The courtyard of the Valiant Martial Court was deceptively peaceful. It was a picture of austere discipline: a cold stone table, a few matching stools, and two rows of weapon racks standing like silent sentinels.
This was Sun Yue's sanctuary. As a newly promoted steward of the Flame Gang, Sun Yue had earned this private residence—a reward from Gang Leader Jiang Dao himself for exceptional service. It was meant to be a place of rest and elevation.
Now, it was a tomb.
Jiang Dao stood inside the main room, his presence filling the space with a suffocating gravity. His face was a mask of dark thunder. On the center table, resting like a grotesque centerpiece, was a head.
It was Sun Yue. Or rather, what was left of him.
The head was in a state of advanced, accelerated decay. The skin was bloated and waxy, the hair matted and wild, and the stench of rot hung heavy in the stagnant air. But the horror wasn't just in the severance; it was in the absence. Aside from this decaying trophy, the rest of Sun Yue—his torso, his limbs, his very existence—had vanished without a trace.
Jiang Dao turned sharply, his heavy boots echoing against the floorboards as he stormed back into the courtyard.
"Gang Leader," Right Guardian Xiang An ventured, his voice tight with nervous energy. "Is Steward Sun not in?"
"Go," Jiang Dao commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the chests of those nearby. "Bring me Daoist Linghu. Now."
"Yes, sir!" Xiang An didn't ask questions. He bowed and retreated, sensing the volatility in the air.
Jiang Dao glanced back at the open door of the room. His mind was racing, connecting disparate dots of violence and anomaly. Sun Yue's head was here, but his body was gone. It forced his mind back to the incident with Wang Long.
Wang Long had been... wrong. His height had unnaturally increased, and a distinct, surgical line had appeared around his neck, stitched with a suffocating aura of Death Qi. Yet, there had been no fluctuation of Yin energy—the telltale sign of standard spectral possession.
Jiang Dao analyzed the mechanics of it. He had ignited Wang Long's "Yang Fire," which would boost strength, certainly. But it wouldn't stretch bone and sinew to increase height. To achieve that kind of physical transformation, one would need to master the Hard Body Arts and cultivate them for four or five hundred years.
Apart from Jiang Dao himself, no ordinary human in this region possessed such power.
His head was swapped.
The realization hit Jiang Dao with the precision of a blade. A cold light flickered in his eyes. The Wang Long he had encountered wasn't Wang Long at all. It was an imposter wearing Wang Long's head like a mask, grafting it onto a powerful, stolen body.
If that logic held, then the situation with Sun Yue was the inverse. The enemy had discarded Sun Yue's head on the table and taken his body. They had likely grafted a new head onto Sun Yue's shoulders.
The implications were catastrophic. The "Sun Yue" currently walking around the headquarters was a chimera—an imposter wearing the flesh of his lieutenant.
"Yan Wushuang!" Jiang Dao's voice cracked like a whip, shattering the courtyard's silence. "Lock down the headquarters. Seal the gates. No one leaves. Order every single member to gather in the main square immediately!"
He was going to find this filth. He didn't care how well they hid. Under his Celestial Master's Divine Eyes, illusions crumbled. He might not be able to see their true forms, but he could see the Death Qi clinging to the seams of their stolen flesh. Anyone with a ring of death around their neck was a walking corpse, and Jiang Dao intended to put them back in the ground.
Minutes later, Daoist Linghu arrived, his robes fluttering as he hurried to meet the Gang Leader. He had already been briefed by the terrified Right Guardian.
"Gang Leader Jiang," the old Daoist said, bowing slightly. "Is it an Evil Spirit event?"
"You could say that," Jiang Dao replied, his gaze boring into the old man. "Guardian Xiang has filled you in. Tell me, Daoist, have you sensed nothing amiss in the gang recently?"
Jiang Dao's eyes scanned Linghu's neck. It was clean. No Death Qi. Just wrinkled skin and a pulse.
Daoist Linghu shook his head. "I have been in seclusion, meditating. I haven't walked the grounds much. But... for an entity to decapitate and swap bodies so silently? That is not a minor haunting. Gang Leader, do not forget the catastrophe in the Great Yu Dynasty."
Jiang Dao's expression hardened. The Great Yu Dynasty had fallen victim to a terrifying fusion of Evil Gods and Evil Spirits. If that contagion had spread here, to his Flame Gang, then they were sitting on a powder keg.
"Go inside," Jiang Dao said, gesturing to the room. "Look at the head. Tell me what you see."
Linghu entered the room. He examined the rotting visage of Sun Yue, noting the distended skin and the complete lack of blood at the severing point. He frowned, his fingers twitching as he performed a quick divination.
He walked back out, looking perplexed. "Forgive my bluntness, Gang Leader, but I sense no Yin energy on that head. It... it doesn't feel like the work of a spirit."
"If it's not a spirit, then what? A rogue Spirit Remover?" Jiang Dao scoffed. "Regardless of what it is, it made a mistake. It stayed."
He turned and marched toward the main square.
The Flame Gang headquarters was a hive of confusion. Under Yan Wushuang's barking orders, hundreds of men were streaming toward the central plaza.
Among them was 'Thunderclap Hand' Yan Biao. He was a formidable man, standing six feet tall in a black training suit. But today, there was something off about his gait. A strange, disjointed smile played on his lips as he drifted toward the main gates, away from the gathering.
"Yan Biao! Where the hell are you going?"
The shout came from behind him. Yan Biao froze. The smile didn't leave his face, but his brow furrowed in annoyance. He turned slowly.
It was Wang Fushan, a short, portly steward wrapped in a green cotton jacket. He was Yan Biao's direct superior in this life.
"The Gang Leader ordered an assembly!" Wang Fushan barked, oblivious to the predator standing before him. "Stop dawdling and get to the square!"
"Right. Coming, coming," Yan Biao replied. His voice was smooth, but his eyes held a glint of sinister hunger.
Wang Fushan grunted and turned his back, hurrying toward the crowd.
Yan Biao watched the fat man's neck. A sudden, intense craving washed over him. The urge to snap those vertebrae was overwhelming. He took a silent, rapid step forward, his hand raising like a claw, aiming for the back of Wang Fushan's skull.
Thump, thump, thump.
Footsteps echoed from the adjacent corridor. A dozen more gang members rounded the corner, rushing to the assembly.
Yan Biao's hand froze mid-air. In a split second, he smoothed his hair back, the predatory claw turning into a casual gesture. He maintained the eerie smile and fell into step behind Wang Fushan, blending into the flow of bodies.
Too many witnesses, he thought. For now.
The main square was a sea of black uniforms. Nearly a thousand men stood shoulder to shoulder, a restless ocean of muscle and steel.
Jiang Dao stood on the high stone platform, looking down like a titan. Deep within his obsidian pupils, golden flames swirled—a manifestation of the Celestial Master's Divine Eyes. The world shifted in his vision. The skin and clothes of his men became translucent overlays; he looked for the energy signatures, the rot, the black threads of death.
Daoist Linghu stood beside him, straining his own mystical sight, but he saw nothing but a crowd of anxious men.
Jiang Dao's gaze swept the throng. Suddenly, the golden fire in his eyes flared.
He descended the stairs, the crowd parting like water before a shark. He walked with a terrifying deliberateness, his silence heavier than any shout. He stopped in front of Yan Biao.
"What is your name?" Jiang Dao asked. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
"Answering the Gang Leader," the man bowed, his smile twitching into something obsequious. "This lowly one is Yan Biao."
"Yan Biao. A strong name."
Jiang Dao turned away, seemingly satisfied. He walked a few more paces and stopped in front of another man, a stranger to his inner circle. "And you?"
"I... I am Liu Meng, Gang Leader!" the man stammered.
"Liu Meng. Right."
Jiang Dao stood between them. The air around him began to shimmer, the temperature spiking rapidly. "Yan Wushuang," he said calmly. "Clear the square. Everyone else, back away."
Yan Wushuang blinked, then roared the order. "Back! Everyone back! Now!"
The crowd scrambled backward, sensing the violence about to erupt. Yan Biao and Liu Meng realized too late that they had been singled out. Their eyes darted around, looking for an exit.
They never got the chance.
Jiang Dao moved with the speed of a striking viper. His hands—massive, calloused, and radiating a terrifying heat—shot out. He grabbed both men by the face, his fingers digging into their skulls like iron clamps.
BOOM.
A shockwave of heat exploded from his palms. This was the "Extreme Yang True Qi," a chaotic, destructive energy that was the antithesis of the cold dead.
"AAAAHHH!"
Yan Biao and Liu Meng shrieked—a sound that was less human and more like tearing metal. Their limbs flailed wildly, but Jiang Dao was an immovable object. He held them suspended in the air as he poured the searing energy directly into their brains.
The horror was absolute. Under the relentless heat, the impostors didn't just burn; they melted. Their skin bubbled and slid off the bone like wet wax. Their eyes boiled in their sockets. The screams gurgled into silence as their throats liquefied.
Within seconds, two piles of smoking, unrecognizable sludge lay at Jiang Dao's feet.
The square was dead silent. The gang members stared in abject terror, their knees shaking. They had just watched their leader melt two men with his bare hands.
Jiang Dao shook the gore off his hands, his expression one of cold disgust.
"Don't look at me like that," he addressed the crowd, his voice cutting through the fear. "These things weren't men. They were husks. The real Yan Biao and Liu Meng have been dead for a long time."
He turned to his pale-faced lieutenants. "Xiang An. You said Wang Long and Sun Yue were in charge of the Zhang Family Iron Mine, correct?"
"Y-yes, Gang Leader."
"Then the mine is the source," Jiang Dao declared, staring toward the horizon. "I just crushed the thing pretending to be Yan Biao, and its internal Yang energy was massive—far beyond a normal grunt. It was on par with a martial arts master. That means the thing wearing Yan Biao's skin was likely using Sun Yue's missing body."
"Prepare the horses," Jiang Dao ordered. "We go to the mine."
The caravan rolled out of Qianyuan City under a sky that looked like a bruised peach. The blizzard had passed, but the world remained locked in a damp, biting chill.
Jiang Dao sat in the lead carriage, his eyes fixed on the passing landscape. After an hour, the gravel road led them past a cluster of dilapidated structures.
"Stop," Jiang Dao signaled.
The carriage halted. "Yan Wushuang, is this the Zhang Family Village?"
"Yes, sir," Yan Wushuang replied from horseback. He looked uneasy. "It was inhabited just a few weeks ago. Now... it looks like a ghost town."
Jiang Dao peered through the window. The village was a skeleton. Doors swung open in the wind. Tools lay rusting in the fields. Chimneys stood cold against the grey sky. There was no blood, no bodies, just a total, absolute absence of life.
Yet, his Divine Eyes saw no Yin energy. Just emptiness.
"Move on," Jiang Dao said. "To the mine."
Ten minutes later, the Zhang Family Iron Mine loomed ahead.
From a distance, the sounds of industry were clear—the rhythmic clank-clank-clank of pickaxes hitting stone, the rumble of carts. It sounded busy.
"Gang Leader arrives! Who is in charge?" a scout bellowed as they approached the gates.
The echo died away. There was no answer.
The scout's face drained of color. "Gang Leader... there's no one here."
Jiang Dao kicked the carriage door open and stepped onto the gravel. The auditory hallucination was jarring. The sound of mining continued—phantom pickaxes striking phantom rocks—but the quarry was deserted. Carts sat half-filled. The crushing machines were silent, yet the noise of their operation filled the air.
Daoist Linghu stepped out of his carriage, clutching his whisk tightly. "This is a powerful illusion," he muttered.
"Who runs this place on the ground?" Jiang Dao asked, scanning the empty pit.
"A foreman named Guo San," Yan Wushuang replied. "He wasn't at the assembly either."
Jiang Dao nodded. "Secure the perimeter. Daoist, you're with me. We're going into the main tunnel."
The entrance to the mine was a gaping maw in the side of the mountain, three meters wide and pitch black. As Jiang Dao approached, the air changed. The metallic tang of iron ore was overpowered by a sickly, sweet scent.
Rot.
It was the smell of meat left in the sun, thickened by the confinement of the earth.
Jiang Dao walked in without hesitation. His golden eyes pierced the darkness, turning night into twilight. Daoist Linghu followed, his steps hesitant.
As soon as they crossed the threshold into the dark, the temperature plummeted.
It wasn't a natural cold. It was a spiritual frost that bit through the skin and settled in the marrow.
"Incredible," Daoist Linghu whispered, his breath pluming in the dark. "Not a trace of Yin energy outside, but in here? It's a deluge. This is thick enough to drown in."
"Stay sharp," Jiang Dao warned, his muscles coiling. His Extreme Yang Qi began to circulate, a furnace burning beneath his skin to ward off the chill.
They moved deeper. The tunnel branched out like the veins of a dead giant. The silence here was heavy, oppressive.
Whoosh.
A sudden draft hit Daoist Linghu from behind. It wasn't wind. It felt like a breath—wet, freezing, and intimate—right against his neck.
The Daoist froze. He felt a phantom weight settle on his left shoulder. A sharp pain pricked his cheek. His hair began to float upward, defying gravity, only to wither and turn to ash as it touched the aura radiating from whatever was behind him.
Terror, primal and icy, gripped Daoist Linghu's heart.
Slowly, agonizingly, he turned his head to the left.
There, resting on his shoulder as if it belonged there, was a shadow. It was the size of a watermelon, dense with black fog and malice. As his eyes adjusted, the shadow coalesced into a shape.
It was a head. And it was grinning.