The night receded, and the morning mist draped over the foot of the mountain like a faded white cloth, shrouding the small village.
The flying vessel had long since vanished beyond the horizon, leaving only a faint, unnatural chill in the air—a sensation like the trace of a blade drawn silently across his back.
Standing at the broken temple's doorway, Shen Lan lowered his gaze to the diagram in his hands, his fingertip silently tracing over it. That dark-gold emblem was no ordinary embroidery—he knew well that a banner which could flutter without wind and emit its own faint light could not have been made with any material or craft from Earth.
And in his previous life, the target of his final mission had been a so-called "otherworldly cultivator" with that exact emblem embroidered on his chest.
Eight years ago, on a rainy night, mission intel had mentioned that the man had emerged from a spatial rift, killed thirty-seven people, and disappeared without a trace. From then on, his name was listed as "Untrackable Target," and Shadow's mission was to erase him.
—Instead, he'd died in that mission.
This was no coincidence.
Shen Lan lifted his head, a blade-like glint flashing in his eyes.
> "One year. No more."
---
Training began as usual.
Behind the temple, the morning mist mixed with his breath into clouds of white. The beast-hide straps binding stones to his shoulders dug painfully into his skin, and the rain-softened soil beneath his feet was slick.
By the third lap, his chest felt hollowed out, his ears roared, and the wind, his footsteps, and his heartbeat all merged into a dull, muffled hum. Darkness edged his vision until the world seemed soaked in ink, leaving only a narrow strip of light down the center.
This was the brink of death.
—But he did not stop.
In the darkness, he remembered a desert extraction in his past life—his left leg had been hit, the bullet grazing his femur and sending blood gushing out. Yet he had crawled four kilometers before reaching extraction. That sensation, when every breath might be his last, returned now and only made him sharper.
Bursting from the mud, he took the final step before collapsing to his knees, gasping, his chest heaving like a broken bellows.
This was his way—trading the memory of death for the strength to live.
---
That afternoon, noise came from the village entrance.
A merchant caravan entered, its guards carrying short blades and curved bows, escorting three wagons piled with sacks. From the shadows of the temple, Shen Lan watched them unload.
He noticed that the lead guard had a half-man-tall cage at his waist, and inside was a gray-brown beast—long-snouted, fanged, with a predator's cold gleam in its eyes.
A Throat-ripper Mastiff—commonly used by Lingyun Sect's outer disciples to guard their gates.
His gaze sharpened slightly—this was the first time in this world he'd seen a living creature directly tied to Lingyun Sect.
That night, the mastiff would be taken to the village entrance to watch over the caravan's goods. That meant an opportunity.
---
Night fell, the moonlight hidden behind thick clouds. Torches swayed at the village entrance, their flicker casting shifting shadows. The Throat-ripper Mastiff curled up in its cage, while the guard beside it dozed.
Shen Lan slipped from the darkness without a sound, holding a small cloth pouch. Inside was the ashen-brown powder he had dried in the sun that afternoon—a mix of Bloodbeard vine and Soul-piercing grass.
Crouching behind the cage, he carefully blew the powder through the iron bars, moving with the wind.
For a moment, it felt like he was back in a rainy alley somewhere in Eastern Europe in his past life, holding his breath as he sent a puff of lethal powder through a half-open window. In that instant, the air seemed heavier, as though killing intent had taken form.
The mastiff's nostrils twitched. The moment its eyes opened, its pupils shrank sharply. A low whimper escaped its throat before its whole body convulsed, collapsing with fine foam seeping from its mouth and nose.
The air's scent shifted—tinged with a faint sweetness and a hollow emptiness, like the shell left behind when life had been stripped away.
The entire process took less than ten seconds.
The guard, startled by the faint noise, leaned over to check, only to find the mastiff motionless in the cage. He cursed—"Damn thing"—thinking it had died of sickness, and dragged the cage outside the village to discard it.
From the shadows, Shen Lan's gaze was utterly calm.
> "Effective."
---
Back at the ruined temple, he tossed the used cloth pouch into the fire, watching it curl into ash.
This was his first hunt in this world—the target not a human, but a creature directly tied to Lingyun Sect.
To others, this was nothing more than a poison test.
To him, it was a declaration.
In his heart, he whispered:
> "Your beasts will die.
Your people will die."
The firelight reflected on his profile like the edge of a blade honed for years—cold, sharp, and merciless.
---
Just as the fire began to fade, a faint sha-sha drifted in on the night wind outside the temple, like footsteps over wet leaves.
He lifted his head, his eyes instantly turning cold.
In the darkness beyond the doorway, a vague silhouette seemed to stand still. A break in the clouds let a sliver of moonlight fall upon the figure's waist—there, for the briefest instant, a glint of cold metal flashed.
A heartbeat later, the clouds closed again.
This night would not end quietly.