The morning light had just gilded the edge of the bluestone slabs at the alley mouth when Qin Zhao stepped over the threshold. A gust of wind fluttered his robe hem an inch high, and the character "Trash" carved on his wine jug glinted in the sun—like a silent eye-roll from the shadows.
He didn't pause.
Behind him, the five thugs still lay crumpled in the muddy puddles, too terrified to chase or even shout. Scarface had the golden card embedded in his nose; blood dripped down his chin, plopping onto his crotch and soaking a dark patch into his trousers. Yet he didn't dare lift a hand to touch it—the kick he'd taken earlier had jolted his innards, and every breath now tasted of iron.
Qin Zhao walked steadily, more so than right after the fight. The surge of power inside him still hummed, no longer a painful swell but a rush—like an old, clogged water pipe suddenly unblocked, gushing forth and scouring away the rust. It tingled, itched, and it felt good.
The faint tattoo on his left wrist still radiated warmth. His fingers brushed it unconsciously, as if a tiny insect was crawling just beneath his skin. The sensation was off, but not unpleasant—like the first time he'd snuck a sip of his father's hidden liquor as a child: the first gulp burned his tears loose, the second sent a buzz straight to his head.
Beyond the alley lay the main street. The morning market hadn't fully set up yet, but peddlers with carrying poles already wandered back and forth. An old man pushing a tofu pudding cart passed by, glimpsed the sprawled figures in the alley, frowned, and quickly detoured around.
Qin Zhao's lips twitched.
Smart to stay away. Good.
He was about to turn toward the teahouse across the street when he noticed the crowd ahead part abruptly.
Seven or eight black-cloaked servants stood in a line, blocking the other end of the alley. Their waists were sheathed with swords, their cuffs embroidered with silver thread—the standard uniform of the Qin Family's Law Enforcement Hall. In the middle stood a middle-aged man with a round face and short beard, dressed in fine silk, holding a jade slip in his hand as he sauntered forward, like a steward come to collect rent.
But the man didn't look at the road; his gaze was fixed squarely on Qin Zhao's face.
"Well, well." Qin Zhao halted, his voice calm. "You sent someone this fast? I thought I'd have to storm your door before you'd bother with me."
The steward didn't reply. He stopped three paces away from Qin Zhao, and the servants flanking him immediately spread out into a semicircle—their movements so practiced they might have rehearsed them a hundred times.
"Qin Zhao." The steward spoke, his tone as mild as brewed tea. "The Third Elder has ordered: last night, you seized the Death Dagger from that thug. This weapon is a lost relic of the Qin Family's external affairs division. You are commanded to return it at once. Hand over the dagger, and all past transgressions will be forgiven. You will remain a collateral member of the Qin Family."
His words were polite, his tone even lilted slightly at the end—as if coaxing a wayward nephew to behave.
Qin Zhao listened, then glanced down at his feet.
The jade slip lay on the ground, dusty and chipped at the corner.
He lifted his foot and ground it down.
Crack.
The jade slip snapped cleanly in two.
"Oops." He clicked his tongue. "Stepped on it. My bad."
The steward's eyelid twitched. His smile froze for half a second before quickly smoothing back into place. "Qin Zhao, what is the meaning of this? The Third Elder has shown great leniency, offering you a way out—"
His words cut off as the two halves of the jade slip on the ground suddenly glowed.
A faint light seeped through the cracks, and then a low, hoarse voice boomed directly in the alley:
"The Nether Wraith Fragment is in the dagger. SEIZE IT!"
The voice was quiet, but it carried a bone-chilling coldness—as if an old man crawling out of a grave was whispering in one's ear. Even the black-cloaked servants paled; some took an involuntary step back.
Qin Zhao stood his ground.
But his left hand tightened abruptly around his wrist tattoo, his knuckles whitening.
Nether Wraith Fragment…?
That door-like thing inside him—that was the Nether Wraith Fragment?
And the top brass of the Qin Family had been eyeing it all along?
He stared at the steward, his gaze darkening by the second. The lazy, rogueish glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by an indescribable pressure—like storm clouds gathering over the city, heavy enough to crush one's chest.
"So you didn't come for the dagger after all." His voice dropped an octave. "You came for my life."
The steward's smile finally dropped.
He slowly raised his right hand, and his sleeve twitched slightly.
Qin Zhao's eyes narrowed.
Here it comes.
A glint of cold light shot from the sleeve, too fast to trace, streaking straight for his forehead. The distance was too short, the angle too tricky—there wasn't even time to blink.
But he didn't dodge.
A ripple spread silently across the "Floating Cloud Dark Gold Armor" hidden beneath his shoulder guard—like a stone skipping across water—swallowing the needle-thin projectile without a sound. The moment the needle's tip hit the armor, it let out a faint sizzle—like a red-hot iron rod plunged into ice water.
The steward's pupils constricted sharply.
It failed?
Refusing to believe it, he flicked his left hand, and three bone-piercing nails flew out in a triangular formation, targeting Qin Zhao's throat, heart, and dantian respectively.
The result was the same.
All three nails were absorbed by the shoulder guard, leaving not even a scratch. The surface of the Floating Cloud Dark Gold Armor rippled, as if sated and burping contentedly.
"This outfit of yours… is surprisingly tough." Qin Zhao patted his shoulder guard, his tone almost approving. "I ought to reward it with a drumstick later."
The steward's face turned ashen.
He stumbled back a step, his right hand clamping down on his sword hilt, his voice trembling. "You… you're not a cripple?! You have no spirit root—how is this possible—"
"Possible?" Qin Zhao cut him off, taking a step forward.
The steward retreated instinctively.
Qin Zhao took another step.
"Did the Third Elder send you here because he thought I'd be easy to push around?" His voice grew colder and colder. "Did he think I'm still that dog who'd kneel after a couple of kicks?"
"I didn't come to negotiate." The steward gritted his teeth. "I came to execute an order!"
"I see." Qin Zhao nodded. "So the order says 'silence him on the spot'? Then those little tricks of yours—weren't they a bit too gentle?"
Before the words left his mouth, he lunged suddenly.
Not at the steward—but sideways, his left hand clamping around the man's neck like a vise and slamming him hard against the wall.
Thud!
Wall dust showered down. The steward's feet left the ground, his eyes bulging as he scrabbled wildly at Qin Zhao's arm—but it was as solid as cast iron, unmoving.
"Listen carefully." Qin Zhao leaned in, his voice as soft as casual chatter. "Go back and tell Third Elder Qin: what's mine is not his to touch. And this life of mine—"
He paused, tightening his grip slightly.
The steward let out a gurgling sound, his face turning purple.
"—is not his to take."
With that, he released his hold.
The steward crumpled to the ground, clutching his neck and coughing violently, saliva and blood mixing as they spilled from his mouth. He looked up at Qin Zhao, his eyes filled with terror—as if he'd seen a ghost.
Qin Zhao stared down at him, clapping his hands together as if brushing off dust.
"Get out of here." He said. "Next time you come, bring something worthwhile. Don't bother with this cheap junk. I don't buy it."
The steward struggled to his feet, supported by two servants, and stumbled backward. The others didn't dare linger, scurrying away with their tails between their legs. In the blink of an eye, the alley mouth was empty—save for Qin Zhao.
The wind blew, swirling the shattered jade slip fragments across the ground and into the gutter.
Qin Zhao didn't move.
He stood there, his breathing steady, his heartbeat calm—but the faint golden crack above his left eyebrow was throbbing with warmth. He raised a hand to touch it; his fingertips felt a sharp, subtle pain, as if something was pulsing gently beneath his skin.
That voice—Nether Wraith Fragment—still echoed in his mind.
They knew it existed.
But they didn't know it was inside him.
They had no idea it had already awakened.
He looked down at his hand.
His palm still bore the dried blood from gripping the knife last night. But the pain was gone, replaced by a strange, thrumming excitement—as if every vein in his body was cheering softly: We survived.
He let out a cold laugh and turned toward the teahouse across the street.
The main street was growing crowded now, the air filled with the shouts of vendors, the clatter of horse hooves, and the rumble of cart wheels on stone slabs. He wove through the crowd, his pace unhurried, like any ordinary passerby. Yet those who passed him couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about him—his gaze was too still, his steps too steady, and the air around him seemed to cool by several degrees.
He stopped in front of an abandoned teahouse.
Half the roof had collapsed, tables and chairs lay scattered haphazardly—clearly, no one had tended to it in a long time. But a wooden bench in the corner was still intact. He walked over and sat down, leaning his back against the broken wall, his left fingertips brushing the tattoo on his wrist once more.
The mark still radiated warmth, like a sated beast dozing contentedly.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Deep within his spiritual sea, the pitch-black door stood as imposing as ever. No light seeped through its cracks, no sound emanated from it—but he could feel it: something was moving inside.
Not the dagger. Not the purple energy.
Something deeper. Something heavier.
He didn't dare reach out to touch it.
But in that last fight, the Floating Cloud Dark Gold Armor had activated its defense on its own—proof that his body was already adapting to some kind of rule. Perhaps… it was learning to wield its power on its own.
He opened his eyes and glanced back toward the alley.
Sunlight now flooded the entire street, gilding the bluestone slabs until they shone. A few children ran past, chasing a tattered kite, their laughter ringing clear.
Just like any other day.
Bustling. Trivial. Unremarkable.
But he knew nothing would ever be the same again.
The Qin Family would never let him wander the streets freely now.
Now that the Third Elder knew about the Nether Wraith Fragment, he wouldn't send just a steward to test the waters next time. The next wave might be the Elder's personal guards—even the Commander of the Law Enforcement Hall himself.
He needed a place to hide.
Somewhere quiet. Somewhere secluded. Somewhere he could close his eyes, focus his mind, and finally figure out what the hell that door inside his head was.
He stood up, dusting off his robe hem.
"Lie low for a while." He muttered to himself. "Once I pry that damn door open, we'll settle the score."
He strode forward, his figure gradually blending into the crowd on the street.
The wind ruffled his long hair, revealing the faint golden crack above his left eyebrow. The sunlight hit it, and it glinted—like a sword being drawn from its sheath.