High above the sea of clouds, where the suffocating stench of mortality could never reach, the grand council hall of the Cloud-Soothed Sect stood enveloped in an unnatural, bone-chilling silence.
Intricate banners of embroidered cyan silk hung motionlessly from the lofty jade pillars. The ambient spiritual energy, usually flowing like gentle streams of liquid light, had completely frozen under the weight of a terrifying, invisible aura.
Elder Mo Xiu knelt upon the cold white jade floor at the center of the hall. His left sleeve hung limply, empty and stained with dried, dark-red blood. His face was ashen, lines of agony etched deep into his skin—a permanent reminder of the spatial backlash he had suffered when the Blood-Refining Array was pulverized. Beside him stood First Seat Lei Zhen of the Disciplinary Hall, clutching his chest, his purple robes scorched and frayed from his defeat at the Watershed pass.
At the highest throne of the hall sat Sect Master Qing Yangzi.
He did not radiate blinding light, nor did he unleash roaring thunder. He appeared as an elderly man dressed in simple, pale robes, his long white beard trailing down to his waist. Yet, his hollow, ancient eyes seemed to hold the cold, indifferent movement of entire constellations.
Upon the polished armrest before him lay a small, jagged fragment of black, rusted iron—a shattered piece of an Immortal-Locking Nail, retrieved from the smoking ruins of Qingzhou Plaza.
Qing Yangzi extended a single, translucent finger and gently tapped the shard.
Snap.
Without a sound, without a spark of energy, the indestructible cosmic iron crumbled into a pile of fine, gray dust that drifted silently to the floor.
"Seven nails locking the spine, yet a crippled mortal managed to snap two of them," Qing Yangzi spoke softly. His voice was as flat and colorless as stagnant water, yet every Golden Core Elder standing beneath the dais felt their knees tremble, lowering their heads in deep terror.
"Sect Master," Lei Zhen stepped forward, his voice tight with suppressed humiliation and pain, "that Gu Yao is an anomaly born fifty years ago. A strange, unnatural force resides within his physical frame—an unyielding, rebellious aura tied to the worldly grievances of the mortals below. If he is allowed to roam free, the order we have built will be imperiled."
"Rebellious aura?" Qing Yangzi let out a soft, detached sigh that sounded like the rustling of dead leaves. "It is merely the stubbornness of weeds. The exhaustion of spiritual qi in this world is the absolute Will of Heaven. For ten thousand years, the strong have ascended by harvesting the weak. It is the natural law. Yet Gu Yao seeks to pave a path for those insects. If that path remains open, the very foundation of our Sect will crumble."
Qing Yangzi slowly rose from his throne. His gaze seemed to pierce straight through the floating clouds, through thousands of miles of wilderness, locking firmly onto the coordinate of Blackstone Town.
"Issue the Heaven-Pole Crimson Warrant," Qing Yangzi commanded, his words dropping like heavy iron weights upon the hall. "Announce it to every corner of the Middle Three Provinces, to every mercenary, rogue cultivator, and shadow guild."
He raised three fingers.
"Whoever brings the white-haired head of Gu Yao to the mountain gate shall be granted three Sky-Patching Pills—allowing any Foundation Establishment cultivator to break through to the Golden Core realm without condition. They shall be granted the title of Inner Elder and enjoy a century of our Sect’s protection."
A collective gasp echoed through the council hall. Three Sky-Patching Pills were divine treasures capable of altering the power structure of entire kingdoms!
"And whoever captures the woman, Shen Yi, alive..." Qing Yangzi’s eyes flickered with a dark, ruthless glint, "...shall be rewarded beyond measure. She shall be brought directly to my private peak and consecrated as the Sect's supreme Spiritual Maiden."
The Elders exchanged subtle, horrified glances. Everyone understood what a "Spiritual Maiden" meant in the Sect Master's private terminology—she was to be the ultimate living furnace, a vessel containing the purest, unpolluted primal essence, destined to be drained down to her very marrow to extend the Sect Master's longevity.
"Furthermore," Qing Yangzi added, his tone utterly devoid of warmth, "send word to the kings of the Hundred Nations in the Middle Three Provinces. Any realm through which Gu Yao passes that fails to execute him shall have their annual Blood Tax doubled next year. If they refuse... we shall harvest their royal lineages down to the last infant."
Meanwhile, three hundred miles away, the dead silence of Blackstone Town was shattered by the frantic, echoing clatter of iron-hoofed steeds.
Inside the half-collapsed mud shack, Gu Yao’s eyes snapped open.
His massive, trembling hand reflexively gripped the cloth-wrapped handle of Severed Head resting beside his pallet. Though his body was hollowed out, his meridians shattered, and his blood-qi frozen, the survival instincts forged through a hundred battles alerted him instantly to the sudden, suffocating atmosphere outside.
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The air thick with sulfur and mud had suddenly turned sweet with the metallic tang of raw, unrestrained greed.
"They have arrived," Gu Yao whispered, his voice barely audible above the whistling mountain wind.
It was not the disciplined armor-clad armies of the Immortal Sects, nor the high-minded disciples riding flying swords. It was something far more dangerous—a pack of wild, hungry hounds blinded by the glittering promise of salvation.
Outside the shack, the pitch-black night was illuminated by the flickering, sickly orange glare of dozens of makeshift torches.
The starving refugees of Blackstone Town—men who had huddled together in fear hours before—were now forming a tight, feral circle around the small mud hut. They held rusted wood-choppers, notched iron spades, sharpening files, and heavy cobblestones. Their faces were sunken, their clothes torn, but their hollow eyes glowed with a terrifying, green luminosity.
They were not beasts; they were human beings who had been starved, broken, and driven insane by the lies of the heavens.
"In there! That's the blacksmith's hole!"
A burly, stooped man named Zhang Iron-Legs stepped out from the crowd. He had once been the strongest laborer in the local iron mines, a man who could haul three hundred pounds of ore on his back without pausing for breath. Now, his waist was bent double with hunger, saliva dribbling uncontrollably from his cracked, dry lips. He clutched a heavy, rusted butcher's cleaver in his right hand, his knuckles stark white.
"Hand over the woman!" Zhang Iron-Legs screamed toward the sealed wooden door, his voice cracking with hysterical fervor. "Hand over the cripple’s head! The Immortal Envoys sent word through the scouts! His head is worth a year’s grain for the entire town! Three years of tax exemption! If he dies, we all live!"
Behind him, dozens of desperate refugees began to chant in a ragged, terrifying rhythm, stepping closer and closer, their torches casting wild, twisting shadows against the mud walls.
"Give us the head! Give us the grain!"
Inside the shack, Gu Yao looked up at Shen Yi, who was quietly re-tying the cloth wrap around her waist.
"Yi-er..." Gu Yao rasped softly, his bloodshot eyes searching her pale, calm face. "...are you afraid?"
Shen Yi adjusted the hem of her faded tunic. She turned around and reached into the dying hearth, pulling out a thick, hardwood stick whose tip was glowing with a fierce, crimson ember. The faint firelight illuminated her clear, tranquil eyes, casting a soft glow over her delicate features.
"I am only afraid..." she said softly, her voice remarkably steady, "...that the tea will grow cold."
Without another word, Shen Yi turned and walked straight toward the thin, creaking wooden door.
Gu Yao watched her back, a sudden, explosive surge of unyielding fury bursting forth from the depths of his chest. He forced his broken, stone-like limbs to obey, leaning heavily upon the handle of Severed Head, forcing his slouched body to stand upright once more. His snowy-white hair whipped around his shoulders in the dark drafts of the room.
"The Immortal Sects... want my head?"
Gu Yao let out a low, gravelly laugh that sounded like dry stones grinding together in a tomb. He raised his lead boot and kicked the wooden door wide open.
BANG!
The rotten door splintered, crashing onto the frozen dirt outside.
Shen Yi stepped out first, holding the burning stick aloft. The wind caught her dark hair, whipping it across her pale forehead. Her clear, icy gaze swept across the crowd of wild, armed men, containing a quiet, terrifying dignity that forced the front row of refugees to halt their advance involuntarily.
"Zhang Iron-Legs," Shen Yi spoke, her voice light yet cutting through the howling wind like a silver blade. "Three months ago, when your youngest son was dying of the lung-rot, my husband spent half the night melting scrap iron to forge a hand-pump for your well, trading it for half a bucket of clean water to save your child's life. Tonight, you bring a cleaver to harvest his head?"
Zhang Iron-Legs froze. His stooped frame rigidified, a flicker of deep shame and guilt flashing across his sunken face. But in less than a heartbeat, that fragile thread of humanity was swallowed whole by the roaring furnace of absolute desperation.
"Don't talk to me about three months ago!" Zhang Iron-Legs roared, his face contorting into a grotesque mask of agony and rage. "Three months ago there was still water in the well! Now there is only ash! The Immortals have spoken! If Smith Gu dies, we get grain! If he lives, we all turn into dry corpses in this ditch! He is one man—why shouldn't his death feed three thousand?!"
"So," Shen Yi said softly, stepping forward until the tip of her burning stick was inches from his chest, "you have chosen to let him die?"
"A-Yao... step back."
A heavy, gravelly voice, carrying the terrifying weight of an ancient abyss, echoed from the darkness behind her.
Gu Yao dragged his heavy, six-hundred-pound hammer across the threshold.
His white hair flew wildly in the cold mountain draft. Across his bare, scarred back, the seven purple-black scar-mounds were pulsing with a sinister, sickly violet light. Though his physical frame was so weak he could barely maintain his footing, the sheer, crushing battle-intent forged along the ninety-seven miles of blood radiated from his silhouette like an invisible mountain pressing down upon the alley.
"You want my life?"
Gu Yao paused, his bloodshot grey pupils sweeping across the terrified, hungry faces of the crowd.
He raised his calloused left hand and tapped his own thick, scarred neck.
"The blade is right here," Gu Yao rasped, his voice echoing through the silent, ruin-lined street. "Who strikes first?"
The entire alley fell into a dead, suffocating silence.
In a world broken and drained by the heavens, mortals killed mortals for survival every single day. Yet, as these starving people stared into the eyes of the white-haired man who had shattered the city gate, broken the lightning, and bled to give them a single chance at freedom, the primal guilt buried deep within their souls became an impassable wall.
"Dammit! What are you all staring at?!" Zhang Iron-Legs shrieked, tears of terror and rage streaming down his hollow cheeks. "He's a cripple! He's dying! Attack together!"
With a feral, animalistic roar, Zhang Iron-Legs raised his rusted butcher's cleaver with both hands, lunging forward with all his strength straight at Gu Yao’s throat!
Gu Yao did not raise his hammer. He did not draw upon his broken meridians. He knew these men were merely the burnt ash left behind by a cruel era; using Severed Head against them would be an insult to the steel.
He simply waited until the cleaver was inches from his face, and then, with a slow, heavy sigh, he slammed his lead foot down into the earth.
BOOM!