The silence in the small border town was not merely the absence of noise; it was a heavy, suffocating blanket woven from ice and unnatural slumber. Snowflakes did not drift; they hung suspended in the biting air, dancing a macabre waltz around the eaves of houses that had become tombs for the living. Inside, entire families lay collapsed in grotesque tableaus of sleep—slumped over dinner tables, curled on cold floorboards, or frozen mid-stride.
From the center of their foreheads, invisible ribbons of light streamed upward. This was the power of faith, forcibly extracted, piercing the thatched roofs to congregate in the high heavens.
Above the cloud layer, where the wind screamed like a wounded animal, a monstrosity of light had manifested. It stood thirty meters tall, a stark contrast to the shadow that had haunted this region only days prior. This entity was a grotesque bloom of luminosity, its back sprouting thousands of arms that writhed like a nest of golden vipers. Each hand held a different posture: some formed sacred mudras, others brandished ritual artifacts, while the rest groped at the air like the tentacles of a deep-sea leviathan.
Its face bore a smile that was at once beatific and terrified—a frozen rictus of divine mockery. Its eyes, neither open nor closed, gazed down at the mortal realm with a mixture of benevolence and predatory hunger.
A sound began to permeate the air—a cosmic lullaby, horrifyingly sweet, magnifying the drowsiness of every living soul. Mixed within this melody was the cloying scent of temple incense and burning tallow, the smell of a funeral rite performed for a world not yet dead.
Then, the sound of metal tearing through reality shattered the trance.
Clang.
A copper gong resonated. The sound was clear, sharp, and possessed a terrifying density. It rippled through the air, distorting space like a stone thrown into a still pond. Wherever the sound wave traveled, the scent of incense vanished. The lullaby disintegrated, swept away as if by a violent gale.
The giant entity of light did not rage. It merely maintained that eerie smile, its gaze shifting to a small, solitary figure approaching from the snowy horizon.
It was the Night Watchman. He was a portrait of ruin—thin, clad in rags, his body drenched in fresh, scarlet blood that steamed against the ice.
"You have come, as predicted," the entity boomed, its voice vibrating in the marrow of the earth. "But how long can you endure? Your 'Imperial Luck Blood' is nearly spent. A single piece of copper cannot hold back the tide."
"It can," the Night Watchman whispered. His voice was a dry rattle, but it carried the weight of a mountain.
Mechanically, numbly, his hand brought a copper hammer down upon the gong once more.
Clang.
This time, the sound carried a force that was almost visible. The thousand-armed entity's smile faltered. Its multitude of arms began a frantic dance, weaving seals and brandishing weapons to counter the sonic wave.
Boom!
A tsunami of divine energy crashed down from the sky, aiming to obliterate the fragile black figure. Yet, the moment this overwhelming power touched the aura of the Night Watchman—the moment it made contact with the blood he spilled—it unraveled. The divine force collapsed into nothingness, neutralized by the sheer purity of the mortal will standing before it.
Clang.
Step by step, the Night Watchman advanced. His eyes were empty voids, seeing nothing of the world around him, focused only on the path.
High above, the construct of light began to scream without sound. It twisted, its geometry failing. It was collapsing, inch by inch, blurring into static.
"Even if you stop me," the entity hissed as its form lost cohesion, "you cannot stop the pantheon. I wonder, little watchman, how much blood do you have left to bleed? You and your kind will be purged from history!"
Rumble.
Like an avalanche of photons, the entity disintegrated. As it fell apart, the stolen faith it had hoarded was released. Ribbons of light rained back down upon the town, diving into the chests of the sleeping villagers. Color rushed back into pale cheeks. Groans of confusion echoed from the houses as the townspeople woke, clutching their heads, unaware of the war fought for their souls just outside their doors.
The Night Watchman swayed. The flow of blood from his wounds intensified, turning the pristine snow beneath him into a crimson marsh. His skin was scorched black, his frame skeletal. He did not stop to rest; he simply turned and walked toward the edge of the wilderness.
Watching from the shadows of a nearby ridge, Jiang Dao felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
That was an Evil God? Jiang Dao thought, his grip tightening on his weapon. If I had faced that thing... I would have been reduced to dust. And yet, this walking corpse dispersed it with a few strikes of a gong?
He watched the black figure shamble into the distance and, driven by a mixture of curiosity and dread, he followed.
Seven miles out, in the heart of the frozen wasteland, the Night Watchman finally stopped.
He sat cross-legged in the snow, a solitary speck of black in a world of white. The bleeding had not stopped; it bubbled from him like a spring, soaking into the permafrost, disappearing deep into the earth's veins. He placed the copper gong and hammer gently beside him.
"Senior," Jiang Dao approached slowly, his voice low. "Who... exactly are you?"
The figure didn't turn. The wind whipped his tattered robes.
"There are not many left alive in this world," the Watchman rasped. The voice was like grinding stones, laced with an infinite sorrow. "Not many left..."
Jiang Dao frowned. "What do you mean?"
"They want to scrub the slate clean. They want to sever the luck of humanity because... they are afraid."
"Afraid of humans?" Jiang Dao asked, incredulous. "You mean the Evil Gods? The spirits?"
"No. All of them," the Watchman replied. "The Evil Gods, the Death Gods, those high entities who believe they write the rules of existence. They were all defeated by humans once. They fear a recurrence. They fear us."
Jiang Dao looked at his own hands, then at the dying man. "Are humans really that strong? We are treated like livestock. Blood sacrifices, food for demons. The only ones who can fight back are the Spirit Removers, and even they are bound by bloodline restrictions. If you don't have the blood, you are nothing."
The Watchman let out a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. "Spirit Removers... they are merely the walking dead. Their blood is black, corrupted. They are not the inheritors of the legacy."
Tears of blood rolled down the Watchman's scorched cheeks. "Those entities locked away the secrets of power. They manufactured gods to harvest faith like farmers harvesting wheat. But they forgot one thing: human consciousness is the forge of divinity. We do not need external gods. Humans once birthed the City Gods and the Underworld. Those were our gods."
Jiang Dao was stunned. "The Underworld... was created by humans?"
"Yes. But a war was lost. The City Gods vanished. The Underworld was sealed. The false gods created to rule us were destroyed or discarded, branded as 'Evil Gods' by their own creators because they failed. To prevent us from rising again, they buried our history. They severed the inheritance."
The Watchman's voice grew fainter, his head drooping. "I wanted to leave a legacy. But the path of the Night Watchman... it ends with me. When I die, humanity enters the long dark."
"Why can't it be passed on?" Jiang Dao pressed.
"The Night Watchman guards the darkness but carries the 'Imperial Luck Blood'—the collective destiny of the human race. The current generation... their spirits are too broken. They cannot condense the blood. Without it, you cannot hold the gong."
"Who are 'they'?" Jiang Dao asked, his tone turning cold. "The ones pulling the strings?"
"I cannot say. To speak their names is to invite a calamity we cannot survive. They released the storms, the cold, the monsters... all to draw us out." The Watchman turned his empty sockets toward Jiang Dao. "Today, I return my blood to the earth. I have done my best. I am... sorry."
The sorrow emanating from him was tangible, a physical weight. The blood flowed faster now, and Jiang Dao could feel the earth beneath them vibrating, as if the land itself was drinking the sacrifice, warming up.
Jiang Dao clenched his fists. "I don't know much about ancient history or destiny. But I know I don't like what I'm hearing. And I don't like watching you die."
Boom!
Jiang Dao's hand expanded, muscles swelling as they were engulfed in the Extreme Yang Divine Fire. He slammed his palm against the Night Watchman's back.
The golden flames roared, tearing through the gloomy atmosphere, trying to jumpstart the dying man's life force. Jiang Dao poured his own vitality into the scorched vessel before him.
For a moment, a spark ignited in the Watchman's empty eyes. He seemed to look past Jiang Dao, through time, seeing something that made him tremble.
"Good... good..." he whispered. "I see a new hope. Extreme Yang... such pure fire."
"My companions... farewell. Rest now."
"A new hope has come..."
Hiss.
The Night Watchman's body did not heal. Instead, it began to crumble. Like charcoal in a high wind, he disintegrated into black dust, spiraling up into the sky to join the snow.
Jiang Dao's hand punched through the dissipating cloud of ash, his fire hitting nothing but air. The heat blasted a crater in the snowfield, sending up plumes of white steam.
He stood there, chest heaving, his breath venting like dragon smoke in the frigid air. The Watchman was gone.
"Damn it," Jiang Dao growled.
He was vibrating with pent-up aggression. He needed to hit something. He needed to find an Evil Spirit and tear it apart with his bare hands.
It took hours for the heat in Jiang Dao's blood to settle.
He stood over the spot where the Watchman had vanished. The snow was melting rapidly, exposing the dark earth—the direct result of the "Imperial Luck Blood" returning to the soil.
Three items remained. The copper gong. The patterned hammer. And a palm-sized black token.
Jiang Dao bent down to pick up the token. He frowned. It didn't budge.
He braced his legs, engaged his back, and pulled. It felt as though he were trying to lift a mountain. This small piece of metal weighed at least ten thousand catties. It took a second, concerted effort of brute strength to lift it.
One side read: Night Watch.
The other: Gu Yun.
"Gu Yun," Jiang Dao murmured. "A name that saved the world, and no one will ever know it."
He tucked the token into his robe and reached for the gong and hammer. They were equally heavy—impossible objects for a normal human. Yet, that skeletal, dying man had wielded them as if they were made of paper.
Jiang Dao struck the gong with the hammer.
Clang.
It was just a noise. Loud, metallic, but empty. There was no ripple of reality, no dispelling of evil.
"The power wasn't in the tool," Jiang Dao realized, his eyes narrowing. "It was in the man. Without the status of a Night Watchman, without that blood... this is just heavy scrap metal."
The inheritance was truly broken.
However, the Watchman's final words echoed in his mind. I see new hope.
Jiang Dao looked at the melting snow. The unnatural winter of the Southern Region was breaking. The sacrifice had bought them time—three years, the Watchman had said. Three years before the ice returned.
"Let the world go to hell," Jiang Dao spat, hefting the massive gong onto his back. "As long as they don't provoke me, I don't care."
But deep down, the anger simmered. He hated being a pawn. He hated the idea of unseen entities farming humanity. He was a creature of violence and control; if fate wanted to bind him, he would smash fate's teeth in.
"OCD strikes again," he muttered, forcing a grim smile. "Time to add more muscle. If I can't use magic, I'll just have to be strong enough to punch a god."
A day later, Jiang Dao was trekking through a thawing mountain pass when he stopped.
His ears twitched. Through the damp, heavy air of the melting forest, he heard the frantic rhythm of desperate breathing and the chaotic thud of footsteps.
Squinting toward the east, he saw two figures stumbling through the trees. They were covered in blood and mud, their auras fluctuating wildly between exhaustion and panic. Yin energy clung to them like cobwebs.
"Brother Xu?" Jiang Dao raised an eyebrow.
It was Xu Zifeng and Zhao Ziling, the disciples from Tianshi Mountain, whom he had helped previously. They looked like they had been chewed up and spat out by a nightmare.
Jiang Dao vanished from his spot, reappearing several hundred meters away in a blur of motion.
"Brother Xu," he called out.
Xu Zifeng, who had been running blindly, skidded to a halt, terror etched on his face. He spun around, weapon raised, before recognition dawned.
"Gang Leader Jiang?" Xu Zifeng's voice cracked. "You're here!"
"It really is the Blazing Flame Gang Leader!" Zhao Ziling gasped, clutching her side.
They practically collapsed at his feet.
"Gang Leader Jiang, please!" Xu Zifeng fell to his knees, tears streaming down his grimy face. "You have to help us! Please save our Master!"
"Your Master? The old Taoist?" Jiang Dao was surprised. "I sent you guys off with plenty of silver. What could possibly have happened?"
"We... we encountered a Resurgence," Xu Zifeng stammered, his eyes wide with the memory of it. "An Evil God Resurgence."
Jiang Dao's expression hardened. The temperature around him seemed to drop.
"We didn't even make it back to the mountain," Xu Zifeng continued, trembling. "At the town outside Tianshi Mountain, the shockwave hit us. We barely escaped the Evil Domain. But we felt the mountain's Sacred Artifact activate. Our Master is still alive in there, fighting. We know it!"
Jiang Dao fell silent.
He looked at the desperate siblings, then at the heavy gong strapped to his back. He thought of the Night Watchman dissolving into ash. He thought of the thirty-meter-tall entity of light that could erase a soul with a glance.
"An Evil God," Jiang Dao repeated slowly.
"Yes! With your strength—"
"I'm sorry, Brother Xu."
Jiang Dao shook his head, his voice devoid of hesitation. "I can't help you. Based on what you're saying, and what I know of my own limits... I am not an opponent of an Evil God. If I go, I die."
He looked down at them, his gaze heavy but pragmatic.
"I am glad you survived. Truly. But for the living, the hardest lesson is knowing when to walk away."
Jiang Dao gripped his hammer. He was a man who loved a fight, but he was not a man who sought suicide. Until he found a way to bridge the gap—until he could turn his body into a weapon that rivaled the gods—he would not step into that arena.