The sky above the Ten Thousand Withered Ridges had been grey for days, a dead, featureless expanse that offered no comfort and no hope. It was the kind of sky that made you forget the sun had ever existed, that made you believe the world had always been this way and always would be.
That sky split open like a wound.
Two streaks of light tore through the clouds, one brilliant emerald, the other deep amethyst. They moved with a speed that defied the dead air of the Spirit-Void Land, trailing streams of shimmering energy that should not have been possible in a place where spiritual power withered and died. The cultivators who rode those beams of light were not ordinary. They had brought their own power with them, bottled and concentrated, burning through their reserves with the reckless abandon of men who had been sent to kill and did not expect to return.
The first figure was tall and thin, with sharp features and hair the colour of tarnished silver. He wore robes of emerald silk that shimmered with a cold, reptilian light, and his eyes were the same shade of green—pale and hard, like chips of jade. A long sword hung at his hip, its blade etched with flowing runes that pulsed with a sickly glow.
The second figure was shorter and broader, with a face that might have been handsome if it hadn't been twisted into a permanent sneer. His robes were deep purple, almost black, and his hands were wrapped in tight leather gloves that glowed faintly with the same amethyst light. At his waist, he carried two short blades, their edges serrated and dripping with a viscous, dark liquid.
They descended to the canyon floor, their feet touching the stone with a lightness that belied their power. The refugees scattered, pressing themselves against the walls, their faces pale with terror. They had seen cultivators before. They had seen what cultivators could do. But these two were different. These two had come to kill.
The first figure—the one in emerald—surveyed the camp with a cold, dispassionate gaze. His eyes swept over the refugees as if they were furniture, objects to be moved or broken as the mood took him.
"Wu Li's body is not here," he said. His voice was soft and precise, the voice of a man who had never raised it in anger because he had never needed to. "He failed."
The second figure snorted. "Wu Li was always weak. Too much sentiment. Too much doubt." He spat on the ground, the dark liquid sizzling where it touched the stone. "We're not here to mourn him. We're here to finish the job."
The emerald figure nodded slowly. "Agreed. But we have a complication." He gestured toward the canyon entrance, where a white-haired figure was emerging from the shadows. "He's still alive."
Gu Yao walked out of the darkness, his hammer dragging behind him. He moved slowly, his stone leg scraping against the stone, but his eyes were clear and cold. He had seen the two figures descend. He had felt their power, even here, in this dead land where power was supposed to wither. They had brought their own reserves, bottled and concentrated, burning through them with the reckless abandon of men who did not expect to need them again.
"Which ones are you?" he asked. His voice was calm, almost conversational. "I've been killing so many of you, I've lost track."
The emerald figure smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. "I am Qing Xuan, the Azure Star. My companion is Zi Ming, the Violet Star. We are the Heavenly Twins. We are the ones who hunt the hunters."
"You're the ones who kill the ones who kill the ones who hunt," Gu Yao said. "Is that right?"
The smile didn't waver. "Something like that."
Zi Ming stepped forward, his hand dropping to the hilt of one of his short blades. "Enough talk. He's just a cripple with a rusty hammer." He drew the blade, the edge catching the grey light. "I'll take his head while you find the woman."
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Gu Yao said. "The last man who tried that ended up as dust on the wind."
Zi Ming lunged.
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He was fast. Faster than Wu Li. His movements were fluid and precise, the movements of a man who had spent decades perfecting the art of killing. His blade came up in a short, brutal arc aimed at Gu Yao's throat.
Gu Yao didn't block. He couldn't. Instead, he dropped to one knee, the movement awkward and jarring, and let the blade pass harmlessly over his head. His hammer came up in a tight arc, aimed at Zi Ming's midsection. The blow connected, the iron head slamming into the man's ribs with the force of a falling stone.
Zi Ming staggered back, his face pale. He had not expected the strike to land. He had not expected the hammer to be so heavy.
"Six hundred pounds of spite," Gu Yao said. "I told you."
Zi Ming's face twisted into something ugly. He lunged again, his blades flashing. This time, Gu Yao was ready. He shifted his weight onto his stone leg, using it as an anchor, and let the hammer do the work.
But Qing Xuan had not been idle. While Zi Ming kept Gu Yao occupied, he had been circling, his eyes fixed on the refugees clustered against the canyon walls. His hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, and his smile widened.
"I wonder," he said, "if you'll be so quick to defend yourself when your people are dying."
He drew the sword. Emerald light flared along its edge, bright enough to make the refugees flinch. He raised it high, the blade aimed at the huddled mass of humanity.
Gu Yao moved. He had been holding back, conserving his strength, waiting for the right moment. But there was no right moment. There was only now.
He threw himself into the path of the blade, his hammer raised, his body a shield between Qing Xuan and the refugees. The emerald blade came down, and Gu Yao caught it with the flat of the hammer.
The impact was shattering.
Gu Yao felt it in his arms, in his shoulders, in the fifth nail that pulsed in his spine. The force of the blow drove him to his knees, his stone leg cracking against the stone. But he held. He held the blade, and he pushed back.
"You care for them," Qing Xuan said, his voice dripping with contempt. "You care for these cattle. These worthless pieces of meat."
"They're not worthless," Gu Yao said. "And they're not meat. They're people."
He drove the hammer forward, forcing Qing Xuan to retreat. Then he turned, his eyes blazing, his hammer raised.
The third nail in his spine was vibrating now, a deep, resonant hum that travelled up through his bones and settled behind his eyes. It was loosening. It was giving way. He could feel the lock beginning to break, the ancient seal beginning to crack.
"Since you think they're so worthless," he said, "let me show you what they're worth."
He raised the hammer. The iron head was glowing now, a deep, dark red that pulsed with the rhythm of his heartbeat. The third nail was almost gone. He could feel it, the last threads of the seal, ready to snap.
He brought the hammer down.
The blow caught Zi Ming in the chest, driving him back against the canyon wall. The man's robes shredded, his bones cracked, and he slumped to the ground, his eyes wide and staring at nothing.
One down. One to go.
Gu Yao turned to face Qing Xuan. The third nail in his spine gave way with a sound like breaking glass, and the world opened up around him. He could see everything. The grains of sand on the canyon floor. The faint shimmer of spiritual energy clinging to Qing Xuan's robes. The heartbeat of every refugee, a thousand tiny drums, a thousand tiny fears.
He could see everything, and he understood.
"This is what you were afraid of," he said. "This is why you locked me away."
Qing Xuan's face was pale. He had seen the transformation. He had felt the shift in power. He was not a stupid man. He knew what was coming.
"You don't understand," he said. "You don't understand what you are. What you were meant to be."
"I understand," Gu Yao said. "I'm the lock. The chain that holds the prison closed. But I'm also the key."
He raised the hammer. The iron head was glowing now, dark and red and hungry.
Qing Xuan lunged.
It was a desperate move, a final attempt to kill the monster in front of him. But he was too slow. He had always been too slow. Gu Yao stepped past the strike, his stone leg scraping against the stone, and brought the hammer down in a short, brutal arc.
The blow caught Qing Xuan in the chest, and the man crumpled to the ground, his body broken, his spirit gone.
Gu Yao stood over the bodies, his chest heaving, his arms trembling. The hammer was heavy in his hands, heavier than it had ever been. He could feel the power flowing through it, the power of the Injustice Qi that he had been suppressing for fifty years.
The world was sharper now. Brighter. He could see the refugees huddled against the canyon walls, their faces pale, their eyes wide. He could see Xiao Liu, his jaw clenched, his fists tight. He could see Shen Yi, her dark eyes watching him with something that might have been fear.
"I'm still me," he said. "I'm still the same person."
No one answered.
He turned away from the bodies and walked back toward the fire. His stone leg scraped against the stone, the sound dry and hollow. He could feel the third nail gaping in his spine, a raw, bleeding wound that would never fully heal.
"Brother Gu." Xiao Liu's voice was low and uncertain. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," he said. "But we need to move. There will be more. There are always more."