"You… you little brat!"
The words died in the throat of the middle-aged beauty. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm of disbelief and rising terror. She stared at Jiang Dao, her mind unable to reconcile the reality before her with the prey she thought she had cornered.
But survival instincts cut through her shock. With a sharp, desperate shriek, she commanded the weapon in his grip. "Poison Dragon Spike!"
Thrum.
In Jiang Dao's ironclad grasp, the red spear tip began to convulse. It wasn't a mechanical vibration; it was the thrashing of a living thing. The crimson metal erupted with a lattice of blinding red veins.
Boom!
The air shrieked as each vein detached, transforming into phantom dragons of poisonous light. They screamed through the narrow space, a barrage of thousands of needle-thin horrors aiming to turn Jiang Dao into a sieve. The aura was suffocating, a dense cloud of malice that would have paralyzed a lesser martial artist.
Jiang Dao didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
He let the crimson storm wash over him. The projectiles hammered against his skin, erupting in a cacophony of thunderous impacts, yet his body remained as immovable as a mountain range. He looked down at the vibrating spear tip in his palm with a look of mild curiosity, as if observing a struggling insect.
Then, the furnace inside him roared to life.
The Extreme Yang Divine Fire didn't just ignite; it exploded from his pores like a solar flare. With a heavy, dull thud, he channeled the torrent of liquid golden heat directly into the red spear tip.
The reaction was instantaneous. The malevolent red glow was smothered by the terrifying purity of the Yang fire. From within the metal, a shrill, piercing scream echoed—not the sound of steel stressing, but the wail of an invisible demon being boiled alive. The artifact fought back, oscillating violently, churning out waves of cold Yin energy in a desperate bid to survive the invasion of Jiang Dao's solar power.
It was impressive. Jiang Dao had to admit, the spear tip lived up to its reputation as a revived Saint Weapon. The chaotic energy it harbored was leagues beyond the dormant or partially awakened artifacts he had crushed in the past. This thing was alive, and it was angry.
But anger meant nothing to an inferno.
The Yin energy hissed and evaporated, overwhelmed by the sheer density of Jiang Dao's power.
"What are you all staring at?" the middle-aged beauty screamed at her frozen companions, her voice cracking. "Kill him! Now!"
Behind her, an elder snapped out of his trance. His face twisted into a mask of grim determination as he activated the black ring in his palm. It pulsed with a sickening, spiritual fluctuation, expanding rapidly as it cut through the air, aiming to bind Jiang Dao's limbs.
Jiang Dao finally looked up.
He watched the descending ring with cold indifference. He didn't dodge. Instead, he swung the red spear tip—still struggling in his grip—like a club.
Crack-BOOM!
The collision sounded like tectonic plates grinding together. It was a clash of absolute opposites: the scorching, life-affirming violence of Extreme Yang against the cold, insidious rot of Yin. The shockwave flattened the surrounding grass and pulverized the ground.
The black ring didn't stand a chance. It was batted away like a toy, spinning wildly into the distance.
The elder connected to the artifact shrieked. The psychic backlash hit him like a physical blow; he paled, stumbled backward, and vomited a spray of fresh blood. The feedback had shattered his composure along with his internal organs.
"Run!" the elder gurgled, blood staining his teeth. He didn't wait for a consensus. He turned and fled, burning his life essence for speed.
Panic is contagious. The others, feeling the hair on their arms singe from the ambient heat, turned to scatter.
Jiang Dao watched them run. A small, cruel smile touched the corner of his lips.
"Leaving so soon?"
Rumble.
The Blazing Sun Field expanded.
It wasn't a gradual spread; it was an instant annexation of reality. A ring of distortions erupted from Jiang Dao, covering a radius of several hundred meters. The world inside this dome changed. The temperature spiked to blast-furnace levels. Gravity twisted and buckled.
The fleeing martial artists froze. It wasn't that they chose to stop; the air around them had turned into invisible concrete. They looked like insects trapped in amber, their faces contorted in masks of absolute horror. Their knees buckled under the weight of a phantom mountain.
Even the middle-aged beauty, a powerhouse in her own right, was pinned. She couldn't lift a finger.
Monster. The word screamed in her mind. What kind of abomination is he? How did he hide this kind of power in Yellow Wind Valley?
"Senior," Jiang Dao's voice was calm, almost conversational, contrasting sharply with the terrifying heat radiating from his skin. He walked toward her, each step heavy and deliberate. "You seemed surprised that I was still alive. Would you care to enlighten me as to why?"
"Spare me… please… don't kill me…" She could barely form the words against the crushing pressure.
"Oh? You prefer silence?" Jiang Dao's eyes were pools of molten gold, devoid of empathy.
The look broke her. "Dan Qingsheng!" she shrieked, trembling violently. "It was Dan Qingsheng! He wanted to use you! His nephew… he has a terminal affliction. He needs a new vessel. Your physique… it matches his nephew's requirements. You were just… spare parts! Please!"
"A new vessel?" Jiang Dao's eyes narrowed. "Body swapping? Is that even possible?"
"Yes! I don't know the dark arts involved, I swear! I just know the plan! Please, have mercy!"
Jiang Dao considered this. It sounded like a forced possession—a theft of the soul's housing. Disgusting.
"How wide is the net? Does he target everyone with my build?"
"Yes, yes! Anyone who fits the criteria is marked. I don't know the numbers, I swear!"
"Is Dan Qingsheng here?"
"No… I haven't seen him…"
"A pity." Jiang Dao sighed, sounding genuinely disappointed.
The woman opened her mouth to beg again, but the air around her suddenly compressed. The Blazing Sun Field constricted, turning from a cage into a crusher.
Crunch.
There was no fanfare. The bodies of the trapped Divine Martial Sect experts detonated. Blood mist sprayed into the air, instantly igniting into bright, brief flames before turning to ash.
Silence returned to the clearing.
Only Daoist Pine (Qingsong) remained standing. He was untouched, though his face was the color of old parchment.
Jiang Dao ignored him for a moment. He focused on his hands. A ring of searing light formed in his palm, encasing the rebellious red spear tip and sealing it shut. With a casual wave of his hand, he utilized [Distortion Strength] to grab the black ring from the bushes, wrapping it in a similar seal. He tucked both Saint Weapons into his robe as if they were mere trinkets.
Finally, he turned his gaze to the Daoist.
"Daoist Pine," Jiang Dao said pleasantly. "Do you have anything you'd like to share?"
Daoist Pine swallowed hard. He looked at the ash on the ground, then at the man—no, the entity—before him. "If I said I knew nothing of Dan Qingsheng's plot, would you believe me?"
"I would," Jiang Dao nodded. "But my concern isn't the plot. It's the Blood Sacrifice." His eyes bore into the older man. "Tell me, Daoist, have you ever dabbled in such things?"
Daoist Pine shuddered. He knew his life hung by a thread. "Senior Jiang, I swear on my soul! I can take the Blood Poison Oath right now! I have never performed a Blood Sacrifice. That is the domain of Saint Weapon users, and I have never possessed one!"
"Is that so?"
Terrified that the hesitation would be his death sentence, Daoist Pine slapped his own forehead. He coughed up a mouthful of essence blood, his fingers weaving a complex sign in the air.
"I, Qingsong, swear by the heavens! If a word of what I say is false, may poison fire consume my marrow and leave me without a grave!"
As the oath settled, his complexion turned sickly gray, his Qi chaotic from the toll of the ritual.
Jiang Dao's expression softened instantly. The murderous pressure vanished. "Daoist, please! We are friends, are we not? I was merely joking."
"Senior Jiang is… too kind," Pine managed to wheeze, cupping his hands.
"However," Jiang Dao's voice dropped an octave, the cold returning for a brief second. "I despise Blood Sacrifices. If I ever find out you've lied, or if you stray from the path in the future… friendship will not save you."
"Rest assured," Pine said quickly. "Never."
"Good. Shall we enter the town, then?"
Daoist Pine hesitated. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to run to the ends of the earth. Jiang Dao was a walking cataclysm. But as he looked into those golden eyes, he realized that 'no' was not an option.
"I… would be honored to accompany Brother Jiang," he lied.
The Town of Shifting Fogs
The fog didn't just obscure vision; it swallowed sound and light.
Tianshi Town was no longer a static location. It was a glitch in reality. Broken walls and ancient ruins materialized out of the gray soup, stitching themselves into the existing architecture like scar tissue. The town was growing, expanding like a cancerous tumor, merging with phantom battlefields of the past. It was a labyrinth designed to ensure that no one who entered would ever leave.
Deep beneath the earth, in a chamber illuminated by sickly green candlelight, a presence stirred.
It was massive, a towering duality. Two figures fused back-to-back.
One face was the picture of serenity—a compassionate Buddha, eyes heavy with the sorrow of the world, radiating a desire to save all living things. The other face was a grotesque mockery—an Evil God with emerald eyes and a leering, jagged mouth, exuding a charm that promised delightful madness.
Invisible streams of faith—born of terror and desperate prayer—flowed from the town above, feeding them. Their ethereal bodies were thickening, becoming heavy with reality.
"The rats above are conducting blood sacrifices," the Evil Face rasped, its voice like grinding stones. "Should we not intervene? It interrupts our harvest."
"Let them be," the Compassionate Face replied, its voice smooth and indifferent. "They avoid the sacred grounds. The rest of the town is irrelevant."
"Heh. I adore your hypocrisy," the Evil Face cackled. "You wear the mask of a savior while your heart is blacker than mine. But we must thank that intruder. His flashy display of power drew the attention of the Tianshi Mountain defenses. Without him as a distraction, we couldn't be siphoning this much faith."
"Do not celebrate yet," the Compassionate Face warned. "The Night Watchmen are silent. That is never a good sign. Let the outsiders kill each other. We focus on the manifestation."
"Agreed."
They closed their four eyes, and a pulse of cold, damp energy swept upward, saturating the soil and thickening the fog in the streets above.
At the town's entrance, Jiang Dao paused.
The temperature had dropped. The shadows seemed to have teeth. He sensed a shift in the atmosphere—the Yin energy had spiked, becoming heavy and oppressive, as if a leviathan were breathing down his neck from the mist.
He stopped walking. A thought occurred to him. If I'm walking into a trap, I should walk in heavier.
He pulled up his internal interface. Without hesitation, he dumped his accumulated points into the [Extreme Demon Overlord Body].
"Brother Jiang?" Daoist Pine asked nervously. "Why did we stop?"
Jiang Dao didn't answer. His body gave a sickening lurch as his muscles expanded, veins bulging like steel cables beneath his skin, before compressing back down to a dense, terrifying normalcy. Steam hissed from his neck.
"Let's go," Jiang Dao said.
Daoist Pine stared at his back, swallowing dryly. He just got stronger. Just standing there. What is he?
They moved deeper into the gloom. The yellow dirt road was flanked by buildings that shouldn't exist—burnt-out husks of timber, piles of rubble that smelled of copper and old death. The deeper they went, the colder it got.
"Daoist," Jiang Dao broke the silence. "Where is the main peak of Tianshi Mountain?"
"I know the way," Pine replied quickly.
"Good. Take me there. We find the Tianshi Divine Water, and I'll give you a cut."
"I wouldn't dare!" Pine waved his hands frantically. "Brother Jiang can have it all. I just want to survive."
Jiang Dao shrugged. Suit yourself.
They passed two more streets. The silence was absolute until they reached a wooden inn.
It was a dilapidated structure, its tattered flag snapping in a wind that wasn't blowing anywhere else. The windows were dark, gaping like empty eye sockets.
But from within, there was sound. Weeping.
"Boohoo… how could you leave us? A widow and an orphan… You heartless man…"
Daoist Pine paused. "Living people?"
Then, a male voice, jarringly cheerful, cut through the sobbing. "Ouch, easy now! I came back, didn't I? I'm here to take you away. In fact, I'm taking everyone in the inn with us!"
"Daddy! I'm lonely! I want to play!" A child's voice.
"Haha, son, aren't all these people enough?"
"No! I want the teacher! And I want Wang Lingyan! I want to marry her! Take her with us!"
"Alright, alright. Daddy will get the whole family. They can all keep you company."
The voices were warm, domestic. But the tone was wrong. It was too flat. Too rehearsed.
Creak.
The heavy wooden doors swung open.
A gust of wind rushed out, carrying the stench of a reopened grave.
Daoist Pine stepped back, gagging.
A family of three stepped onto the porch. They were smiling. The father, the weeping mother, the petulant son. But their skin was sloughing off their bones. Their eyes were glowing with a feral green light.
Behind them, inside the inn, the "guests" swayed gently in the breeze. A dozen corpses, hanging from the rafters by their necks, their tongues protruding, their dead eyes fixed on the doorway in eternal terror.
"Oh, look, Son!" The rotting father pointed a skeletal finger at Jiang Dao. "New friends! You have more playmates!"
"No!" The boy stomped his foot, a chunk of his cheek falling off. "I want Wang Lingyan!"
"We'll get her, we'll get her," the father soothed, his grin stretching wider than his face should allow. He stepped toward Jiang Dao.
Jiang Dao looked at the abomination with absolute disgust.
"You're dead," Jiang Dao said flatly. "Act like it."
He flicked his finger.
Boom!
A beam of Extreme Yang Gang Qi shot from his fingertip like a railgun round. It punched through the father's forehead before he could take another step. The corpse froze, and then, with a violent whoosh, burst into a pillar of golden fire.
The mother and son screeched, their uncanny domesticity shattering instantly. They scrambled backward, clawing over each other to get back inside the safety of the dark inn.
"You want to haunt the living?" Jiang Dao strode forward, raising his hands. "I'll make sure you don't even exist as ghosts."
Thwip. Thwip.
Two more beams of concentrated solar energy tore through the air. They caught the mother and son in the doorway, piercing their chests. The fire consumed them instantly, their screams turning into the crackling of dry tinder.
Jiang Dao didn't stop there. He looked at the inn—a festering sore on the face of the earth—and waved his hand.
A massive sphere of Extreme Yang Divine Fire rolled off his palm. It crashed into the lobby, engulfing the hanging bodies and the rotting timber.
The fire roared, unnatural and hungry. It didn't just burn the wood; it seemed to be burning the fog itself, spreading to the neighboring buildings, cleansing the street with a light so bright it hurt to look at.
Jiang Dao watched the inferno, his face illuminated by the destruction.
"Let's keep moving," he said.