The night was a cloak, and Han Li wore it well. The black robe absorbed the moonlight, making him a patch of living shadow as he moved through the silent, wealthy district of Chang City. The Wang Family estate loomed ahead, not just a home, but a fortress of arrogance—high walls, a heavy iron-banded gate, and the glow of many lanterns within, speaking of activity long past curfew.
Two guards flanked the gate, not the lazy sentries of a peaceful house, but sharp-eyed men with hands resting on sword hilts. These were not ordinary thugs; their stance spoke of training, and a faint, disciplined aura clung to them. Fate Keepers, Han Li recognized. A private mercenary company known for taking gold over morals.
As Han Li's silhouette detached from the darkness and approached, the guards snapped to attention. "Halt! The Wang estate is closed to visitors. State your business or be gone." Their voices were flat, devoid of curiosity, only threat.
Han Li did not halt. He walked forward, his steps silent on the cobblestones.
The guards drew their swords in unison, the rings of steel slicing the night. "Last warning!"
Han Li's spiritual sense had already brushed past them, flooding the compound. He ignored their blades and focused on the horrors within. His senses recoiled at one particular cluster of signatures—dozens of them, weak, flickering with fear and despair, all confined to a single, heavily guarded wing. Women. His jaw tightened.
Beyond them, in the main hall, a cacophony of crude, laughing energies—perhaps twenty or thirty men, their auras bloated with wealth and cruel indulgence.
The gatekeepers were an obstacle to the truth inside. Nothing more.
The first guard lunged, his sword a silver thrust aimed at Han Li's heart. Han Li didn't draw a weapon. He moved his body a fraction, letting the blade pass by his robe. As the man over-extended, Han Li's hand shot out, fingers rigid. A single, precise strike to the throat crushed the windpipe. The guard dropped, a choked gurgle his last sound.
The second guard swung a heavy horizontal chop. Han Li ducked under it, rising inside the man's guard. His palm struck the mercenary's chest directly over the heart. A surge of focused Qi, not to burn, but to disrupt—a technique that caused cardiac arrest. The man's eyes widened, he stumbled back, clutched his chest, and fell.
Han Li stepped over them, placed a hand on the massive gate, and pushed. With a groan of stressed metal and wood, the internal bar snapped, and the gates swung inward.
He was a storm entering a gilded cage. Servants screamed and scattered. More Fate Keepers came running from their posts. Han Li did not stop. He did not deviate. He became a principle of motion. Any who raised a weapon to block his path toward the main hall met a swift, final end. A nerve strike here, a shattered knee there, a crushed larynx—efficient, clinical, and utterly merciless. He moved through the courtyards like a scythe, leaving only still forms in his wake. He spared the cowering female servants, his cold gaze passing over them without a flicker.
The laughter from the main hall grew louder as he approached, now mingled with a new sound: a terrified, pleading female voice being presented. Han Li's spiritual sense painted the vile picture clearly. An auction block.
He reached the grand doors of the hall, carved with scenes of prosperity. From within, a voice, oily and loud, cut through the din: "Do I hear six thousand for this rare jewel from the western hills? So young, so supple!"
Another voice, rough with wine, shouted, "Seven thousand!"
"Ten thousand!" bellowed a third.
Han Li's foot lashed out. The reinforced door, meant to withstand a battering ram, exploded inward as if struck by a siege engine. It tore from its hinges and flew into the crowded hall, a massive wooden projectile. It crashed into a cluster of richly dressed men, silencing the laughter with screams of pain and shock.
Han Li stepped through the wreckage into the haze of pipe smoke and torchlight.
The scene was a grotesque painting. On a raised platform, a girl no older than Xiao Yu stood trembling in torn silks, a metal collar around her neck. Below, in a semicircle of opulent chairs, sat the merchants and petty nobles of Chang City's underworld, their faces frozen in masks of surprise and fear. At the head of the room, on a raised dais, sat Wang Yuan, a thin man with a greedy, pointed face, his initial shock twisting into rage.
But Han Li's eyes went to the two men who had already sprung to their feet, flanking Wang Yuan. They wore simple dark tunics, but their auras were distinct—cultivators. One at Body Refinement Tier 4, the other at Tier 5. Hired muscle to keep the "merchandise" in line and intimidate rivals.
The Tier 5 cultivator, a man with a scar across his eyebrow, assessed Han Li. He couldn't perceive Han Li's true cultivation, as Han Li kept it cloaked. But the sheer, lethal confidence, the effortless power in the door's destruction, and the chilling aura of death that followed him in spoke of someone far beyond them. His spiritual sense brushed against Han Li and recoiled as if burned. His face paled.
"Foundation… Foundation Establishment?" he whispered hoarsely, mistaking the depth for a higher realm.
"We have no quarrel with a senior!" the Tier 4 cultivator said quickly, taking a step back. "This is a mortal affair! We will leave immediately!" They turned to flee toward a side entrance, abandoning their employer without a second thought.
"You stayed long enough to be complicit," Han Li said, his voice cutting through the panicked murmurs of the room.
He didn't move from his spot. With a flick of his wrist, two of his Child daggers shot from his sleeves. They didn't glow. They were streaks of darkness, moving faster than the eye could follow. The cultivators, sensing the attack, tried to dodge, but they were too slow.
Thuck. Thuck.
The daggers found their marks with perfect precision—the base of each man's skull, severing the brainstem. They dropped mid-stride, lifeless before they hit the floor.
Pandemonium erupted. The wealthy buyers scrambled over each other, trying to flee. Han Li's gaze swept over them. "Those who came here to buy flesh," he announced, his voice quiet yet echoing in the hall, "you have chosen your fate."
He moved again. This was not the precision of the courtyard. This was wrath. He became a blur among the panicked crowd. He didn't use techniques. He used his hands, his elbows, his feet. Bones broke. Necks snapped. The air filled with short, sharp cries that were abruptly cut off. He was an executioner, and the hall was his gallery. In less than two minutes, the laughter had been replaced by an echoing silence, broken only by the soft cries of the collared girl on the platform.
Only Wang Yuan remained, cowering behind his overturned chair on the dais, a dark stain spreading on his fine robes.
Han Li walked toward him, stepping over the fallen. Wang Yuan fumbled at his belt, pulling out a small, ornate talisman—a one-time fireball charm. "D-demon! Stay back!" He activated it, throwing the burning parchment.
Han Li swatted the weak, golf-ball sized flame aside with a wave of his hand, dispersing it into harmless sparks. He reached the dais and looked down at the man.
"You traded in lives," Han Li said.
"I-I can give you gold! Mountains of it! The women! They're yours!" Wang Yuan babbled, tears of terror mixing with sweat.
"They were never yours to give."
Han Li reached down, not with a dagger, but with his bare hand. He grasped Wang Yuan's head. A surge of pure, overwhelming Yang Qi, hot as a forge, shot into the man's skull. It was a painless death, but a terrifying one—from the inside, Wang Yuan's mind simply… evaporated. His body went slack, empty eyes staring at the ceiling of his own hell.
Han Li released him and turned. He looked at the stunned, silent female servants huddled by the walls. "You," he said, his tone shifting from deadly to direct. "Find the keys. Free every woman in the holding cells. Now."
They jumped, then scrambled to obey, driven by his command and their own newfound hope.
Soon, the hall filled with a different crowd. Dozens of women, ranging from girls to young mothers, stumbled in, their bonds removed, faces hollow with shock and dawning disbelief. They saw the fallen slavers, they saw the dead Wang Yuan on his dais, and they saw the lone figure in black standing amidst the carnage.
One by one, they understood. An older woman fell to her knees. Then another. Then the girl from the platform. A wave of motion, until every freed woman was kneeling, their foreheads touching the blood-stained floor in the ultimate sign of gratitude and submission. A silent, profound sob shook the group.
"Thank you, Immortal…" someone whispered.
When they looked up, the space where Han Li had stood was empty. Only the cool night air blowing through the shattered door remained.
---
An instant later, the scene changed. The opulent horror of the Wang estate was gone, replaced by the stink of stale water, fish, and smoke.
Han Li stood at the edge of the derelict dockyard, looking at the glow of the bandit camp's fires. The sounds of raucous celebration echoed across the water. The other half of the tumor remained.
His work tonight was only half done.