The North Gate of Qingzhou City loomed like an iron tombstone against the weeping black sky.
Cast from tens of thousands of pounds of solid black iron, the portcullis had originally been constructed centuries ago to withstand the desperate charges of wilderness beasts. Tonight, however, its massive, spiked lower edge was lowered completely to the cobblestone floor, forming the final, unyielding barrier locking away the only path to survival for three thousand mortals.
Atop the high battlements, two thousand city guards stood arrayed in tight formation. They held heavy "God-Slayer" crossbows, their arms rigid with tension as a dense thicket of arrowheads flickered with a ghostly, poison-blue light in the torrential rain.
Commander Zhao Meng stood at the center of the battlements. His right hand, resting tightly on the hilt of his broadsword, trembled so violently that the steel scabbard rattled against his leg armor.
He watched the man approach.
Through the curtain of rain, Gu Yao dragged his six-hundred-pound shattered hammer across the stone street. With every heavy step he took, a deep, crimson handprint or footprint was left upon the wet tiles, quickly washed into pink swirls by the storm. Beneath his tattered black cloak, his spine—even if twisted and bleeding from the two partially extracted Immortal-Locking Nails—radiated a grandeur so absolute that it made the very firmament seem small.
Behind Gu Yao, three thousand mortals followed in a quiet, ragged tide. They held no weapons, but the silence of their march was heavier than the roar of the thunderstorm above.
"Gu... Gu Yao!" Zhao Meng shouted, his voice fracturing into a high, shrill pitch as it carried over the wind. "Stop right there! You cannot escape! The Immortal Envoys have already sent a distress signal to the inner mountain! The main force of the Cloud-Soothed Sect will descend within half an hour! Stop now, and I... I will plead with the Elders to spare your life!"
Gu Yao stopped his advance fifty paces from the iron gate.
He slowly looked up at the battlements. His face was drenched in a mixture of rainwater, forge-soot, and dark blood, but beneath his unkempt white hair, a smile touched his lips—a smile that was profoundly weary, yet scathingly mocking.
"Commander Zhao," Gu Yao’s voice rasped, carrying through the storm with a low, heavy vibration that hit every soldier’s chest like a drum. "You live in the south district of the city, near the old grain market. You have an eight-year-old son who likes to run around the smithy, don't you?"
Zhao Meng looked as if he had been struck by lightning. His face turned deathly pale beneath his iron visor. "What... what does my son have to do with this?"
"And the two thousand brothers standing behind you..." Gu Yao continued, his grey eyes sweeping across the rows of armed guards atop the wall. "...whose family doesn't have parents? Whose house doesn't have a wife, a sister, or a child? An hour ago, back at the plaza, when Elder Mo Xiu activated the Blood-Refining Array, your parents, your wives, and your neighbors were among those three thousand living sacrifices pinned to the mud."
A sudden, deathly silence fell over the battlements. The sound of the howling wind seemed to fade, replaced only by the heavy breathing of two thousand soldiers.
Gu Yao pointed a thick, calloused finger up at the wall.
"It is the Immortal Sect that wishes to drain their marrow to build their floating palaces," Gu Yao’s voice grew louder, cutting through the rain like a blade. "And you... you stand up there with your bows drawn, guarding the gate for them? You hold the blades that keep your own families inside the slaughterhouse?"
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The words were like a white-hot iron, driven directly into the hearts of the two thousand city guards.
On the battlements, a young soldier’s arms began to shake uncontrollably. He looked down at the crowd behind Gu Yao, and through the rain, he caught sight of an old man with a bandaged collarbone—his own father, who had just escaped the array, staring up at him with tear-filled, disbelieving eyes.
Clatter.
The young soldier’s crossbow dipped three inches. Then, across the entire length of the wall, hundreds of crossbows lowered simultaneously as the men holding them faced the horror of what they were defending.
"Lies! All lies!" Zhao Meng screamed, his eyes wild as he drew his broadsword with a metallic shriek. "The Sect protects our city! The Sect guarantees our peace! Without the Immortals, the wilderness beasts would devour us all!"
"Peace?"
Gu Yao let out a short, harsh laugh. He raised Severed Head with a single hand, pointing the heavy, broken iron head straight toward the high, floating shadows of the celestial islands soaring above the clouds in the distance.
"That kind of 'peace' bought with the marrow of your kin, the blood of your children, and the dignity of your ancestors—do you want it, Zhao Meng? Or do the brothers standing behind you want it?"
Zhao Meng opened his mouth to shout another command, but no sound came out. He looked back at his men. Every single guard had lowered their weapon. Their faces were masks of shame, confusion, and a rising, dangerous anger.
Gu Yao took a deep, rattling breath. He could feel the two partially extracted nails in his upper back tearing frantically at his muscles and nerves as his body tried to heal around the steel spikes. His time in the mortal realm was ticking down with every heartbeat.
He turned his head slightly toward the woman standing close behind him.
"Shen Yi, stay close," Gu Yao whispered.
"I’m right here, A-Yao," she replied softly, her hand lightly touching the back of his waist.
Gu Yao spat a glob of dark blood onto the stone tiles and took a sudden, violent step forward. He did not charge at the battlements or the soldiers atop the wall. Instead, he planted his boots directly before the three-foot-thick black iron gate.
He raised Severed Head high over his right shoulder. The dark-red blood-qi surging from his unsealed meridians funneled into the iron hammer, making the rusted metal glow with a dull, volcanic heat.
"OPEN... FOR ME!!!"
Gu Yao delivered the most powerful, unreserved strike since the removal of the second nail, slamming the six-hundred-pound hammer straight into the center of the ten-thousand-pound portcullis.
BOOM—!!!!!!
An explosion loud enough to shatter every glass window in Qingzhou City erupted at the gate.
The shockwave generated in that single microsecond was so intense that the falling rain within fifty feet was instantly vaporized into a cloud of white steam. The ten-thousand-pound black iron portcullis, designed to withstand the assault of siege engines, groaned in structural agony.
Under the raw, concentrated kinetic force, the three-foot-thick iron plate buckled, twisted, and then—with a horrific shriek of tearing metal—was ripped entirely from its stone housings!
CRASH!
The massive iron gate was sent flying outward through the air like a piece of tin, crashing onto the muddy official road outside the city and kicking up a shroud of dirt and steam that rose thirty feet high.
The path out of Qingzhou City was open.
Gu Yao rested the head of his hammer on the ground, leaning his chest against the handle as he turned around within the drifting cloud of steam to face the three thousand stunned mortals behind him. His white hair was matted with sweat and blood, but his eyes were bright as stars.
"The path is open," Gu Yao said, his voice carrying clearly into the ears of every person present. "Those who wish to live like human beings, follow me. Those who wish to stay and be harvested as dregs... remain here."
He reached out his left hand, taking Shen Yi’s cold fingers into his own, and without looking back, became the first person to step out through the shattered doorway of Qingzhou City.
Behind him, there was a brief, breathless moment of hesitation.
Then, a young boy stepped forward. Then an old woman. Then ten, then a hundred, and finally, three thousand mortals poured through the broken gate like a dammed river bursting its banks. They walked silently, their heads held high, following that tall, slouched, and bleeding spine onto the cursed path... the Ninety-Seven Mile Blood Road.
Atop the battlements, Commander Zhao Meng stood paralyzed. He watched his neighbors, his friends, and the families of his men marching out into the dark wilderness under the guidance of a blacksmith.
Slowly, Zhao Meng’s hand loosened its grip on his broadsword. The steel weapon fell to the stone floor with a dull clatter.
He reached up, unbuckled his heavy iron helmet, and threw it off the battlements, watching it plunge into the mud below.
"I... am done guarding," Zhao Meng whispered to the empty air. He turned his back on the floating celestial islands above. "I am done guarding the gate for demons."