The granary square was a study in contrasts—a stage where the absurd and the inevitable had collided in the dust and fading light.
On one side, the remnants of the Swift Cavalry Battalion stood in loose, disordered clusters, their shields dented, their spears lowered, their faces a mixture of shame and relief. They had been defeated, and they knew it. They had thrown everything they had at a single, broken man, and he had walked through them like a scythe through dry wheat. Now they stood in the shadows of the side alleys, watching the impossible unfold before them, too exhausted to fight and too proud to flee.
On the other side, the white-haired man stood alone before the massive granary doors, his back to the grain, his hammer planted in the earth like a monument to defiance. His robes were torn and bloodied, his right leg a pillar of cold grey stone, and his breathing was a ragged, wet rasp that spoke of a body pushed far beyond its limits. But his eyes were still burning, still fixed on the soldiers with a cold, unyielding intensity that made them shrink back into the shadows.
"Gu-ge!"
The voice came from beyond the ruined gate. It was young, high, and cracked with emotion. Xiao Liu burst through the dust cloud at the head of a ragged tide of humanity—a flood of three thousand refugees, their clothes torn, their faces gaunt, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and desperate, unquenchable hope.
They poured through the shattered gate like water through a broken dam, their footsteps echoing against the stone walls of the alley. Some of them were carrying children on their backs. Some were supporting the elderly, their arms linked together in chains of human solidarity. Some were simply running—running because they had been running for so long that they had forgotten how to stop.
"Brother Gu!" Xiao Liu reached him first, his face streaked with dust and tears. He looked at the granary doors, at the grain beyond, and his voice cracked again. "We made it. We actually made it."
Gu Yao did not smile. He could not. The muscles in his face had gone cold and stiff, and the effort of standing upright was consuming every shred of his remaining energy. But his eyes softened, just a fraction, as he looked at the boy.
"Don't stop yet," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "There's work to do."
He turned and raised the Severed Head hammer. With a single, brutal swing, he drove the iron head into the granary doors.
The doors did not shatter—they were too thick, too solid for that. But the impact sent a shockwave through the wood, splintering the iron hinges and tearing the heavy lock from its moorings. The doors groaned, tilted, and then fell inward with a sound like thunder, revealing the mountains of grain within.
The refugees stopped. They stood frozen at the threshold, their eyes wide, their mouths open. For a long, terrible moment, no one moved.
Then someone laughed.
It was a sound of pure, unadulterated joy—a sound that none of them had heard themselves make in years. It was followed by another, and another, until the laughter became a ragged, tear-filled chorus of disbelief.
"Grain," someone whispered. "Real grain."
It was more than grain. It was life. It was the difference between starving to death in the wilderness and surviving another winter. It was the promise that they had not walked the Ninety-Seven Mile Blood Road for nothing.
"Don't just stand there!" Xiao Liu shouted, his voice cracking with authority. "Move! Get it out of there! Every bag, every handful—everything!"
The refugees surged forward. They swarmed into the granary like ants into a fallen hive, their hands reaching for the golden mountains of wheat and barley. Some of them used their shirts as makeshift sacks. Others filled their arms, their hands, their mouths with the precious grain. They laughed and cried and shouted and prayed, their voices a chaotic symphony of relief and desperation.
Shen Yi appeared at Gu Yao's side. Her face was pale, her robes torn, her hair wild and tangled. She had been with the refugees the entire way, organizing them, encouraging them, making sure that the elderly and the children were carried when they could not walk. Now she looked at the granary, at the chaos of joyful thievery, and then at Gu Yao.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"No," he said honestly. "But I will be."
She did not argue. She simply placed her hand on his arm and looked out at the refugees. "We need to be fast. There are more soldiers coming. And the Sects—they know where we are now."
"I know." Gu Yao's gaze shifted to the far end of the square, where the shadows were growing longer and darker. "But I don't think the soldiers are the real threat."
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Shen Yi followed his gaze. Her eyes, sharpened by the Mother Rhyme, saw what his eyes saw: a flicker of movement in the deep shadows of the granary's far corner. Something was there. Something old and cold and hungry.
The refugees were still flooding into the granary. They were so intent on the grain that they did not see the shadows. They did not see the three figures that had been waiting in the darkness since long before they arrived.
They were not guards. They were not soldiers.
They were corpses.
Three bodies, desiccated and leathery, their skin stretched tight over bones that had been reinforced with spirit-iron. Their eyes were sunken pits of darkness, and their hands—their hands were claws, three inches long and black as obsidian. They wore the tattered remains of grey-brown robes, the uniforms of cultivators who had once served the Sect, but the flesh beneath the robes was no longer alive.
They were "Corpse Servants"—soldiers who had been drained of their souls and turned into puppets of the Sect, their bodies preserved and enhanced to serve as eternal guardians. They felt no pain, no fear, no hesitation. They only obeyed.
"Gu Yao," the voice came from behind the soldiers—high and thin and trembling with a desperate, venomous spite. "You thought you had won. You thought you could just walk in here and take what you wanted."
The soldiers parted, revealing the figure of Wei Wuming. The Duke's brother had emerged from the shadows of the inner city, his robes torn and his face streaked with dust. But his eyes were bright with a cold, cruel malice.
"Those are not guards," he said, gesturing toward the three figures in the darkness. "They are my trump card. Sect-forged, painless, and utterly unstoppable. They have the physical strength of a Golden Core cultivator and the obedience of a well-trained dog. And they have been waiting for you."
Gu Yao did not look at Wei Wuming. His eyes were fixed on the three figures, his hand tightening around the handle of the Severed Head hammer.
"I know what they are," he said. "I saw them in Qingzhou. The Sects call them 'Corpse Servants.' You call them a trump card. I call them what they really are—an insult to the dead."
"Call them what you like," Wei Wuming sneered, his voice rising with a desperate, hysterical edge. "They will still tear you apart."
The three figures began to move. It was not walking—it was gliding, their feet barely touching the ground. Their eyes were fixed on Gu Yao, their claws extended, their mouths opening in silent, hungry screams.
"Get back!" Gu Yao shouted, pushing Shen Yi behind him.
She did not argue. She retreated, pulling Xiao Liu with her, her eyes never leaving the approaching figures.
Gu Yao planted his feet, his broken leg scraping against the stone. He could feel the fifth nail in his spine vibrating with a cold, familiar pain, and he knew that his body was failing. But he also knew that he could not fail now. Not with the refugees behind him. Not with Shen Yi watching.
The first Corpse Servant lunged.
Its claws aimed for his throat, moving with a speed that should have been impossible for a dead thing. Gu Yao did not try to block. He stepped into the attack, deflecting the claw with the flat of his hammer and driving his shoulder into the creature's chest.
The impact was like hitting a wall. The Corpse Servant barely moved, its bones reinforced by spirit-iron, its body as dense as forged steel. But Gu Yao had not expected to hurt it. He had only expected to buy time.
He rolled to the side, coming up on one knee, the hammer swinging in a low arc that connected with the second creature's knees.
The sound was a sickening crunch of splintering bone, but the Corpse Servant did not fall. It simply stumbled, righted itself, and lunged again.
Gu Yao was still moving, still fighting, still refusing to fall. But he could feel his strength draining away, each movement slower than the last, each breath shorter than the one before.
He had faced armies, cultivators, and the wrath of the heavens themselves. But this—this was something different. These creatures were not alive. They had no fear, no hesitation, no weakness.
They would not stop until they were in pieces.
And Gu Yao was running out of pieces to give them.
The third Corpse Servant lunged from behind, its claws aiming for his spine. Gu Yao felt the wind of its passage and twisted, raising his hammer to block—
—and then the world exploded.
A blinding, golden light erupted from behind him, washing over the square like a wave of liquid fire. The three Corpse Servants recoiled, their claws raised to shield their empty eyes, their bodies steaming as the golden light scorched their dead flesh.
Gu Yao turned.
Shen Yi was standing in the center of the square, her hands raised, her body bathed in a brilliant, radiant aura. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and the golden light was pouring from her chest in a steady, pulsing wave.
It was not the Mother Rhyme. It was something else. Something deeper, older, and far more powerful.
"Don't look at me," she said, her voice steady and calm. "Keep moving. I can hold them."
Gu Yao did not argue. He did not ask questions. He simply moved forward, his hammer raised, his body screaming in protest with every step.
The Corpse Servants were distracted by the golden light. They were writhing, their movements frantic and uncoordinated. They were vulnerable.
Gu Yao swung his hammer with all his remaining strength, the iron head connecting with the nearest creature's skull. The impact was like a bell ringing in a tomb, echoing through the square and sending the soldiers staggering back.
The Corpse Servant collapsed, its head caved in, its body crumbling into dust.
Two remained.
Gu Yao turned, raising his hammer again—
—and the world went silent.
The golden light faded, and the darkness rushed back in. Shen Yi collapsed, her body crumpling to the ground, the aura gone.
But she had bought him time.
Gu Yao stood over her, his hammer raised, his eyes fixed on the two remaining figures. He did not know what she had done, or how she had done it. But he knew that he could not let it be in vain.
"Stay behind me," he said, though she could not hear him. "I'm not done yet."
And he began to fight again.