The avatar's form began to destabilize under the sonic assault of the gong. Its voice turned seductive, slipping into the Watchman's mind. "The Mandate of Heaven is set. The purge is coming. As long as you, Watchmen, resist, the world will burn. Die, and they might yet live. Let go of your burden. Do you truly wish to see them buried alongside you?"
The Watchman stopped. The mallet hovered inches from the gong. For a fleeting second, the darkness in his empty eye sockets swirled with doubt.
"Even the City Gods fell. The Underworld is gone. Rest, Watchman. Let go."
Clang!
The hesitation vanished. The mallet struck with renewed force, a thunderclap that obliterated the avatar's whispering lies.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The sound waves hammered the white giant. It groaned, its massive form crumbling like a sandcastle in a gale.
"Stubborn fool," the avatar roared as it disintegrated. "Destroy me a thousand times, and I will return. You are merely delaying the end..."
With a final boom, the avatar collapsed. The stolen faith energy exploded outward, rushing back into the bodies of the villagers below.
Gasps filled the village. Men and women woke with a start, shivering violently as the supernatural cold left their bones.
"God, it's cold..."
"Why was I sleeping on the table?"
Outside, the Watchman stood alone in the returning wind.
His tattered robes whipped around his skeletal frame. He did not look back at the people he had saved. He simply stood there, a lonely barrier against the encroaching dark.
"I am sorry," he whispered to the wind, his voice cracking. "For this world... I have done my best."
From his empty, blackened sockets, tears of blood began to flow. It was not the black ichor of a monster, but the hot, scarlet blood of a man.
Back on Corpse Demon Mountain, the sky was choked with death.
Three massive clouds of black energy tore across the landscape, pulverizing rocks and trees as they charged toward the intruder.
Jiang Dao stood his ground. His muscles bulged, bone spurs protruding from his elbows and knees, his face twisted into a mask of battle lust.
Whoosh!
The fastest of the three Corpse Demon Ancestors broke from the pack. It lunged, a claw wreathed in necrosis aimed straight for Jiang Dao's heart.
"Die!"
Bang!
Jiang Dao caught the claw.
His grip was a vice. The Yang fire in his palm flared, instantly burning away the black corpse hair and neutralizing the necrotic energy.
"With this little strength?" Jiang Dao laughed, the sound rumbling in his chest. "You dare speak of death?"
"You?" The Ancestor's eyes went wide.
Jiang Dao's left hand ignited. The golden fire intensified, expanding the aura of his hand until it resembled the claw of a dragon.
The Ancestor shrieked, pumping its chest full of iron-hard corpse Qi to defend itself.
Thump!
Jiang Dao's hand smashed through the defense like paper. The Yang fire vaporized the protection, and his fingers plunged through the monster's chest and out its back.
"Roar!"
The creature thrashed, its insides boiling. In a frenzy of pain, it swung its free claw at Jiang Dao's throat.
Jiang Dao didn't dodge. He simply lifted his arm.
With a grunt of exertion, he hoisted the massive demon high above his head, holding it aloft like a trophy. The creature swiped helplessly at the air, unable to reach him.
"Put him down!"
"Who are you?!"
The remaining two Ancestors skidded to a halt, shocked by the display of dominance.
"Who am I?" Jiang Dao grinned, looking up at the struggling monster in his hand. "I'm your long-lost grandfather."
"Release him!" one of the demons roared, death energy billowing. "Or we bury you here!"
"You talk to your grandfather with that tone?" Jiang Dao's expression darkened. "Actually, I take it back. I couldn't have sired trash like you. Let me send you to your real ancestors."
Riiip!
Jiang Dao's arms flexed. The fire roared.
With a wet, tearing sound that echoed across the mountain, he ripped the Corpse Demon Ancestor in half.
Blood and black viscera rained down, sizzling as they hit the Yang fire.
The Fire Demon God-Tearing Hand.
Jiang Dao tossed the two halves aside and stomped the ground, shattering the earth beneath him. He was a meteor of golden fire, a force of nature, launching himself straight at the remaining two horrors.
Pain flared in his limbs, the cost of wielding such power, but he welcomed it.
Kill.
Kill.
Kill.
He would tear the darkness from this world, piece by bloody piece.