"I see you've brought quite a following with you," the Old Celestial Master said, his voice a slow, gravelly rasp that seemed to echo from the bottom of a well. He sat cross-legged, an ancient figure withering under the weight of his own power. "Perhaps you could ask them to contribute. Just a little blood from each would suffice. I am currently locked in a stalemate with the Evil God, and I require fresh vitality to execute the secret arts necessary to hold him back."
Jiang Dao stood before him, a towering figure of muscle and menace. At these words, his expression went flat, drained of all warmth.
"Oh?" Jiang Dao's voice was dangerously quiet. "So, we're talking about blood sacrifice, then? Does the dignified, holy Celestial Master Mountain actually rely on such wretched methods?"
The Old Celestial Master sighed, a sound like dry leaves skittering over stone. The aura of death clung to him, a visible, suffocating shroud. A strange, encroaching darkness had already claimed half his torso, turning his skin into obsidian. "If it were not a matter of absolute necessity, this old Daoist would never resort to such things," he murmured. "Furthermore, I only seek a portion of their blood essence. It will not cost them their lives."
The old man paused, his mismatched eyes gleaming with a desperate logic. "The 'Red Blood' of ordinary mortals contains an indescribable vitality, a spark of pure life. Whether for rituals or secret arts, it is the premier choice. Compare that to us—the Spirit Removers. Our veins run with 'Black Blood.' We are essentially walking corpses. Our blood holds power, yes, but it is half-dead. Aside from passing down lineage, it is useless compared to the vibrancy of the common man."
Jiang Dao fell into a heavy silence.
The words triggered a memory from not long ago—a conversation with a Night Watchman. The man had called Spirit Removers "the living dead." At the time, Jiang Dao had thought it a metaphor. Now, looking at the rotting, powerful figure before him, he realized it was literal. Their blood was stagnant.
Suddenly, the obsession that evil spirits, fierce monsters, and even the Gods had with humans made sickening sense. It was the thirst for Red Blood. The thirst for life.
"Senior," Jiang Dao broke the silence, his tone sharp. "I have a question. Is this Evil God truly sealed within your body? If you need blood so badly, why not descend the mountain yourself and hunt for it?"
"I utilized the Holy Vessel of our order to trap the entity at the critical moment," the Master replied, his breathing shallow. "But in doing so, I immobilized myself. If I move, the seal breaks. If you hadn't appeared, young brother, I would simply sit here until my life force was completely drained."
"So, you used a Holy Vessel," Jiang Dao noted. "I assume that required a blood sacrifice in the past?"
"Not exclusively. The high arts of Celestial Master Mountain allow us to commune with the Vessel through willpower alone."
Jiang Dao studied the old man, weighing his truthfulness. He decided to pivot. "I heard there is something called 'Celestial Master Divine Water' in the Divine Hall. Where might I find that?"
The Old Celestial Master's eyes flickered with surprise. He hesitated, then raised a trembling hand to point toward the shadows. "There."
Jiang Dao followed the gesture. To the right of the main hall, a small, obsidian altar stood distinct from the rest of the architecture. Perched atop it was a modest vat. It looked ancient, crafted from a material that was neither wood nor copper, covered in incomprehensible glyphs and smelling of heavy, cloying incense.
Jiang Dao walked over, his heavy boots thudding against the stone floor. Daoist Qingsong, who had been cowering in Jiang Dao's shadow, scurried after him, terrified to be left alone with the Master.
Inside the vat, a viscous, five-colored liquid swirled. It shimmered with an internal light, radiating a palpable energy fluctuation. The vat was less than half full.
"This washes the eyes? This reveals the truth?" Jiang Dao asked.
"Yes," Qingsong whispered, staring at the liquid greedily. "That is the Divine Water."
Jiang Dao didn't hesitate. He grabbed several empty clay jars from a nearby offering table and began to ladle the liquid out. "Daoist, I told you I'd share. Fill a bottle for yourself."
Jiang Dao took two-thirds of the remaining supply, filling three large jars. Qingsong, trembling under the gaze of his sect's patriarch, managed to fill only a small vial before stopping, his nerve failing him.
"Young brother," the Old Celestial Master called out again, his aura fluctuating wildly, "have you considered my request?"
Jiang Dao carefully stowed the jars in his pack. He turned back to the old man, walking closer until he loomed over him. His face was a mask of cold fury.
"Old Celestial Master," Jiang Dao began, "do you know what I hate most in this world? It's anything related to blood sacrifice. Even if you don't kill them, the very concept disgusts me. You treat ordinary people like livestock—cattle to be bled whenever your 'gods' get thirsty. It makes me want to beat you within an inch of your life. What do you think of that?"
The Old Celestial Master sat in stunned silence.
"What? No objection?" Jiang Dao cracked his neck. "How about a compromise? You take three palm strikes from me. If you're still breathing, I'll lend you some blood. That way, I get to vent my disgust, and you get your vitality. Don't worry, I won't kill you."
"You… you truly detest the use of Red Blood that much?" the Master asked, baffled.
"I do."
The air exploded.
Jiang Dao moved faster than thought. His hand, transformed into a claw the size of an iron wok, slammed into the Old Celestial Master's forehead.
CRACK!
The sound was like a sledgehammer hitting a mountainside. A shockwave of air blasted outward, kicking up dust. But the Old Celestial Master remained seated, unmoving.
Jiang Dao's eyes narrowed. He didn't pause. He swung a backhand blow, his claws tearing through the air to strike the old man's left cheek. The impact created a sonic boom, superheating the air around them.
WHAM!
The Master's hair whipped wildly, but his neck didn't even snap back. He was an anchor in a storm.
Jiang Dao felt a tremor of genuine shock. He wound up for the final strike, driving a straight punch directly into the Master's chest.
BOOM!
The force shredded the upper half of the Master's robes into confetti. The concussion pushed Jiang Dao back, sliding his boots across the stone. He retreated to a safe distance, watching.
Daoist Qingsong looked ready to faint. He had just watched a monster strike the leader of his sect three times, and the old man hadn't flinched.
"Young brother, has your anger subsided?" the Old Celestial Master asked calmly. He was unscathed. "If my actions caused you offense, I apologize. But the Evil God is stirring. I cannot hold him much longer. Please."
Jiang Dao flexed his wrist. The stinging sensation told him just how durable the old man was. "You're tough, old man. I'll give you that. I was only using thirty percent of my strength, but still… impressive. If you survive this, come find me. We can finish this properly."
Jiang Dao grabbed a few of the unconscious mortals they had brought, sliced their wrists with surgical precision to avoid lethal injury, and forced their blood essence into a bowl. He slid it toward the Master.
"The waves of the new generation push the old ones aside," the Master sighed, drinking the essence with his eyes. "My era is over. Young brother… You aren't a Spirit Remover, are you?"
Jiang Dao sneered. "If you know, why ask?"
He turned and marched out, grabbing Qingsong. He needed to leave. The shock he felt was profound; that old man was a bottomless pit of power.
"What rank is he?" Jiang Dao whispered as they exited the hall.
"God Rank," Qingsong stammered. "Though I don't know how many rotations."
"God Rank…" Jiang Dao tested the words. Someday, he vowed, he would crush that rank beneath his heel.
The descent was worse than the climb.
Below the temple, the town was submerged in a living fog. It wasn't just weather; it was a curse. Jiang Dao and Qingsong, leading a train of terrified survivors, found themselves walking in circles. The streets rearranged themselves like a sliding puzzle. Familiar landmarks vanished, replaced by rotting ruins and dead ends.
"Ah!"
A scream tore through the mist, high and thin.
Jiang Dao stopped, his muscles tensing. "Again."
"That's the fifth time," Qingsong whimpered, clutching his whisk. "Something is hunting in the fog. Watching us."
They had tried to investigate the screams earlier. Every time they arrived at the source, they found nothing but a cooling corpse. No killer, no tracks. Just death and an oppressive silence that followed immediately after. The scream felt like a lure, a fisherman twitching a line to draw them deeper into the maze.
"It's toying with us," Jiang Dao growled. His patience, never his strong suit, was fraying. "Don't let me catch it. I will disassemble it bone by bone."
He stopped following the roads. Instead, he began walking in a straight line. When a wall appeared in the fog, he smashed through it. When a house blocked the way, he bulldozed it. He left a trail of destruction to mark their path.
Hours passed in the gray limbo.
Then, the ground shook.
Rumble.
A low vibration traveled through the soles of their feet, followed by the distinct, metallic hum of a Holy Vessel.
"Someone is using a Vessel ahead!" Qingsong perked up. "Maybe it's the others?"
Jiang Dao frowned. "Let's move."
They broke through a final layer of ruins and stumbled upon a chaotic scene.
In a clearing of debris, Priest Linghu and seven other Daoists were fighting for their lives. They were bloodied and exhausted, channeling their energy into a white whisk that acted as a shield. Assaulting them were two Corpse Demon Ancestors—monstrous, reanimated horrors—and the Seventh Prince of Dayu.
Behind the Daoists, huddled in the shell of a destroyed inn, were dozens of townspeople. They were weeping, paralyzed by terror.
The dynamic was clear immediately. The Seventh Prince and the Corpse Demons weren't attacking the spirits; they were attacking the Daoists.
"You stubborn fools!" the Seventh Prince shouted, his face twisted in a sneer. He held a black meteor hammer that pulsed with a dark, sickly light. "The Divine Will has already abandoned these peasants! Why are you protecting them? Why trigger a civil war among Spirit Removers for cattle?"
The Corpse Demons roared, battering the Daoists' shield.
The Prince turned his cold gaze to the civilians. "You pigs. You dogs. Why do you insist on living? If you had just died quietly and given us your blood, we could have powered the Vessel and left. But no. You had to cry. You had to beg. And now you've dragged us all down."
"Mercy!" a middle-aged man wailed from the inn. "We just want to live! Please!"
"We didn't do anything wrong!" a woman sobbed.
They were begging for the bare minimum of existence. They didn't want gold or power. They just wanted to breathe.
"Resentment?" The Prince laughed, swinging his meteor hammer. The spikes upon it seemed to scream, hungry for flesh. "If you want to hate someone, hate the Night Watchmen. Hate the heavens. Your lives are currency, and I am here to spend you."
He stepped forward, raising the hammer to crush the skull of the nearest peasant.
THOOM.
THOOM.
THOOM.
The rhythm of the battlefield broke. A sound emerged from the fog—heavy, wet, and rhythmic. It was the sound of something massive walking.
The mist grew hot. A wave of heat, smelling of sulfur and burning ozone, rolled over the combatants. The Seventh Prince froze. The Corpse Demons stopped their assault, sniffing the air.
The fog in the alleyway swirled and then burst apart.
Debris exploded outward like shrapnel.
A nightmare stepped into the clearing.
He was over five meters tall, a humanoid mountain of striated muscle and violence. His clothes had shredded into ribbons, unable to contain the expansion of his frame. His skin was purple-black, crisscrossed with veins that pulsed like angry pythons. Bone spikes protruded from his shoulders, elbows, and knees, glistening and sharp.
Behind him, a thick, powerful bone tail lashed the air, cracking like a whip.
Jiang Dao stood there, his chest heaving like a bellows, steam rising from his overheating body. He had heard the Prince's speech from hundreds of meters away. The rage had fueled his transformation, pushing his body to its monstrous limit.
He looked down at the Seventh Prince, his eyes burning with a terrifying light.
"Who was it?" Jiang Dao's voice was a deep rumble that vibrated in everyone's chest. "Who said that mortals deserve to die?"