Deep within the Bloodstone Caverns, the heart of the Blood Fang stronghold pulsed with dread.
A massive underground chamber carved from red rock housed the command tent of the Blood Fang Leader. The walls were layered with bones—war trophies, reminders of fallen enemies, and symbols of dominance.
But tonight, even those bones seemed to tremble.
A fire blazed in the center of the room, casting twisted shadows across the ceiling. Around it, the Blood Fang Leader paced like a beast caged too long.
Clad in crimson robes, his eyes burned with irritation and cold killing intent. Each step he took echoed with pressure. His fists were clenched, and his breathing shallow.
It had been two days.
Two full days since he sent his finest warriors—two Qi Vein Level 8 elders and twenty elite soldiers—into the mountains to wipe out a rogue group that dared to slaughter his scouts.
But none had returned.
Not even a message.
"Why haven't they come back?" he growled aloud.
A silence fell over the hall. The nearby subordinates avoided his gaze.
Finally, one elder stepped forward cautiously, lowering his head.
"Leader… perhaps we should send scouts—"
The Blood Fang Leader's eyes snapped toward him like daggers.
"No," he said coldly. "We don't send scouts. We send killers."
He turned to face the gathered men, his voice rising.
"Send ten of our best—Qi Vein Level 7 or above. Tell them to find what's left of that team. I want their bodies, if they're dead. And if they're alive—" his voice turned to a growl, "—I want answers."
He sat heavily on his throne of stone and bone, firelight reflecting in his eyes.
"And tell them this: if they return empty-handed… they won't return at all."
Approaching the Mountain Shelter
The forest below the Bone Fang Mountains shivered beneath a sharp wind. Cold air swept down from the cliffs, whispering through the trees like ghosts.
Ten elite warriors, all at Qi Vein Level 7, moved through the underbrush. Their eyes were sharp, their movements silent. Each had years of combat experience—ambushing sect disciples, raiding merchant caravans, and slaughtering rogue cultivators.
They were confident. Controlled. Deadly.
Their leader, Yan Shi, gave hand signals from the front.
"Shelter's close," she whispered. "Fan out. No noise."
They crept toward the cliffs.
But just as they were preparing to ascend—
A shadow stepped into their path.
A single figure. Standing atop a flat stone.
No sound. No aura. Just presence.
It was him.
Xuan Long.
He stood calmly, arms at his side, robes fluttering in the mountain wind. His eyes were still—deeper than night, colder than ice.
Yan Shi's steps halted.
She hadn't expected this.
"Another group," Xuan Long said softly, his voice barely louder than the wind.
The Blood Fang warriors drew weapons, flaring their auras.
They had strength. They had numbers. And they had orders.
They attacked.
In a storm of motion, ten elite Qi warriors unleashed their deadliest techniques—crimson qi blades, flaming palms, thunder strikes, and wind spears.
But the moment their attacks reached him—
Nothing.
No clash. No explosion.
Their power vanished into the still air around him.
Ripples formed in space, like water disturbed—and then rebounded.
Five warriors collapsed instantly, their bodies twisted, their ribs shattered, their own techniques having crushed them from within.
The remaining five staggered back, pale with shock.
They had never seen anything like it.
No enemy. No resistance. Just death.
Xuan Long stepped forward, slowly.
He didn't strike.
He didn't need to.
"Take their bodies," he said, his voice flat and cold.
"Tell your leader... I'm not done yet."
Then he raised a hand.
From behind a boulder, five wooden coffins floated into view, drifting on faint currents of blood qi.
They landed before the survivors with heavy thuds, each coffin carved with crimson runes that radiated curse energy.
"You'll need these soon."
Not one of them spoke. Not one dared to fight again.
They gathered the bodies, grabbed the coffins, and turned to flee.
They didn't look back.
Not even once.
Back at the Shelter
The training area was quiet when Xuan Long returned.
Mu Chen was seated cross-legged on a stone mat, grinding herbs into a paste. His blade lay across his lap, etched with intricate patterns of poison symbols.
The demi-humans were practicing the Phantom Mirror Steps—illusions flickering, doppelgangers fading in and out like ghosts in the fog.
Xuan Long walked past them and sat on a smooth stone near the fire.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke:
"The Blood Fang Leader won't act again for a few days."
"This is your time. Train. Use everything we've gained—techniques, spirit stones, weapons. Push yourself."
Mu Chen nodded instantly, eyes flashing with understanding.
"Yes, Master!"
He moved into the shadows, where a cauldron bubbled with green smoke. There, he began refining the Crimson Dagger Mist technique—combining liquid venom with gas diffusion. His daggers would soon kill without even a scratch.
The demi-humans activated the illusion scrolls, creating flickering clones of themselves that moved with increasing speed and unpredictability.
Each hour, their skills refined.
Each day, their qi rose.
They didn't just train—they transformed.
No longer mere survivors.
Now, they were weapons.
Back in the Bloodstone Caverns
The five remaining warriors returned in silence.
They carried five corpses. And five coffins.
The entire cavern fell silent as they entered.
Whispers spread. Eyes widened.
The Blood Fang Leader stepped down from his throne, his gaze hard.
He looked at the bodies—twisted, broken.
Then he looked at the coffins—perfectly carved, marked with blood seals.
He clenched his fists.
"All ten?" he asked, voice low.
Yan Shi bowed her head.
"Yes, Leader. We… we couldn't land a single blow."
"He walked through us," another added, voice trembling. "He doesn't fight. He just… makes you die."
"He gave us coffins before we even attacked."
The hall fell into a hush.
The leader's eyes flickered—not with rage, but with dread.
He slammed a palm into the stone floor. It cracked, spiderweb fractures spreading out beneath his feet.
"I see."
He stood still for a long moment, breathing slowly.
Then he turned to the chamber behind his throne.
"No one touches that mountain again."
"I will enter closed-door cultivation."
"Three days. I will reach Qi Vein Level 10."
"And then…"
His eyes glowed red.
"…I will tear that ghost apart myself."
The few remaining Blood Fang warriors—just 150 out of an original 500—bowed in silence.
But not all of them were loyal.
Not all of them believed.
Some stole glances toward the distant mountain.
Toward the man who absorbed blades.
Toward the man who sent coffins as warnings.
And in their hearts, the truth whispered:
"We are no longer hunters…"
"…we are the hunted."