Jiang Dao's boot remained planted firmly on the pile of gore beneath him. His expression was a mask of glacial indifference, his eyes sweeping over the men standing before him as if they were nothing more than dust motes floating in a sunbeam. He didn't just look down on them; he looked through them.
The silence in the clearing was heavy, broken only by the wet, squelching sound shifting under Jiang Dao's sole.
The faces of the survivors turned a shade of livid purple. The humiliation was palpable.
"Good. Very good, Gang Leader Jiang," the newly arrived monk said, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and forced diplomacy. He gritted his teeth so hard the sound was audible. "Your strength has earned our recognition. We extend our deepest apologies for the probing we conducted earlier. Now, can we proceed to civil discourse? Or does Gang Leader Jiang truly wish to tear away the final shred of decorum between us?"
"And what about them?" Jiang Dao didn't move his foot. He merely turned his head, locking eyes with the remaining three middle-aged men.
Their expressions were dark, mirroring the storm clouds gathering metaphorically over the alliance.
"Gang Leader Jiang, we admit defeat as well," a man in a crimson robe said, his voice cold and clipped. "Let us talk."
Jiang Dao studied the man's attire. It was identical to the arrogant youth he had slapped into oblivion just moments ago. The others were similarly dressed—one in white, one in blue—mirroring the young disciples Jiang Dao had dispatched with such casual brutality. Facing his silent interrogation, they nodded gloomily, swallowing their pride.
Jiang Dao slowly exhaled, a stream of white-hot steam escaping his lips like a dragon venting its internal furnace. His tone leveled out, becoming terrifyingly calm. "Wouldn't it have been better if you had approached me this way from the start? Why did you insist on planting a curse on me? Do you not know that curses are the one thing I detest above all else?"
He finally lifted his boot from the ground.
But as he looked down, his brow furrowed.
The monk he had trampled, the one he had scorched with the Blazing Sun Divine Fire until the man was nothing but a heap of unrecognizable sludge, was not dead. The pile of mud was pulsating. It was alive.
Jiang Dao felt a flicker of genuine surprise. This exceeded his expectations. The Old Buddha Temple was not just a religious sect; it was something far more bizarre.
His gaze snapped to the periphery. The young man in the white shirt, the one he had backhanded across the clearing, was also twitching on the ground. It was a grotesque sight: his broken body was knitting itself back together, bones snapping into place and flesh flowing like liquid to bridge the gaps. He was slowly, undeniably, recovering.
Jiang Dao's heart grew heavy.
Is the one who released the evil spirit to bite me still alive?
These "Heavenly Mandate" Royal Clans were tenacious. They were like cockroaches—harder to kill than they had any right to be.
Fortunately, his work on the blue-robed and red-robed youths had been more thorough. One had been reduced to a bloody paste in his palm, flash-fried into charcoal. The other had been crushed into an indistinguishable ball of biological matter. If those two could survive that, Jiang Dao would have to seriously reconsider his career choice.
He looked back at the monk on the ground. He considered grabbing the pulsating sludge and squeezing until there was nothing left but atoms.
The standing monk seemed to sense the murderous intent radiating from Jiang Dao. "Gang Leader Jiang, please!" he interjected rapidly, his composure cracking. "Do not strike again. You have already killed two of our number. Consider the lesson learned!"
Jiang Dao's expression was unreadable, shifting like shadows under cloud cover. He stared at the struggling, squirming flesh on the ground. Finally, he relaxed his posture.
He couldn't afford to offend the Old Buddha Temple too severely. Not yet. He had needs that only they could fulfill—specifically, the Dragon Whisker Grass.
"Since you put it that way, I will give you face," Jiang Dao said, his voice flat. "But if this person falls into my hands again, he won't have such good luck."
"Wait."
As the standing monk moved to collect his fallen comrade, Jiang Dao's command froze him in place. The monk looked up, muscles tense, expecting betrayal.
"Master, what kind of divine technique do you practice?" Jiang Dao asked, his curiosity genuine. "Why is this little novice's life force so tenacious? To take multiple heavy hits from me and refuse to die... it is truly admirable."
The monk exhaled, a secret sigh of relief, though his face remained cool. "Gang Leader Jiang, this is a secret technique of the Old Buddha Temple. I ask that you respect our traditions and not inquire lightly. Furthermore," he added with a touch of stiffness, "this person is no 'little novice.'"
"Oh. Is that so? My apologies," Jiang Dao said. He took one last, long look at the pile of regenerating flesh.
Sooner or later, he would have to dissect that technique. Leaving enemies he couldn't kill was a recipe for insomnia.
Nearby, the white-shirted middle-aged man was attending to his own fallen kin, pouring spiritual energy into the youth who had nearly exploded from impact. The remaining two men watched Jiang Dao with eyes full of gloom and wary calculation.
Four families had sent their heirs to test this upstart. Two were dead. The heirs of the Old Buddha Temple and the Spirit Removal Bai Family had barely scraped by with their lives.
But what truly shook them to their core was Jiang Dao himself.
Standing there, he was a nightmare made flesh. His stature was immense, inhumanly tall, covered in thick black hair like a beast. His aura was brutal, a tangible pressure in the air. His eyes burned with a hidden crimson light. He wasn't human. He was a calamity.
And he ate ghosts.
They had watched him bite the head off a Wraith—a creature of pure resentment, known for being indestructible and relentlessly vindictive. Wraiths didn't stop until their targets were dead. Yet Jiang Dao had chewed it up like gristle and swallowed it. He had shrugged off the Blood-Melting Curse like it was a summer breeze.
What the hell is he?
Jiang Dao scanned the four men, confirming the fight was truly over. He turned and walked toward the old Daoist priest, Linghu, who was leaning precariously against a shattered tree.
As he walked, Jiang Dao's body began to shrink. It was a disturbing process, like a balloon deflating or a machine compressing. Waves of intense heat radiated off him, distorting the air, until he returned to his human form.
"Is the Daoist Priest alright?" Jiang Dao asked.
"I am fine," Linghu wheezed, clutching his chest. "Many thanks to Gang Leader Jiang for the rescue."
The old priest looked at Jiang Dao with complex eyes. He felt the weight of his own inadequacy. In the past, under the protection of the Old Heavenly Master, he commanded respect. Now, with the Master gone, these Spirit Remover families looked at him like he was a relic. Only raw power mattered now.
"Gang Leader Jiang," the middle-aged monk called out. He had secured his injured comrade. "I saw you were hit by the Blood-Melting Curse earlier. I am surprised you are... unaffected. Does the Gang Leader need this humble monk to help dispel any remnants?"
It was a probe. A test.
Jiang Dao looked back over his shoulder, his eyes cold. "Thank you for your kindness, Master. I can undo this trifling curse myself. But a word of advice: do not plant curses on me in the future. I have a violent allergy to them. Whoever plants a curse on me usually ends up watching their entire family die."
The monk's heart skipped a beat. He said nothing. The others bristled with anger but swallowed it down. They had seen enough blood for one day.
"Alright, gentlemen," Jiang Dao said, clapping his hands together and breaking the tension. "Let's cut the small talk. You traveled thousands of miles to the Great Ye Dynasty for a reason. What do you want? Why don't we speak plainly?"
The four men exchanged glances. Finally, the red-robed man stepped forward, the mask of diplomacy firmly back in place.
"Gang Leader Jiang, since you have proven you have the qualifications to sit at the table, we won't waste words. The Southern Region is peaceful. It is prosperous—far stronger than the chaotic Great Yu. Our four families intend to acquire this territory."
He paused, gauging the reaction.
"We offer a partnership. You will join the Sky Spirit Prefecture. We will establish a branch here, bringing experts to guard the region year-round. In exchange, the Flame Gang will hand over twenty percent of its annual revenue. If you encounter trouble, the Sky Spirit Prefecture will resolve it. We will be equal allies. What do you say?"
Jiang Dao frowned, feigning deep thought.
He understood the subtext. Protection money. They wanted the Flame Gang to wear the Sky Spirit Prefecture's collar. They would plant spies, take a cut of the profits, and in exchange, lend their name to his operations.
Honestly? It wasn't a terrible deal. The Flame Gang was, at its core, a mortal organization. But Jiang Dao wasn't one to sell cheaply.
"This proposal isn't entirely unacceptable," Jiang Dao mused aloud. "But my Flame Gang is taking the heavy end of the loss here. We have rooted ourselves in this soil for years. You waltz in, demand a slice of the pie, and want to install monitors? That's hard to swallow. So, you must add a condition."
The four men frowned. "What condition?" asked the man in white.
"Simple. I want Dragon Whisker Grass. Three stalks."
The atmosphere in the clearing shifted instantly. The monk's face tightened. The others exchanged baffled, wary looks.
"What? Can you not produce it?" Jiang Dao pressed, sensing the hesitation.
The monk exhaled a long breath. "Gang Leader Jiang, your appetite is too large. Dragon Whisker Grass is no common weed. Even if you traded the profits of the entire Southern Region, I might not agree. It grows only on the coffins of high monks who pass away in deep meditation. It is vital for our cultivation and trade. We refuse countless requests for it."
"Wait," Jiang Dao interrupted. "Don't your monks reincarnate? If they keep coming back, surely there are plenty of coffins?"
The monk sneered. "If reincarnation were guaranteed, the grass wouldn't be rare. It only grows when a monk enters true Nirvana—absolute death. If they successfully reincarnate, the coffin remains bare."
"Ah," Jiang Dao nodded. "So it requires a permanent death. That does make it tricky."
He smiled, a shark-like expression. "But Master, we are partners now. Surely everything has a price. Why don't we speak openly?"
The monk hesitated. He didn't refuse outright this time. Instead, he looked at Jiang Dao with a newfound gravity.
"This matter is above my pay grade," the monk said finally. "If you truly want it, I must consult my Martial Uncle."
"There are others from the Old Buddha Temple here?" Jiang Dao's eyes narrowed.
The monk didn't answer. He turned and walked toward a dilapidated structure nearby, a remnant of the ruined courtyard. He entered a room and shut the door firmly.
Jiang Dao watched the door like a hawk.
Seconds later, the light seemed to bleed out of the world. The sun didn't set, but the shadows deepened, turning unnatural and sharp. A sound filled Jiang Dao's ears—a susurrus of whispers, like a thousand vengeful ghosts debating his fate. The smell of ancient, cloying sandalwood flooded his nose, choking out the scent of blood and ozone.
Jiang Dao's hand drifted toward his weapon.
Evil Spirits? No... There was no Yin energy. It was something else. Something older.
The bizarre sensory distortion lasted for nearly ten minutes. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the "fog" lifted. The whispers ceased.
The door creaked open.
The middle-aged monk emerged, looking serene, his robes unruffled. He held one palm up in a traditional salute.
"Gang Leader Jiang, I have consulted the Elder. Regarding the Dragon Whisker Grass... it is not impossible. However, your previous terms are insufficient. If you want the grass, you must pay the twenty percent, and you must perform a service for us."
"A service?" Jiang Dao raised an eyebrow.
The other three men smirked, understanding dawning on their faces.
"Nothing major," the monk assured him smoothly. "With your strength, it should be a simple matter. Help us resolve a supernatural incident, and the grass is yours."
Jiang Dao laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "A supernatural incident? The dignified Heavenly Mandate Royal Clans have problems they can't solve? You need a mortal gangster to clean up your mess?"
He sensed a trap. If these self-proclaimed demigods couldn't fix it, it was likely a death sentence.
"Are you afraid, Gang Leader Jiang?"
"Don't try to goad me, Monk. I know exactly how much I weigh. If you can't handle it, why should I stick my neck out? Tell me the details. Then I'll decide."
"Fair enough," the monk nodded. "And rest assured, you won't be alone. The Sky Spirit Prefecture will send experts, and we have recruited others from the Great Yu Dynasty. We only need you as insurance."
The monk began his tale.
"Two months ago, in a town in the northwest of the Great Yu Celestial Dynasty... something happened. It began when three of our high monks vanished while passing through. They didn't die; they simply ceased to exist. We sent investigators. They vanished, too."
The monk's voice dropped an octave.
"It's like the town is a mouth, silently swallowing anyone we send. We invited the Bai, Wang, and Jiang families to help. Same result. More disappearances. But here is the strange part: the town looks normal. It is bustling. Mortal caravans enter and leave freely."
"But," the monk paused for dramatic effect, "we discovered a pattern. The mortals who leave the town seem fine at first. But within ten days... every single one of them dies."
"How?" Jiang Dao asked.
"Their heads fall off," the monk said grimly. "They decapitate spontaneously. Their bodies rot instantly, as if they had been dead for months."
Jiang Dao went rigid.
Heads falling off?
His mind raced back to the creature he had just fought—the Thousand-Year Evil. That thing also had a fetish for collecting heads.
"You said their heads fall off within ten days?" Jiang Dao clarified, his voice intense.
"Yes. It is a curse we cannot break."
Jiang Dao fell silent, the gears in his mind turning. The world was changing, becoming darker, stranger. If the Heavenly Mandate clans were being hunted, what chance did mortals have?
But if it was related to the thing he had just killed... perhaps he was the only one who could survive it.
"Tell me more," Jiang Dao said, stepping closer. "I'm listening."