Yanshao, a small town in Shinji Province, is famous for its scale-iron mine.
Scale iron proves tougher and lighter than normal iron—not a spiritual metal, yet superior to many spirit-forged alloys and prized for crafting inner armour.
The Scale Gang runs the mines, and Lin Zian's mission is to assassinate their leader.
He wonders briefly why the prefecture governor—an agent of Prince Liang—would order the removal of his own man; couldn't the prince simply command it done openly?
He stops the thought—why the prince wants the gang leader dead matters little to him; he only needs to kill and return.
For days, he watches the gang, learning their patterns and habits, refusing to risk entering the fortified headquarters where one mistake means death.
Safer is to strike outside, and his surveillance shows the leader visits the Spring Pavilion on Wednesdays to spend the night and only leaves at dawn.
Today is Monday, giving him two days to prepare.
He scouts the pavilion and its surroundings and finds a sturdy tree with a clear line of sight to the pavilion door—a perfect perch for a silent shot.
He waits in the branches, bow strung, breath slow, and when Tuesday night the gang leader slips into the pavilion, Lin Zian keeps his vigil until dawn.
As the first pale light paints the courtyard, the leader steps out; Lin Zian draws, aims for the neck, and releases.
A sharp snap cuts through the morning air, and the gang leader drops, an arrow lodged cleanly in his throat.
Lin Zian leaps down from the tree, landing lightly. He moves quickly around the Spring Pavilion and slips into a shadowed corner outside to hide.
Soon, the town erupts in chaos. Shouts echo through the streets as the Scale Gang searches every alley and roof for the killer.
They search all day, but no one finds him.
After two days hidden without food or sleep, Lin Zian seizes an opening, mounts his horse, and rides out of Yanshao under the cover of dusk.
He returns to the base silently, delivering no report beyond proof of the kill.
A week later, he joins a squad of assassins to wipe out an entire family accused of treason. In their library, among ashes and scattered scrolls, he finds several worn books about potion craft.
Without hesitation, he slips them into his pack and later hides them in a hollow tree outside the base.
From then on, whenever he finds a moment between missions, he sneaks out to study the books under moonlight.
Weeks pass, then months. His body strengthens; his control over blood energy refines. Six months later, he advances to first-grade martial artist.
But strength brings no comfort. At the base, he often sees master-realm warriors walking like shadows among the killers. Compared to them, he is nothing.
So he continues his quiet cycle of training and study.
Two months later, deep in meditation, Lin Zian visualises and completes the eighty-first rune within his illusion space, reaching the peak of mid-level wizard apprentice. To advance to a high apprentice, he must form the eighty-second rune. It takes him a few more days of stillness and strain before the rune finally appears.
The moment it forms, the crow outline in his consciousness shines with dark light, illuminating his spirit space. Under that eerie radiance, his spirit begins to refine and condense—shedding impurities, reshaping itself into a sharper, denser form. When the transformation completes, a burst of energy flows out from his mind, spreading through his meridians. His qi surges wildly, carrying him halfway toward the peak of a first-grade martial artist.
This breakthrough not only strengthens him—it sharpens his comprehension. His understanding of martial movement deepens, and within days, he completely masters the Tiger Fist technique.
On a joint mission, he proves it. Though still only in first grade, he kills a half-master martial artist, shocking his squad. Word spreads quickly through the base.
The higher ranks take notice. They grant him more resources, more trust—and for the first time, a place among the promising.
But fortune draws envy. His sudden rise earns him a powerful enemy: Li Minxin, Prince Liang's adopted son, the most gifted killer in the base. Under twenty, Li Minxin had already reached the half-master realm—and the prison raid in Lin Zian's hometown had been his doing.
Now, Lin Zian's rise threatens Li Minxin's position. Because of him, half of Li Minxin's resources are diverted away—and that is a grudge worth blood.
One day, after completing a mission, Li Minxin's men ambush him on the road back to base. The moment danger stirs in the air, Lin Zian reacts. His caution saves him. Though wounded, he escapes through the trees and disappears before the assassins can close in.
After returning to base, he quietly investigates Li Minxin. Days later, on his next mission, the intel he receives proves false. Trapped and outnumbered, he survives—but with heavy injuries. The pattern is clear. Li Minxin is behind it. But without proof, he can do nothing.
The higher-ups, seeing his condition, sent him to a small town to recover. His wounds prevent martial practice, so he turns inward. He cultivates through meditation, paints to calm his mind, and studies potion refinement. He paints the fluctuations of dark energy, learning to capture its rhythm and flow. Months pass, and at last he succeeds in refining a half-spiritual potion.
Potions are ranked in five grades: half-spiritual, spiritual, mid-spiritual, high-spiritual, and holy. The antidote he takes each month to suppress his poison is a peak half-spiritual potion.
When he finally returns to the base, his body healed and mind steadier, he resumes his missions. But behind every task, every silent night of rest, one goal burns—destroy Li Minxin and decipher the antidote's true formula.
Through weeks of quiet investigation, Lin Zian discovers Li Minxin's private residence outside the base. He does nothing at first, waiting and watching. A month later, after breaking through to the half-master realm, he finally decides to act.
Before leaving for his next mission, he takes a detour toward Li Minxin's house. Moving through the shadows, he slips inside unnoticed. The sound of water greets him—Li Minxin bathing, unaware of the danger near. Lin Zian strikes without hesitation.
Li Minxin turns in shock, but too late. The blade pierces his chest, and his body collapses into the bath, staining the water crimson. The ripples fade, leaving only silence and the faint scent of blood and steam.
Lin Zian searches the room carefully and finds five vials of the antidote, several martial techniques, and skill manuals. He takes everything, then sets the house ablaze. Flames rise into the night as he disappears into the dark.
He never reports for his mission. Instead, he vanishes—hiding deep in the wilderness. With five extra antidotes, he can survive for five more months. Confident he can now reproduce the formula, he devotes all his time to parsing the potion's structure.
He returns to his hometown hungry for revenge, only to find the place emptied of the faces he once knew—his senior brother gone.
Questions pull at him until he learns the truth: after their master's death, his senior brother married Senior Sister Liuxi and the two moved to the Tang capital.
Without hesitation, he bends his path toward the capital, each mile sharpening the chill in his heart.
Near the outskirts of the great city, a clash blooms across the road—men shouting, the flash of steel, and dust rising like blood.
He slows and studies the combatants, heart stuttering as recognition hits: one side is his former instructor and teammates, led in brutal formation against a small, desperate group.
Among the fleeing are Meilin and the noble lady.
For a moment, he almost turns away, thinking to let fate decide; he would not have entered if survival alone were the only stake.
But the truth comes like frost—allowing his enemies to live endangers everyone he loves; if his old instructor learns Lin Zian still breathes, compassion will be answered with a blade.
He understands then the hard fact: to be truly safe, every hand that serves Prince Liang must be cut.
His fingers tighten on his weapon.
Silence folds around him as he moves from cover, steps measured, eyes cold with resolve that will not bend.
From the shadow of a high branch, he draws his bow. Arrows whisper through the air, each one finding its mark—his former teammates fall before they even see him.
When their formation breaks, Lin Zian leaps from the tree, sword flashing as he charges into the chaos.
His sudden appearance sends ripples of rage through the killers. Faces twist with hatred as they recognise the archer. The instructor snarls, abandoning his prey and lunging toward Lin Zian.
Steel clashes. Sparks scatter. The instructor's strength presses down like a mountain; Lin Zian, though a half-step master, finds himself driven back, parrying blow after blow, his arms trembling under the weight of each strike.
Blood fills his mouth. He knows—at this pace, death is seconds away.
With a single breath, he makes the choice no sane man would.
He runs the Blood God Technique.
Pain ignites through every vein as his vitality burns away. His vision floods crimson. His body erupts with a surge of raw, violent strength—his realm shatters forward into the Master stage.
Caught off guard by the sudden rise in power, the instructor falters. Lin Zian lunges, driving his sword through the man's chest.
The body falls. Silence returns, broken only by Lin Zian's ragged breaths.
He turns on the remaining killers, his movements fluid and merciless, cutting them down one by one until the last drops his weapon and falls still.
When the last echo of battle fades, his knees weaken. Relief and exhaustion hit together.
Then the side effects come. His heartbeat turns sluggish, his head heavy, his vision blackening at the edges.
He collapses beside the corpses, the world dissolving into shadow.
When he wakes, warmth wraps around him.
He blinks at a wooden ceiling, light spilling softly through a half-open window. No one is there. The air smells faintly of herbs.
As he pushes himself up, pain rips through his torso. He grimaces, pulling back the blanket to find clean bandages wrapped across his wounds—tight, precise, and freshly changed.