The acrid tang of bitter almond—poison—clung to the back of Mak Yun's throat as consciousness slammed into him.
He lay on a thin pallet, ribs pressing against parchment-thin skin. This body was a ruin: muscles atrophied, meridians clogged with waste qi, and a stomach burning with self-inflicted venom. The original Mak Yun had swallowed nightshade to escape his shame.
Pathetic.
>> ZENON PULSE ACTIVATED
>> DIAGNOSTIC: HOST BODY - TERMINAL WEAKNESS. NEUROTOXIN (NIGHTSHADE) DETECTED. PURGING...
A violent shudder racked him as the implant flooded his bloodstream with counter-agents. Sweat, cold and greasy, soaked the threadbare sheets.
The door crashed open.
A man stood silhouetted against the corridor's gloom—lean, smirking, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. Bo. A "servant" who'd long forgotten his place.
"Still breathing, Young Master?" Bo's voice oozed mockery as he kicked a wooden bucket. Dirty water sloshed over Mak Yun's bare feet. "Shame. Would've saved us all trouble if you'd just died proper."
Bo leaned down, calloused hand snatching Mak Yun's wrist. "Get up. Floor needs scrubbing. And you reek like a—"
Mak Yun moved.
Not with this body's pitiful strength—but with the Zenon Pulse's lightning reflexes. His free hand shot up, fingers jabbing like daggers into the soft hollow beneath Bo's jaw.
"NERVE OVERRIDE: PARALYSIS PROTOCOL."
Bo's sneer froze. Eyes bulged. A strangled gurgle escaped his lips as his entire body locked rigid, muscles seizing under the Pulse's invasive command. He toppled like a felled tree, crashing face-first onto the damp floorboards. Spittle pooled beneath his slack jaw.
Mak Yun stood, swaying. Every muscle screamed protest. Weak. Fragile. He placed a palm on Bo's temple. Cold. Sweaty.
"NEURAL EXTRACTION: PRIMARY MEMORY ACCESS."
The Zenon Pulse detonated behind his eyes—a silent concussion of light. Bo's consciousness tore open like a vault:
A Mountain of a Man: Scarred knuckles, eyes like hot coals. Gao. "The Iron Fist." Core Formation Expert. Leader of the Red Viper Gang. Bo's father.
Eight Shadows: Five brothers. Three sisters. All cultivators. The youngest sister, Mei, already at Qi Condensation Peak.
The Poison: Bo's hand slipping crushed nightshade petals into the "Young Master's" evening tea. "Just die quietly, useless trash..."
The Plunder: Bo and his siblings looting Mak Manor's relics—spirit stones, jade carvings, even the ancestral tablets—selling them for wine and whores. Only the East Wing remained untouched… feared.
Mak Yun withdrew his hand. Bo lay limp, breathing shallow. Useless.
Core Formation. The term echoed in his augmented mind. A realm where cultivators could level buildings with a shout. And this worm's father stood at that apex.
A cold calculus unfolded within Mak Yun. Threat Vector: Gao. Threat Level: Extreme. Elimination Priority: Critical.
He dragged Bo's paralyzed body toward the loose floorboard beside the bed—the dead boy's hiding place for the poison vial. Poetic. With a grunt, he shoved Bo into the cramped, spider-infested darkness beneath the floor.
"Rot here," Mak Yun rasped, slamming the board back into place. "Your family will join you soon enough."
As the wood settled, a sharp ping echoed in his skull:
>> ADAPTIVE RESPONSE: NEUROMUSCULAR COORDINATION OPTIMIZED (+18%)
>> TOXIN PURGE COMPLETE
The weakness still clung to his bones like lead weights. But now… now it had fangs.
Outside, wind moaned through the manor's broken eaves. Somewhere, a loose shutter banged.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Like a heartbeat. Or a war drum.