A suffocating, nether fog rolled across the land, a tidal wave of spectral gray that threatened to swallow the world whole. It moved with a sentient hunger, blotting out the horizon until a sudden, piercing radiance began to burn through the gloom. It was as if a blood-red sun had descended to the earth, dissolving the mist with violent heat.
Jiang Dao and his group froze, their eyes drawn upward.
Through the clearing haze, the rhythmic, crystalline chime of a brass gong echoed. Clang… Clang… The sound was ancient, resonant, and carried the weight of a forgotten era. It sounded like a funeral procession for the gods themselves. With every strike, the oppressive fog retreated, terrified of the figure emerging from the void.
Suddenly, the earth convulsed.
A low, tectonic rumble vibrated through the soles of their feet, escalating into a deafening roar. Deep beneath the fractured soil, something massive and ancient stirred. The Double-Faced Evil God, a monstrosity that had been desperately concealing its presence, realized it had been found.
The ground shattered. Buildings collapsed like houses of cards.
A towering figure, over thirty meters of nightmare flesh, rose from the depths. It exuded a terrifying, necrotic energy—a billowing black aura of death that suffocated the air. The creature emitted a constant, low-frequency buzzing, a cacophony that sounded like the prayers of a million martyrs mixed with the chanting of ten thousand demons.
One of its heads alone was the size of a multi-story tavern.
"The Night Watchman," the Evil God hissed, its voice a thunderclap of resentment. "You insurrectionist filth. Can you not simply die in peace? Why must you interrupt me? My form was nearly solid! I was moments away from perfection!"
The creature possessed two faces. The front was a mask of pure malice—indigo skin, protruding fangs, and eyes burning with a sinister, green light that swept over the ruins. The face on the back of its skull, however, was terrifyingly serene. It mirrored the compassionate visage of a Buddha, eyes cast downward in mock piety, hands held in a delicate mudra of mercy.
Down on the narrow, debris-strewn street, a solitary figure approached.
He wore a tattered black robe and a simple felt hat. He looked insignificant against the scale of the monster, yet his steady, rhythmic steps terrified the titan. He struck the gong again. Clang.
The Double-Faced Evil God groaned, its massive form flickering like a disrupted signal. The sound waves were deconstructing its very existence.
"Damn wretch!" the God roared, realizing its demise was inevitable. "Even if I dissipate, I will carve a scar into your heart. I will slaughter these ants before your eyes!"
Boom!
The giant moved with impossible speed for its size. It charged, tearing through the atmosphere and creating a vacuum of white air currents. It smashed through a row of stone structures as if they were made of paper, its hand—a slab of flesh the size of a house—swinging violently toward Jiang Dao and his group.
The physical palm hadn't even made contact yet, but the wind pressure alone was enough to flay skin. Old Taoist Linghu and his disciples screamed as they were buffered by the gale.
Jiang Dao's eyes went cold. He didn't run.
His body, already a towering hulk of five meters, suddenly convulsed. Muscles knotted and expanded, tearing through his clothes as bone spurs erupted from his joints. In a blink, he transformed into an eight-meter behemoth of sinew and rage.
He crossed his arms, interlocking his muscles to form a living shield of impenetrable flesh.
Bang!
The impact was cataclysmic. It felt as though a mountain had been dropped from the stratosphere.
Jiang Dao was swatted away like a fly. He flew dozens of meters, crashing through debris, his body tumbling like a torn sack. Behind him, the Taoists were blown away by the shockwave, coughing up blood. The ordinary civilians in the vicinity weren't so lucky; caught in the periphery of the God's rage, their bodies simply detonated, turning into a fine mist of blood and bone.
Jiang Dao skidded to a halt, smashing into a ruined wall. Blood leaked from his mouth. His arms trembled violently, the bones fractured, capillaries burst, revealing the white of his ulna through torn muscle.
He stared at the monster, shaken to his core. The power of a God, he thought, wiping his mouth. It isn't even fully corporeal, yet it possesses Divine-level strength. I am still too weak.
He glanced at the red smear where the civilians had stood. He exhaled slowly, his expression flat. There was no grief, no pity.
He had done what he could. Jiang Dao was a pragmatist; he would save a life if it cost him nothing, but he would not trade his own existence for the sake of strangers. In a world where Gods ate men, mercy was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The Double-Faced Evil God lunged again, its malice focused entirely on Jiang Dao.
Jiang Dao didn't hesitate. He flipped to his feet and bolted, the ground cracking under his heavy strides. He snatched the unconscious Priest Qing Song from the ground like a ragdoll—not out of charity, but because the priest held three bottles of Heavenly Master Divine Water.
Whoosh!
He sprinted past the Night Watchman, kicking up a storm of gravel.
"Die!" the Evil God screamed, its body fading faster now, translucent and unstable. It brought its colossal palm down toward Jiang Dao one last time.
Clang!
The Night Watchman didn't look up. He didn't break stride. He simply struck the brass gong.
Rumble!
The giant hand froze seven meters above the Watchman's head. It hit an invisible barrier, a wall of absolute law. The limb began to disintegrate, turning into ash and light.
"You can stop me once, Watchman, but you cannot stop the tide!" the evil face shrieked, its eyes glowing with a hateful green light that locked onto Jiang Dao. "And you! When I return, you will be my first course! I will drink you dry!"
Clang…
The twisted face contorted in a silent scream of pure venom before the entire structure of the God collapsed. It was like watching a gold mountain crumble into dust. The massive body dissolved into thousands of streams of light—stolen faith and gathered souls—scattering into the wind.
The town fell silent. The oppressive ghost fog evaporated, leaving behind only the stark reality of ruins and corpses.
Jiang Dao stood amidst the rubble, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his fingertips. He activated the Yin-Sha Black Heart Sutra, and his flesh began to squirm, knitting itself back together. He watched the black-robed figure.
The Night Watchman paused. He turned his head slowly, looking at Jiang Dao with a gaze that seemed confused, perhaps even lost. After a moment of hesitation, he turned back to the path, his gong ringing out as he ascended toward the peak of Mount Tianshi.
Jiang Dao watched him go. He said nothing.
They were creatures of two different worlds. The Watchman was a martyr, a vessel of sacrifice carrying the weight of humanity. Jiang Dao was a survivor. He didn't want to be great; he just wanted to be the last one standing.
"Are… are you alright?" Jiang Dao looked down at the priest dangling from his grip.
"I-I'm fine," Priest Qing Song stammered, his face the color of chalk.
"My Divine Water?"
"It's here. All of it."
"Good."
Jiang Dao dropped the priest and walked over to Old Taoist Linghu, who was coughing blood nearby. He grabbed the old man by the collar of his ruined robes and began to drag him away.
"Brother Jiang," Qing Song called out weakly, looking at the bloodstained ground. "Those people… they're all dead."
"Then they're dead," Jiang Dao said without looking back. "I did my best. That's all there is to it."
The return journey to Qianyuan City was eerily quiet.
As Jiang Dao trekked back from the mountains, the heavy snow and ice that had choked the region began to recede. It was clear the Night Watchman had cleansed the area, his patrol driving back the supernatural chill.
"Gang Leader Jiang," Old Taoist Linghu wheezed, dangling from Jiang Dao's grip like luggage. "Why take me? The Heavenly Master might still be alive… I should pay my respects."
"I made a promise to your disciples," Jiang Dao grunted, his eyes scanning the horizon. "I said I'd bring you back. Besides, whether your Master lives or dies is none of my concern."
Days later, the silhouette of Qianyuan City broke the horizon.
Jiang Dao breathed in the familiar, stale air of the city. "Home sweet home," he muttered cynically. "It's tempting to lock the gates and never leave."
But he knew that was a lie. The encounter with the Evil God had proven that walls were meaningless. The God had marked him. Passive survival was no longer an option; he needed to become a monster worse than the ones hunting him.
The moment he stepped into the courtyard of the Raging Flame Gang, chaos erupted.
"Master!"
"You old goat, you're actually alive!"
Xu Zifeng and Zhao Ziling rushed out, tears streaming down their faces as they embraced the battered Old Taoist. It was a touching reunion, filled with the warmth of human connection.
Jiang Dao watched them for a second, feeling nothing, then turned away. "I've held up my end of the bargain," he called out over his shoulder. "Do what you want now."
He headed straight for the main hall. He had loot to inspect.
The haul from Mount Tianshi was significant: three vials of Heavenly Master Divine Water, a secret manual on Dragon Blood Body Tempering, and the Night Watchman's artifacts—a brass gong, a mallet, and a heavy token.
He summoned his lieutenant, Xiang An.
"I need two sabers," Jiang Dao said, pointing to the pile of artifacts. "Melt these down. Use them as the base. If there isn't enough metal, mix in Dark Iron. I want the blades five feet long, handles two feet. Massive. Heavy."
Xiang An tried to lift the brass mallet and strained, his face turning red. It wouldn't budge. He looked at his leader with wide eyes, then signaled for the strongest men in the gang to haul it away.
Once alone, Jiang Dao turned his attention to the Divine Water.
He uncorked a vial. The liquid shimmered with spiritual energy. According to the texts, it could purify bloodlines and grant spiritual sight. Jiang Dao didn't care about purity; he cared about power.
He tilted his head back and poured the liquid directly into his left eye.
Pain flared, followed immediately by a soothing, warm current that drilled into his optic nerve and flooded his system. He closed his eyes, guiding the energy with his internal Extreme Yang True Qi.
He sat there for three days.
While Jiang Dao meditated, the world outside descended further into madness. The Great Yu Dynasty was crumbling. It wasn't just the resurgence of Evil Gods; the very tools of humanity were rebelling. Reports flooded in of "Saint Artifacts" possessing their wielders, turning protectors into puppets. The ancient seals were breaking, and the spirits within the weapons were waking up hungry.
When Jiang Dao finally opened the door, he was different.
His eyes, once flickering with fire, were now pitch black—abyssal pools that absorbed light. But deep within that darkness, pinpricks of condensed flame burned like distant stars. His vision had sharpened to a supernatural degree; he could count the dust motes floating in the air a hundred meters away.
He felt famished.
"Food," he barked at a subordinate. "Now."
He strode toward the forge, expecting to see his new weapons. Instead, he found Xiang An pacing nervously outside the workshop.
"Gang Leader," Xiang An stammered, looking terrified. "You're finally out."
"My blades. Where are they?"
"We… we have a problem." Xiang An wiped sweat from his brow. "Those artifacts. They're cursed. We've had them in the furnace for seventy-two hours. We've melted the tongs holding them, but the gong and mallet? They haven't even turned red. They won't melt."
Jiang Dao frowned and pushed past him into the foundry.
The heat was blistering. shirtless smiths shoveled coal frantically, the bellows roaring like dying beasts. Yet, inside the crucible, the Night Watchman's gear sat pristine and cool, mocking the flames.
"Fetch the Old Taoist," Jiang Dao ordered.
Moments later, Linghu arrived, looking healthier but still frail. He took one look at the furnace and paled.
"The Hammer of Fortune," Linghu whispered. "Gang Leader… you looted a Night Watchman?"
"I asked for a solution, not a sermon," Jiang Dao said, crossing his arms. "Why won't it melt?"
"These items are forged from the collective will of ancient humanity," the Taoist explained, his voice trembling. "They are conceptual as much as they are physical. If the Watchman were alive, you couldn't even lift them. Since you have them, he must be dead. But even so, fire alone cannot break the will of the people."
"So?"
"You need a solvent," Linghu said grimly. "Human will can only be dissolved by human essence. Specifically, blood. You need the blood essence of ten thousand people to break the spiritual lock."
"Ten thousand people?" Jiang Dao repeated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Just ordinary people?"
"Yes. It creates a wash of chaotic energy that disrupts the order of the artifact. But it's cruel… it's evil logic."
Jiang Dao didn't blink. He didn't agonize over the morality. He didn't think about the suffering. He thought about the Double-Faced Evil God and the target on his back. He thought about survival.
He turned to Xiang An.
"Do a headcount of the gang members in the city," Jiang Dao commanded, his voice as cold and hard as the iron in the fire.
"Gang Leader?" Xiang An asked, a chill running down his spine.
"Line them up," Jiang Dao said. "Every single one of them. Have them come here and bleed into the furnace. No one is exempt."
"Yes, Gang Leader!"
Jiang Dao watched the flames dance. If the gods wanted to eat him, he would forge a fork and knife big enough to eat them back. And he didn't care whose blood he had to spill to make it happen.