At the southernmost end of Jiangcheng's old wharf, at 2 a.m., it seemed forgotten by the world. The salty sea breeze carried the scent of rust through the abandoned crane, its mournful hum echoing like a lament. The waves crashed against the shore, each surge more intense than the last, as if urging something or bidding farewell to someone.
Ye Chen stood on the reef, his black windbreaker billowing in the wind. He habitually twirled a half-puffed cigarette between his fingers, though it remained unlit. The pale, cold moonlight cast his sharply defined profile—a face of a twenty-four-year-old, yet bearing the sharpness of thirty and the calmness of forty.
For three years and four months he counted the passing time in silence, like counting the broken glass in his chest, which hurt at the slightest movement, but the pain kept him awake.
"Lin, Wang, Zhao..." He murmured softly, his voice torn apart by the wind and dissipated into the waves. Each time he uttered a surname, a silent crack appeared in the reef beneath his feet, as if cut by an invisible blade. This was the manifestation of the third level of the "Nine Transformations Dragon Divine Formula" — "Hidden Dragon Power" —where lethal intent quietly descended without a trace of movement.
— Hoo!
Ye Chen suddenly raised his hand, and a wisp of emerald flame ignited the tip of his finger. The rootless flame emerged from the void, illuminating two golden dragon shadows in his pupils that flickered momentarily. The smoke was extinguished in a single breath, its ashes drifting with the wind to the sea surface. Instantly, they transformed into dozens of fine blue fire threads, igniting floating oil waste and coalescing into an eerie blue fire lotus. As the lotus spun, a blurred face appeared at its core—Wang Kun, patriarch of the Wang family. "I'll grant you thirty more days," Ye Chen snapped his fingers, shattering the fire lotus into a sky of fireflies like a reverse fireworks display, returning darkness to the night.... Ten kilometers away, in the southern "Xinglong" low-rent district. A seven-story tube building with water-damaged walls resembling an old water-bleached painting. On the innermost top floor stood Ye Chen's "home" —rented for 800 yuan monthly—a 40-square-meter space with a shared kitchen-to-toilet door. The door remained unlocked, its lockhole stuffed with chewing gum he didn't bother replacing. The only valuable item inside was a wild grass-like plant on the windowsill—three silver-edged leaves with barbed spines on the underside. Known as "Dragon Bone Grass," it was recorded in the *Holy Hand Poison Manual*: "Grows a leaf every ten years, blooms a flower every hundred years. The flower blooms in an instant, yet can consume a lifeless corpse." When Ye Chen dug it from the Kunlun cliff, only half a root remained. For three years, he nourished it with his own essence, using the "Dragon God Technique" to stimulate its growth, until it sprouted a third leaf. Now, the Dragon Bone Grass swayed motionless, its barbed spines dripping crystalline droplets that trembled with excitement, sensing the master's murderous intent. Ye Chen entered the room, bending forward to catch the water droplet with his fingertips and swallowing it. A bitter, pungent taste followed as a scalding stream of liquid rolled down his throat, igniting a fiery mass in his chest. Within this blaze, hundreds of golden threads coalesced at his dantian, crystallizing into the fourth drop of "Dragon Divine Blood." "Six more drops to complete the fourth transformation 'Soaring Dragon'," he murmured, glancing at the wall. The surface bore neither wedding portraits nor calendars, only a hand-drawn "Relationship Network" — crimson ink circles resembling bullet holes on a target: Lin Xiaotian (Chairman of Lin Group) — crossed out, symbolizing "deceased"; Wang Kun (Head of Wang Family) — triple-dotted with the darkest ink; Zhao Chongshan (Master of Zhao Family Martial Arts) — annotated "Peak of Hidden Energy, Possesses Ancient Martial Manuscripts." Below lay pencil scribbles: "Third-party force present at Ye Family's extermination night —' Qingyun '?" Behind the name, a question mark trailed a long line to a blank box containing a single sentence: "Who collects my corpse? That's the answer."
At three in the morning, Ye Chen took a cold shower. The bathroom light bulb flickered intermittently due to a poor connection. He tilted his head back, letting icy water splash onto his face, tracing the scar along his neck and chest—stretching from his collarbone to the ribcage like a writhing centipede. It was the mark left by the massacre night. That evening, he witnessed his father being nailed to the ancestral hall's plaque with a black blade, and his mother being suspended from the ancestral hall's beam with two bone-piercing nails through her wrists. Thirteen men in black, their sleeves embroidered with azure cloud patterns. He should have died with them, but his mother forced him to swallow the "Dragon God Decree" with her last breath—along with half a tongue. "Survive, don't look back." Those were her final words. Ye Chen closed his eyes. The sound of water suddenly faded, replaced by the rhythmic ebb and flow of blood rushing through his eardrums. Click— The bulb went completely dark. In the darkness, the scar on his chest emitted a faint golden glow, as if someone had struck a match inside.
After showering, Ye Chen stood naked before the mirror, using a dagger to shave off an excessive lock of his forehead. The reflection in the mirror had eyes so dark they seemed bottomless, with golden rings around the pupils—a hallmark of the "Dragon God Technique" at its third stage, known as "Dragon Tong." Beneath this divine mark, any disguise would be exposed. He raised his hand and inscribed eight characters on the mirror: "The hidden dragon lies in the abyss, first slay one man." With a flick of his index finger, the entire mirror shattered like a spider's web. The fragments fell to the ground, eerily silent.
At 4 a.m., Ye Chen slipped into a faded shirt, paired with a gray hoodie and rubber-soled sneakers—just like any recent college graduate. He turned off the lights and stepped out, the stairwell still reeking of leftover instant noodles. At the third-floor corner, a girl sat with her knees hugged to her chest, a bowl of instant noodles before her with a candle lit at the rim. Her parents worked night shifts, and she had "isolated" herself outside to avoid disturbing her grandmother. Ye Chen continued walking, his left index finger flicking the cuff of her sleeve as they passed. A silver needle, fine as a cow's hair, appeared. He tapped it against the candle's wick, sending a flame shooting up with a "pop," illuminating the girl's wide-eyed wonder. "Brother, can you blow out the candle for me?" Ye Chen turned his back, his voice hoarse. "The flame's too weak. Big candles make better wishes." With a flick of his finger, the needle shot out and embedded itself in the peeling ceiling plaster. The plaster fell, revealing a red wire cord. Sparks shot up, landing in the noodle bowl and coalescing into a crimson fireball the size of a soybean, hovering above the soup noodles like a pocket-sized sun. The fireball burned steadily without damaging the bowl's rim. The girl stood frozen in awe. "Make it three minutes—enough for ten wishes." Ye Chen descended the stairs, the girl's soft voice echoing behind him: "Brother, I'm Duo Duo! Thank you—" "No need." Her voice faded through the hallway, and he was already on the street.
At 4:20 AM in the southern part of the city, at "Old Wu's Traditional Chinese Medicine Shop", the roller shutter was half-open, letting in a dim yellow light. Ye Chen bent down to squeeze through, greeted by a pungent scent of Sichuan lovage, mugwort, and alcohol. Behind the counter, Old Wu was dozing, his head drooping as if about to collapse into the herbal mill. Ye Chen tapped the table with his fingers. "Hmm... Little Ye?" Old Wu's eyes behind the glasses suddenly lit up. "Are all the ingredients ready?" "All set!" Old Wu bent down, pulling out a bulging canvas bag from under the counter. The zipper was only half-open when a pungent smell of blood escaped. "I've prepared it as per your prescription: three catties of Nanling Thoroughbreds, two taels of snow scorpion tails, one qian of' Chihuan 'snake gall from snakes over three hundred years old... The last ingredient,' Dragon's Breath', only ten grams were obtained. Any more would require trips to Myanmar's mining areas." "That's enough." Ye Chen zipped the bag, glanced over, and nodded. Old Wu rubbed his hands, hesitating. "Anything else?" "Little Ye, your prescription... is the ancient 'Dragon's Breath Bone-Curing Ointment '? I studied medical cases all night and only found it in ancient manuscripts. This medicine is too potent for ordinary people. You—" "I'm not ordinary." Ye Chen pulled out a neatly folded note and pushed it forward. "Three days later, give this note to the person who comes to collect the medicine. They'll give you money enough to support your granddaughter through graduate school." Old Wu took it. The note had only two characters: "Ye Zhen." That was his son's name—sentenced to life imprisonment for a medical malpractice case a decade ago. Old Wu's fingers trembled as he looked up again; the pharmacy was empty, with only a pristine silver needle left on the counter, its tip holding a droplet of blood like morning dew still clinging to the blade.
At 5 a.m., though the sky remained dark, the first grayish light crept up from the clouds. Ye Chen walked to Warehouse No.7, two kilometers west of the old pier, carrying his canvas bag. Built in the 1960s, the warehouse's rusted metal roof resembled a stranded whale from afar. At the entrance, two stray cats shared a dead mouse. As Ye approached, they abruptly stopped chewing, their tails stiffening as pupils narrowed to needle points. They sensed danger—the bloodstain in the bag mingled with the scent of dragon bone grass and the Longshen Jue, a natural enemy to wild creatures. Inside, the warehouse echoed with dampness and emptiness. On the central concrete floor, a chalk circle three meters in diameter marked the spot where Ye Chen had left his note before departing last night. He unpacked the contents: 1. Three-meter-diameter dragon bone grass—crushed and its dark green juice dripping into a stainless steel container; 2. Snow scorpion tail—cut open to extract three crystal-clear drops of venom, which mixed with the herb's juice, hissing and producing white smoke; 3. Red ringed snake gallbladder—integrated whole, its bile bursting open to cast pale golden smoke; 4. Ten grams of ambergris—spreading golden liquid that formed delicate dragon patterns along the container walls, hissing like a hatchling breaking free. Finally, Ye Chen unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his chest. With his right hand forming a knife-like finger, he sliced a three-inch incision along the third intercostal space of his left chest. Blood gushed forth, but instead of dripping, it was drawn by an invisible force to coalesce into a blood clot the size of a fingernail. The dark golden clot bore delicate dragon patterns dancing across its surface. "Using the Dragon God's blood as catalyst, refining bones and soul through the third transformation of' Hidden Dragon '—matured!" The clot plunged into the steel basin. Boom— A muffled explosion rippled through the warehouse, its shockwave sweeping across the steel basin. The metal roof creaked as a corner lifted, letting sunlight pierce through like a slanted blade, illuminating Ye Chen's exposed torso. The scar on his chest began healing visibly, gradually transforming into a pale golden thread stitched with dragon's whiskers. Within the basin, the medicinal liquid had solidified into amber-colored ointment. Its subtle fragrance caused cracks to appear in the concrete floor three meters away, crunching like spiderwebs. Ye Chen picked up a small fragment with his dagger and applied it to his knuckle. The ointment seeped in instantly, filling his skin with a crawling sensation before searing like a fist plunged into molten metal. He glanced northward at the warehouse's wall, where a pile of abandoned I-beams lay thick with rust. Taking a deep breath, he clenched his right fist. *Pip—* A golden arc shot from his knuckles. In an instant, he vanished. Boom!! At the center of the steel pile, a beam as thick as an adult's waist had been pierced through with a single blow! The steel beam's fracture surface was smooth as if cut by laser, yet five distinct fingerprints remained on the cross-section. Golden dragon patterns shimmered along the edges, their glow lingering for a long time. Ye Chen's fist didn't even scratch the surface. He retracted his fist, flicking his hand as if brushing off a speck of dust. "Thirty days later, the Wang family reunion." "I'll give you a grand gift."... At seven o'clock in the morning, the sun fully rose above the horizon. Ye Chen returned to his rented apartment, rushed to wash off the rust smell, and changed into clean clothes. His phone vibrated on the desk with a text message: [Unknown number] "Mr.Ye, your scheduled interview with' Lin Group 'is at 9 AM today. Position: Chairman's personal physician. Please bring your resume and arrive on time." Ye Chen glanced at it and deleted the message. He pulled open the drawer, where a yellowed photo lay quietly: A twelve-year-old standing before the Ye family ancestral home, his parents smiling innocently on either side. Ye Chen's fingertips traced the photo, his eyes softening momentarily before returning to cold detachment. "Dad, Mom, the first step starts with Lin." He closed the drawer and stepped out. The sunlight fell perfectly on the young man's straight back, like a sheathed sword with its edge concealed. At the old southern dock, Warehouse No.7, the crack in the tin roof let in wind that whispered mournfully, like someone laughing, and someone crying.