The morning wind, thick with the stench of blood, slapped his face, but Qin Zhao stood rooted to the spot, his fingers brushing the faint tattoo on his left wrist. Mud dripped from the ends of his hair, and the body of a thug lay crumpled at his feet, eyes bulging like dead fish. In the distance, footsteps grew louder—five figures burst through the alley mouth, wooden sticks in hand, their soles crushing the dead leaves scattered on the ground.
"Fuck! Lao Liu's really dead!"
The bald man leading the group roared, his eyes blazing like red-hot coals. "How dare this piece of trash kill him?!"
They called him Scarface, the local gang boss who ran protection rackets and scraped by with his lackeys. Lao Liu had been his cousin—dim-witted, maybe, but tough as nails. Now he was sprawled on the ground, neck twisted at a ninety-degree angle, blood frothing from his nostrils.
"You ungrateful bastard!" Scarface slung his wooden stick over his shoulder, baring a set of yellowed teeth. "I was gonna cripple your spirit root and leave you a vegetable. But now… I'm gonna snap every bone in your body and feed you to the maggots in the southern latrines!"
The four thugs behind him closed in, fanning out to trap Qin Zhao against the wall. None of them noticed his left hand gently rubbing his wrist—the tattoo had started to burn again, as if a fire smoldered beneath his skin.
Qin Zhao said nothing, his gaze drifting to the wine jug at his waist.
The character "Trash" was crudely carved onto the jug, as if someone had scrawled it drunk. His right hand shot out, yanking the jug free, and he took a long swig. The cheap liquor scorched his throat, stinging his eyes until they watered. But he didn't cough—instead, he narrowed his eyes and smiled.
In the next second, he hurled the golden card like a throwing knife.
Crack!
The card slammed into Scarface's nose, embedding itself in the flesh. The word "Trash" stared out, clear as day, plastered across his face. Scarface froze, his nasal bone snapping with a sickening crunch, blood gushing forth to splatter the underling beside him.
"What the hell?!"
"What is that thing?!"
"It's a golden card! And it says 'Trash' on it!!"
The four men gaped. They'd seen money before, but never thrown like a brick—let alone a golden card emblazoned with such an insult.
Scarface stumbled back, clutching his face, gasping in agony. "You… you're asking for death, you bastard! A lousy card? You think you can slap me with a lousy card? I'll cut out your tongue and force you to swallow it!"
No one heard Qin Zhao's reply.
Because at that exact moment, his spiritual sea erupted with a deafening tremor.
The pitch-black door deep within his consciousness shuddered violently, and the Death Dagger sealed inside began to shatter—not from slumber, but of its own will, dissolving into streams of dark purple energy that surged through his meridians, flooding every limb.
Qin Zhao's body went rigid.
A foreign power erupted from his bones, like a thousand red-hot needles piercing his veins. His knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed to the ground. But the pain vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by an indescribable euphoria—like a man starving for three days finally tasting a warm meal, or a soul frozen for half a lifetime finally touching a blazing furnace.
"Shit… what is this?"
He growled, his arm muscles bulging, veins snaking across his skin as his frame seemed to inflate with power.
The five thugs hadn't even registered the change when the scrawny, sickly-looking kid they'd cornered transformed before their eyes. His stance was the same, but his aura had shifted entirely—from a dying wretch to a waking wolf, his gaze as dark and menacing as a storm.
"Get him! All together!" Scarface roared. "Don't let him recover!"
Four wooden sticks came crashing down, whistling through the air—one aimed for his skull, two for his shoulders, the last sweeping toward his knees. A classic street brawl tactic, targeting the vitals to take him down for good.
Qin Zhao moved.
Not to dodge, not to block.
But to throw his arms wide and roar.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Three sticks splintered into dust, wood shards flying like firecrackers on New Year's Eve. The three thugs holding them screamed as their palms were shattered by the backlash, their bodies flying backward to crack their skulls against the ground with a dull thud.
The fourth stick was halfway to his knees when Qin Zhao spun around and lashed out with a kick.
His toe connected with the man's chest, the impact sounding like a sandbag being hammered. The thug went flying three meters away, slamming into the wall before sliding down in a crumpled heap, coughing up blood as he lost consciousness.
Only Scarface and one other lackey remained, frozen in place.
"You… you were supposed to be a cripple!" Scarface's voice trembled. "Where the hell did you get this strength?!"
Qin Zhao ignored him. His mind was consumed by the purple energy coursing through his body, his meridians thrumming like dry riverbeds suddenly flooded with water—a mix of pressure, numbness, and heat swirling together. He glanced down at his hand—his palm was still bleeding, a cut from gripping a knife earlier, but the pain was gone, replaced by a strange thrill, as if every drop of blood was singing with joy.
He lifted his right hand, slowly curling his fingers into a fist.
His knuckles cracked loudly.
Then his eyes locked onto the two remaining men.
At the weight of his gaze, both stumbled backward in fear.
"Get out." His voice was quiet, yet it rumbled through the alley like distant thunder.
The air seemed to freeze. The two thugs felt a boulder pressing down on their chests, making it impossible to breathe. The lackey's legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the ground. Scarface tried to stand his ground, grinding his teeth and taking a shaky step forward. "You killed my brother! This isn't over! The Qin Family will never let you—"
His words died in his throat as Qin Zhao raised a hand and pushed.
Without even touching him.
An invisible shockwave exploded outward, slamming both men to the ground. Scarface's back hit the wall, and a mouthful of blood sprayed from his lips. He tried to climb to his feet, but his limbs felt like jelly, as if every bone in his body had turned to mush.
Silence fell over the alley.
Only the wind rustling through the tattered cloth awnings and the muffled groans of the injured broke the quiet.
Qin Zhao stood still, his breathing gradually calming. The purple energy still flowed through his veins, but it had grown gentle, coiling around his meridians like a docile snake, washing over him again and again. He could feel the blockages in his body clearing, one by one, something long dormant stirring back to life.
He didn't care what this state was called.
All he knew was that he was no longer the weakling who'd crumble at the slightest kick.
He let out a cold laugh, stepping over to Scarface and looking down at the man who'd threatened to cripple his spirit root moments earlier.
Scarface's face was covered in blood, his eyes filled with terror. "W… what are you gonna do to me?"
Qin Zhao didn't answer. He just lifted his left hand, his fingertips brushing the tattoo on his wrist. The mark glowed faintly with purple light, like a beast sated after a feast, humming with satisfaction.
Then he turned and walked away, never once glancing back at the men behind him.
But the moment his back was turned—
A massive dagger phantom materialized out of thin air.
Pitch-black, its blade shimmering with dark purple light, blood dripping from its tip, casting a strange violet glow over the entire alley. It was neither solid nor an illusion, but a pure manifestation of energy—a "shadow." It hovered silently behind Qin Zhao, like a blade of divine punishment, ready to strike at any moment.
All five thugs saw it.
Especially the two propped against the wall. When they looked up, their souls nearly left their bodies. They'd never seen anything like it, but their instincts screamed that if that blade fell, not a single trace of them would remain.
"The… the Death Dagger…" one of them stammered. "Lao Liu mentioned it before he died… he said he felt it… in his last second…"
"Shut up!" Scarface snarled, his voice trembling despite himself. "Don't spout nonsense!"
But he was shaking too.
The phantom dagger was too sinister. Unmanned, yet exuding an oppressive aura that suffocated them. It wasn't particularly long or wide, but standing beneath it felt like an ant staring up at a butcher's knife.
Qin Zhao never looked back.
He just stood there, the wind tangling his long hair, his robes fluttering in the breeze. He could feel the phantom behind him, and he knew what it represented—the first enemy he'd killed, the first "treasure" he'd claimed, now asserting its dominance in his name.
Mad dog?
Fine.
You wanted to call me a mad dog?
Then I'll show you just how crazy I can be.
He exhaled slowly, muttering under his breath, "Next time you come, bring something valuable."
The phantom dagger faded away, the purple light vanishing as the alley returned to its dim gloom.
But not one of the five thugs dared to move.
They knew that the rules of this street had changed forever.
Qin Zhao strode forward, his steps steadier than before. His body was still adjusting to its newfound power, his muscles twitching occasionally, as if testing out newly forged parts. He touched the faint golden crack above his left eyebrow—it had glowed briefly, but now it had dimmed again.
He didn't know what it meant.
And he didn't care.
All he knew was that this fight was more than just beating up a bunch of thugs. It was his first true "awakening." Once, he'd been a blade sheathed, trampled by everyone. Now, the blade had been drawn, stained with blood, and there was no turning back.
The alley mouth lay ahead.
Sunlight slanted in, illuminating half his body. The other half remained in shadow, a line dividing light and darkness.
He paused, not stepping out just yet.
Instead, he turned his head, casting one last glance at the men behind him.
Of the five thugs, three were unconscious, two huddled against the wall, trembling like leaves. Scarface stared up at him, blood streaming down his face, his eyes a jumble of emotions—hatred, fear, and a flicker of something he himself didn't recognize: awe.
Qin Zhao's lips twitched.
It wasn't a smile. It was a declaration.
Then he took a step forward, crossing the threshold into the street beyond.
Outside was the main street of Qin City, already coming alive with the bustle of morning—vendors setting up stalls, the market about to open. A carriage rumbled past, its wheels clattering over the stone slabs.
He stood on the street corner, the wind billowing his robes.
No one paid him any mind.
But everything that had happened in that alley had already changed his fate forever.
He knew this was only the beginning.
The real enemies hadn't even shown their faces yet.
The Qin Family?
Just you wait.
When I find the things you fear most, I'll collect them one by one, stuffing them all into my treasure vault.
And then? Not even your precious spirit roots will be safe. I'll burn your ancestors' memorial tablets for firewood.
He touched his left wrist, whispering softly, "Hey, you full yet? For the next meal… I'm craving a Golden Core."
The wind swept through the street, carrying his words away. No answer came.
But he knew that the door inside him had been thrown wide open.
Deep in the alley, the body of the first thug lay motionless in the muddy water, eyes wide open. His lips were slightly parted, as if he'd been trying to say something before he died.
No one was left to listen.