The manor was filled with the subtle tension of business negotiations between two people who shared the same fundamental nature—both calculating, both willing to do whatever necessary to extract the highest benefits from the other party. It was a dance of mutual exploitation, each believing themselves the cleverer manipulator.
Li Huang's office echoed with voices discussing plans and arrangements, the words bouncing off expensive furnishings and decorated walls that spoke of wealth accumulated through precisely this kind of ruthless pragmatism.
"Here, take this," Li Huang said, extending his hand across the desk.
In his palm rested a small bottle—black glass, sealed with wax, unremarkable except for the faint smell of bitter almonds that suggested its contents were anything but innocent.
Zhung took the bottle calmly, his movements unhurried and precise. He slipped it into his pocket without examination, his dark eyes unfocused, his attention clearly elsewhere despite Li Huang's continued talking.
The merchant was explaining the plan in detail—routes, timing, the target's habits, contingencies if things went wrong. Important information that should have commanded Zhung's full attention.
But Zhung's mind was occupied entirely with his recent discovery, turning over implications and possibilities with the single-minded focus of someone who'd just found a crucial piece of a puzzle he'd been solving for months.
*Even expired demonic blood can be useful,* he thought with cold satisfaction. *I can still absorb it by using the chi-guiding techniques from my dream-life's cultivation training. The principles are similar enough—directing energy through specific pathways, concentrating it in the Aperture, refining it through meditation.*
*So demonic blood can act like chi but also isn't quite the same. More volatile, harder to control, but potentially more potent if handled correctly.*
*The expired blood only raises my rank by a small amount—the essence has degraded significantly by the time it's lost potency. But it's still progress. No more wasting blood that others would discard as useless.*
*This theory has both advantages and disadvantages, but the core principle holds: even by enduring the pain of absorbing corrupted essence, I can continue advancing. Slowly, perhaps, but consistently.*
His analysis was interrupted by an irritated snap of fingers directly in front of his face.
Li Huang's expression had shifted from businessman's neutrality to genuine anger, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.
"Mister Zhung," he said, his voice tight with barely controlled irritation. "It seems your mind is occupied with something else entirely. Perhaps you could demonstrate that you've actually been listening by repeating what I just said about the plan?"
Zhung's dark, empty eyes finally focused on Li Huang's face, meeting the merchant's angry gaze with complete indifference. There was no apology in his expression, no acknowledgment that he'd done anything wrong—just the same cold neutrality he always showed.
Li Huang's anger transformed into disgust as he looked at Zhung. The merchant saw him clearly now—not as a person but as a tool. A dog to be commanded. A scapegoat to be sacrificed when convenient. Nothing more than a means to an end, disposable once his usefulness expired.
"You said, Mister Li, that I'll use this bottle of poison on your competitor," Zhung recited in a flat, emotionless tone. "In three days, I'll leave and travel to the Western South, to a town called Xia Lu. The target frequents a specific tea house on market days. I'm to ensure the poison appears to be natural causes—heart failure, most likely—and leave no evidence connecting the death back to you or your organization."
He paused, then added with the same flat delivery: "You also mentioned that if I'm caught, you'll deny any knowledge of my existence and ensure I'm executed quickly before I can implicate you."
Li Huang's irritation didn't completely fade, but some of the tension left his shoulders. At least the boy had been paying attention, even if his distraction was insulting.
He sighed and waved his hand dismissively, about to send Zhung away.
But before he could speak the words of dismissal, Zhung's voice cut through the silence—flat, bold, carrying an undertone that made Li Huang pause.
"Mister Li, may I ask something?"
Zhung's expression shifted slightly, a frown creasing his brow. His voice grew even colder than usual, carrying the chill of winter ice.
Li Huang's annoyance returned immediately. "What is it, Mister Zhung?"
Zhung lifted his gaze to meet Li Huang's directly. Their eyes locked—two sets of calculating eyes, two minds shaped by similar philosophies of ruthless pragmatism and relentless ambition. In that moment, despite the vast difference in their positions and power, they recognized each other as fundamentally the same kind of creature.
"Mister Li..." Zhung's voice remained cold, his eyes growing distant and unfocused again. "After the job is complete, hand me demonic blood as payment. But also... hand me the expired ones too. All of them."
Li Huang's expression immediately became suspicious, his eyes narrowing as he studied Zhung's face for any hint of deception or hidden agenda.
"Fine, you can have them," he said slowly, his tone suggesting this was a test. "But tell me—what are you going to use expired blood for? Are you perhaps planning to poison me?" The last question was delivered with heavy sarcasm, as if the very idea of Zhung being a threat was laughable.
Zhung's response was immediate, his voice flat and his gaze completely deadpan, showing no emotion whatsoever: "To experiment. And to feed it to you."
The absurdity of the statement—delivered with such complete seriousness—broke through Li Huang's suspicion. He laughed, the sound sharp and genuine, filling the office with bitter amusement.
He laughed at Zhung's idea. Laughed at the foolish boy who thought expired blood could be useful. Laughed at how easily he could have this child killed if he ever became a real threat.
Then, just as suddenly, his laughter stopped. His expression became serious again, calculating. He simply waved his hand at Zhung, dismissing him without giving a clear answer to the request for expired blood.
He didn't say yes. He didn't say no. He just grinned—an expression that suggested he found the entire conversation entertaining in a way that boded poorly for Zhung's future.
As Zhung left the office, Li Huang leaned back in his expensive chair and muttered to himself: "A sixteen-year-old, bold and cold beyond his years. That reminds me of when I was young—before I learned that boldness without power just gets you killed faster."
---
Back in his room, Zhung began preparing for the journey with methodical efficiency.
He gathered the bone shards of the Albino Mountain Wolf—sharp fragments he'd collected and hidden after the battle, each one potentially useful as a weapon or tool. He wrapped them carefully in his wolf pelt, the white fur now serving as both camouflage and padding.
His current white hanfu was stained and worn from days of cultivation and training. He removed it and tossed it toward the laundry pile, then moved to the small bathing area attached to his room.
The water was cold—heated water was a luxury reserved for the Li family, not their employees—but Zhung barely noticed. He washed quickly and thoroughly, scrubbing away sweat and grime, preparing his body for what came next.
After drying himself, he changed into a black hanfu he'd acquired specifically for this assignment. Black was practical—it hid stains, blended with shadows, and didn't mark him as obviously affiliated with any particular sect or organization.
Then he sat on his bed in the lotus position and turned his attention inward, toward the Aperture in his heart.
The demonic blood he'd consumed days ago had been refined and integrated into his Aperture, creating a reservoir of dark energy that pulsed with each heartbeat. But now he was going to attempt something different—something that would either prove his theory or potentially kill him.
He was going to use the demonic essence stored in his Aperture not to fuel cultivation techniques—which he couldn't perform yet anyway—but to systematically enhance his physical body.
*The principle should be the same as body tempering,* he thought, recalling techniques from his dream-life's cultivation training. *Instead of channeling chi to strengthen muscles and bones, I channel corrupted demonic essence. The risk is higher—the corruption could destabilize my body permanently—but the potential benefit is worth it.*
*I need to be stronger physically. Not just spiritually or energetically, but in raw physical capability. Because when techniques fail or can't be used, the body is the final weapon.*
He began the process carefully, directing the demonic essence from his Aperture outward through pathways he visualized in his mind. Not the spiritual meridians that proper cultivators used—he didn't have access to those yet—but simpler routes through major blood vessels and nerve clusters.
The essence moved reluctantly, fighting his control. It wanted to remain concentrated in the Aperture, wanted to corrupt and transform rather than strengthen and enhance.
But Zhung forced it to obey through sheer willpower, guiding it millimeter by millimeter through his chest, down his arms, into his legs, spreading it thin across his entire body.
The pain was immediate and intense.
Every muscle fiber the essence touched began to burn as if acid was being injected directly into the tissue. His bones ached with a deep, grinding pain that made him want to scream. His skin felt too tight, stretched over a frame that was trying to expand beyond its natural limits.
*Endure,* he commanded himself, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. *This is necessary. Pain is just information. It means the process is working.*
He held the essence in place for as long as he could stand it—seconds stretching into minutes, each moment an eternity of controlled agony. His entire body trembled with the effort of maintaining focus, of not allowing the essence to run wild and corrupt him from the inside out.
Then, when he felt he was reaching his limit—when the pain was becoming too intense to bear and the essence was starting to slip from his control—he carefully, gradually, pulled it all back.
The demonic essence returned to his Aperture like water flowing back to a reservoir, leaving behind subtle changes in the tissues it had touched. Stronger muscle fibers. Denser bones. More resilient skin.
Not dramatic changes—he wasn't suddenly superhuman—but measurable improvements that would accumulate over time with repeated sessions.
Zhung opened his eyes and discovered he was drenched in sweat, his black hanfu clinging to his skin. His entire body ached with residual pain, but beneath the pain he felt something else: strength. Real, tangible strength that hadn't been there an hour ago.
He tested it cautiously, making a fist and feeling the increased density of his hand, the way his fingers responded with slightly more speed and precision than before.
*It works,* he thought with cold satisfaction. *Crude, painful, inefficient—but it works. I can use even corrupted essence to strengthen my body, to make myself more dangerous even without access to proper cultivation techniques.*
Then he turned his attention back to his Aperture and felt a hollow emptiness where the reservoir of essence had been.
*Depleted. Completely drained.*
He'd used everything stored in his Aperture for that single body-tempering session, and now he was back to being essentially a mortal with an empty spiritual organ.
*I'll need to wait for it to refill naturally,* he calculated. *The Aperture generates a small amount of essence on its own by refining ambient spiritual energy, but it's slow. With my current capacity and the quality of essence I'm working with, it should take about a week to fill completely.*
*If my Aperture was formed somewhere other than my heart—if it was in my head or spine or dantian like in traditional cultivation—it would take two and a half weeks for a full refill. The heart-based Aperture has advantages in speed of regeneration, even if it's not the most stable location.*
*Still, a week without access to any cultivation abilities. A week of being vulnerable. I'll need to be careful.*
---
Three days passed like wind in a blink—each day filled with preparation, planning, and the slow recovery of his body from the body-tempering session.
On the morning of the third day, Zhung made his way to the blacksmith he'd commissioned days earlier. He was now wearing his wolf pelt over his black hanfu, the white fur a striking contrast against the dark fabric. His eyes were tired and shadowed from insufficient sleep, but his gaze remained sharp and focused.
The blacksmith—a burly man with burn scars covering his forearms and a permanent squint from years of staring at forge fires—looked up as Zhung entered.
"Ah, the Thousand Rivers Merchant Guild commission," he said, wiping his hands on a leather apron. "I've got it ready. Come see."
He led Zhung to a workbench where a sword lay wrapped in oiled cloth.
Zhung unwrapped it carefully and examined the weapon with a critical eye.
It was a jian—a straight, double-edged Chinese sword—approximately three feet in length. The blade was well-forged, showing the subtle patterns of folded steel that indicated quality craftsmanship. The edge was sharp enough to split a hair but not so thin as to be fragile. The guard was simple, functional, without unnecessary decoration. The grip was wrapped in black leather, worn smooth by the blacksmith's hands during the crafting process.
It wasn't a masterwork. It wasn't enchanted or made from rare materials. But it was solid, reliable, and perfectly suited to Zhung's current needs and abilities.
"Good work," Zhung said simply, his voice carrying genuine approval.
The blacksmith nodded, pleased. "The Merchant Guild paid upfront, as you said they would. If you need any adjustments or maintenance, bring it back within the month and I'll handle it without additional charge."
Zhung wrapped the sword again and secured it to his belt, feeling the reassuring weight against his hip. Then he bowed slightly to the blacksmith and left to complete his final preparations.
Back in his room, he gathered supplies into his traveling bundle: dried food that wouldn't spoil quickly, a waterskin filled from the well, a fire-starting kit with flint and steel, spare bandages and basic medical supplies, a small amount of money for unexpected expenses, and the bottle of poison Li Huang had given him.
He also packed the bone shards from the Albino Mountain Wolf, wrapped carefully in cloth to prevent them from cutting through his pack. Those might prove useful in ways he couldn't yet predict.
Everything was ready. Everything was prepared as thoroughly as his limited resources allowed.
A servant knocked on his door with a message: "Mister Zhung, Master Li Huang requires your presence immediately."
Zhung shouldered his pack, secured his new sword at his belt, and followed the servant to Li Huang's office one final time before departure.
The meeting was brief. Li Huang reviewed the plan once more, emphasizing the need for discretion and the consequences of failure. He handed over additional funds for travel expenses and a sealed letter that would serve as Zhung's identification if questioned by authorities.
"The cart is waiting at the east gate," Li Huang concluded. "You'll have companions for the journey—three others I've assigned to this task. Work with them or ignore them as you see fit, but ensure the job is completed. Understood?"
"Understood," Zhung replied flatly.
Li Huang waved him away with the same dismissive gesture he always used, and Zhung left without another word.
---
At the east gate of the Li family compound, a covered cart stood waiting. A single donkey was hitched to the front—sturdy and patient, the kind of beast that could travel long distances without complaint.
Zhung approached and looked at the figures already assembled.
Four people would make this journey together.
At the front, controlling the donkey by rope reins, sat a man wearing a straw hat that shadowed his face. A simple cloth mask covered the lower half of his features, leaving only his eyes visible—brown and tired, carrying the weight of someone who'd seen too much and learned to hide from the world. His posture suggested he wanted to disappear, to be forgotten, to pass through life without leaving traces.
Behind him in the covered area sat a man with a long black beard that nearly covered his entire neck, the hair so thick it seemed to have a life of its own. His short black hair swayed with the wind, and his eyes—when they glanced at Zhung—carried a calculating assessment. He was older, perhaps forty, with the bearing of someone who'd survived through strength and cunning in equal measure.
Beside him sat a young man with striking white hair cut short and golden eyes that seemed to analyze everything they saw. His pale skin had an almost corpse-like quality, as if he rarely saw sunlight or had some condition that drained color from his flesh. Despite his youth—perhaps twenty at most—he carried himself with the authority of a leader, his posture straight and his gaze direct.
*Three people,* Zhung thought with cold analysis. *Li Huang sent three additional operatives just to ensure one target is eliminated. This assignment must be more dangerous than he let on, or the target more important.*
He climbed into the cart and took a seat at the back, his long brown hair hanging loose around his face, his dark empty eyes looking at the three strangers without emotion or curiosity.
The white-haired young man with golden eyes studied him for a long moment, his analytical gaze taking in every detail—the wolf pelt, the new sword, the pack of supplies, the tired eyes that suggested insufficient sleep.
"You're Zhung," he said finally. It wasn't a question. "Li Huang mentioned you. Said you were... useful." The way he emphasized the word suggested he had his own opinions about what "useful" might mean in this context.
Zhung didn't respond, just met the golden eyes with his own dark, empty gaze.
The white-haired man seemed to take this as sufficient answer. "I'm the team leader for this assignment. You can call me Bai." He gestured to the bearded man. "That's Hu." Then to the masked driver. "And our driver prefers not to be named or addressed directly. You'll understand why if you're perceptive."
Again, Zhung offered no response. He simply waited, watching, analyzing.
Bai's golden eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to read something in Zhung's expressionless face. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"When necessary," Zhung replied, his voice flat.
"Good. I prefer operatives who know when silence is more valuable than words." Bai settled back against the cart's side. "We have three days to Xia Lu Town. During that time, we'll discuss the target, the approach, and contingencies. You'll follow my orders unless circumstances make that impossible. Clear?"
Zhung nodded once—not agreement, exactly, but acknowledgment that he'd heard.
The masked driver clicked his tongue and snapped the reins. The donkey began walking, pulling the cart forward with steady, patient steps.
As the Li family compound fell away behind them and the Western Frontier landscape opened up ahead—mountains in the distance, forests to either side, the road stretching toward uncertain destinations—Zhung allowed his eyes to close partway, appearing to rest while actually maintaining awareness of his surroundings.
*A leader who thinks he's in control. A veteran who's probably seen more combat than the rest of us combined. And a driver who's hiding something significant enough that he covers his face and refuses to be named.*
*This should be interesting.*
The bearded man—Hu—spoke for the first time, his voice rough like gravel: "The boy's too young. He'll be a liability."
"Li Huang wouldn't have sent him if he was useless," Bai replied without looking away from the road ahead. "And age means nothing. I've seen children kill trained warriors. What matters is capability and willingness."
"We'll see," Hu muttered, clearly unconvinced.
The masked driver said nothing, his attention seemingly focused entirely on guiding the donkey, but Zhung caught the slight tension in his shoulders that suggested he was listening carefully to every word.
*Three days to Xia Lu Town,* Zhung thought, settling into the rhythmic sway of the cart. *Three days to understand these people, to identify their strengths and weaknesses, to determine who might be an ally and who's simply waiting for an opportunity to eliminate competition.*
*Three days before I kill someone on Li Huang's orders and become exactly what he wants me to be—a weapon without conscience, a tool without hesitation.*
*Or three days to find another path. Another option. Another way to survive this without losing what little remains of my humanity.*
The cart rolled on, carrying four people toward violence and consequences, while behind them a merchant smiled in his expensive office and congratulated himself on how easily pieces could be moved across the board when you controlled the game.
---
**End of Chapter 17**