Dusk bled into night as Sifir and Purple Night reached the outskirts of the market district. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, their glow reflecting off rain-darkened stone as the two found a respectable inn—three stories tall, sturdy, unremarkable.
Not luxury, but far from a den of thieves. It would suffice.
Inside their shared room, the air smelled faintly of incense and old wood. The table between them was quickly buried beneath the spoils of the bustling street market.
Purple Night had clearly profited the most—bundles of talisman materials, rare inks, spirit threads, and formation components neatly sorted with a practiced hand. Her eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Array formations and inscriptions were her domain, and today the market had yielded generously.
Sifir's gains were… stranger.
Rather than objects of rank or refinement, he had acquired skills—raw techniques stripped of grade and hierarchy. Unranked. Ungraded. Potential without definition. It unsettled Purple Night more than she cared to admit.
Most of the fierce beasts Sifir had slain in the Misty Rain Forest were gone as well, exchanged piece by piece. By dawn, the shopkeeper had promised to deliver what remained owed.
Among those promises was a cloak—thick golden bear cub fur on the outside, supple and warm, with an inner lining of shimmering emerald king snake scales. Light. Flexible. Resistant.
There was also a shirt, crafted with the same young emerald king snake scales layered into a delicate lattice—lightweight chainmail disguised as silk.
Yet none of those compared to the final item resting in Sifir's hands.
A book.
Ancient. Thin. Its cover cracked with age, pages yellowed and fraying at the edges.
[The Profound Heavenly Tool of Body Refinement]
The shop owner had allowed only a glimpse—no more. Even that had felt like charity bordering on sacrilege. The technique was beyond Sifir's current reach, perhaps even beyond his future. Or perhaps it was something better suited for the Midnight Clan.
Slowly, carefully, Sifir unfolded the brittle pages.
The opening chapters were deceptively simple—basic rune diagrams, foundational techniques, instructions so clear they felt almost humble. Then the book deepened.
Arrays layered upon arrays. Ancient runes interwoven with formation theory. Locking diagrams designed not for weapons or artifacts—but for the body itself.
Strength refined. Flesh transformed into a vessel.
By the time Sifir reached the final page, the room felt colder.
[The Integrated Nine Extreme Elements]
Nine natural treasures.
One type.
One path.
The practitioner would select a single heavenly treasure—mountain, river, blade of grass—and merge it into their very being. The type chosen could never be changed. Eight more treasures of the same nature would then be required, each fused in succession.
An expert might choose something as insignificant as grass—yet be forced to locate eight other extraordinary grass-type treasures to complete the cycle. To abandon the technique midway meant ruin.
All cultivation would collapse. One would have to start again—stronger than before, or not at all.
The danger was obvious.
The reward? Terrifying.
Lower-tier natural treasures were common enough. But those capable of turning the tide of battle? Rare. Priceless. Each selection demanded consideration—grade, tier, ability, uniqueness. Nine choices. No mistakes.
Sifir exhaled slowly.
Then Purple Night looked over his shoulder.
One glance.
That was all it took.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, wild and uncontrolled—like two beasts locked in heat, circling, clashing, refusing to yield.
"Fall Night," she said tightly. "Hand me that book. It would be wasted on you."
"Nah," Sifir replied without looking up. "I'm good."
Purple Night's brow twitched. "What do you mean nah?"
"I'm not giving it to you," he said calmly. "Not for free."
Silence stretched.
"…What do you want?" she asked.
"What do you have?"
"Oh?" Purple Night scoffed. "My life? I'll even let you keep your cultivation. You should be grateful to drink my bathwater—what a privilege, Fall Night."
Sifir tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. "Who would want to drink your bathwater? That's disgusting."
Black lines crept across Purple Night's face.
Even she wouldn't drink her own bathwater.
"Outside of that," Sifir continued, finally meeting her gaze, "is this a command?"
Purple Night froze.
She remembered Death Sword. Jagged. How commands ended with Sifir taking what he wanted—or destroying it outright.
This book… this wasn't something he'd relinquish easily.
"What do you want?" she repeated, voice dry.
"What do you have," Sifir replied smoothly, "that I can actually use?"
"Tsk." Her eyes hardened. "So you really are petty."
"Am I?" Sifir shrugged. "Or do I just refuse to suffer losses for others? You've got good things on you, Purple Night. I know it."
She laughed sharply. "You're a schemer, Fall Night."
"I learn from the best."
Her eyes flashed. "What are you implying?"
"A schemer plans thoroughly," Sifir said, smiling thinly. "Through deceit and unruly means. I wonder who fits that description."
"When did you get this bold?" Purple Night asked coldly. "Do you enjoy gambling with your life?"
"My life?" Sifir stepped forward. "If I weren't gambling with it, I wouldn't be here at all."
She sneered. "Stubbornness is bad for your health."
"Sigh."
Without warning, Sifir tore the final page from the book.
Purple Night's eyes widened.
He handed her the rest.
"This is the trade," Sifir said evenly. "I take the last page. You take the book. Remember—you forced this exchange."
"Give me that page!"
"You have the book."
"Not the complete one."
"You should be happy I didn't use force."
She stared at him, jaw tight. "…Fine. Where are we meeting tomorrow?"
"Sifir packed his belongings into his dimensional bag.
"South Gate," Purple Night said at last.
"I'll see you there."
The window creaked open.
Sifir leapt, landing silently on the inn's roof before vanishing into the night.
Purple Night watched him go, unconcerned.
She had the book.
Even if she wasn't a body cultivator, inscriptions were inscriptions—flesh or paper made little difference. She was among the best at her level.
As she skimmed the pages, her excitement grew.
The formations were exquisite.
The runes—breathtaking.
Only later would she realize what she had truly traded away.
Not a book.
But her freedom.
And that debt would haunt her for as long as Sifir lived.
-
Cold Steel City breathed beneath a veil of night.
Lanterns burned low. Doors were barred early. Even the wind seemed reluctant to move.
Two figures crossed the rooftops without sound.
Death Sword walked as though the world had already stepped aside for him. His presence did not press outward—it pulled inward, drawing fear and silence into its wake.
Jagged followed.
Always behind.
His fingers twitched. His breath came a fraction too fast. Chaos itched beneath his skin, desperate to be let loose. Traveling with Death Sword was like walking beside an execution platform that never stopped moving.
"Stay close," Death Sword said.
Jagged's jaw tightened.
"Yes."
The city shifted.
A ripple brushed Death Sword's spiritual sense—light, controlled, trained.
Then another.
Movement. Withdrawal.
Somewhere ahead, Ghost Unit 1 felt the net tighten.
"We've been noticed."
"Split. Now."
They scattered like smoke between stone and shadow, their formation dissolving before it could be grasped.
Death Sword stopped.
The night held its breath.
His perception swept again—empty.
A faint smile touched nothing at all.
Then—
A different presence crashed into his senses.
Crude. Loud. Reeking of arrogance and blood.
Fifteen miles away.
"WHO DARES WATCH ME—"
The shout tore through the district, thick with killing intent and self-importance.
Jagged grinned beneath his mask. His tongue slid over his teeth.
"Let me have him."
"No."
Death Sword turned, eyes still elsewhere.
"Chase the rats. Bring me their leader's head."
Jagged vanished.
The city exhaled once—then screamed.
The Pavilion Young Master of Iron Hollow stormed into the street, sword blazing with metallic gold light, his aura tearing at the air like an exposed nerve.
"I'M TIRED OF YOU FILTH TREATING ME LIKE—"
Death Sword stepped forward.
"You are already dead."
He moved.
There was no draw.
No swing.
No sound.
Four lines appeared across the Pavilion Young Master's body.
A heartbeat passed.
Then his form slid apart, clean and silent, blood blooming only after the fact.
[Six Paths of Death: Fourth Sword — Murder]
The street froze.
City guards arrived—and stopped.
They saw the body.
They saw Death Sword.
And they remembered how to live.
They turned and fled.
Jagged returned moments later, landing hard, breath uneven.
"Where is the head?" Death Sword asked.
Jagged hesitated.
"I lost them."
Death Sword looked at him.
"How many did you kill?"
"…None."
Death Sword struck.
His hand drove into Jagged's chest—not flesh, but meridians, death qi flooding the wound like poison poured into a river.
Jagged screamed.
He collapsed, coughing blood blackened by decay.
"How many," Death Sword asked, voice unchanged.
"NINE!" Jagged choked. "SIX CULTIVATORS! THREE CIVILIANS!"
The death qi twisted.
Another scream ripped through the street.
"Lie again," Death Sword said, "and I destroy a main meridian."
Jagged shook, teeth grinding, fury and terror tangled together.
"WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!"
Death Sword looked down at him.
"Because someone must hold the leash."
He turned away.
The night swallowed them.
Far beyond his reach, Ghost Unit 1 watched from the shadows.
Their leader said nothing.
There was nothing to say.
They had seen what Death Sword was.
Not a hunter.
Not an executioner.
But a judgment that walked.