The orphanage courtyard was eerily quiet as Yao Qin and Han Wei stumbled in through the creaking gate. The distant glow of the upper city fire cast a hellish orange hue across the cracked stone walls, making the decrepit building seem even more haunted than usual. Han Wei was visibly shaking, his breaths shallow and rapid as he paced across the courtyard.
"This is bad," Han Wei muttered, running his hands through his tangled hair. "So bad. Scarface… He's gonna kill us for this, Qin. He's gonna–"
"Stop it," Yao Qin snapped, his voice calm but firm. "Panicking won't fix anything."
Before Han Wei could retort, the sound of shuffling feet broke through the tension. A small figure emerged from the shadows of a nearby alley–Fang Hui, the boy whose knee Yao Qin had shattered days ago. His face was pale, and he hobbled heavily, dragging his twisted leg behind him. His wide, fearful eyes darted between the two older boys as he stepped into the courtyard.
"I went to a doctor," Fang Hui began, his voice trembling. "He… He wouldn't treat me. Said it was too expensive." He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking nervously to Yao Qin. "On my way back, I saw it. The fire."
Han Wei froze mid-pace, his head snapping toward Fang Hui. "What fire? What are you talking about?"
Fang Hui's lips quivered as he pointed toward the distant glow in the sky. "It's spread… Half the upper city is burning. Even the Dark Mountain faction's stronghold. The Red Crown Bastards and the provincial guards are trying to rally the townsfolk to stop it."
Han Wei's face drained of color. "The Dark Mountain faction?" he echoed, his voice rising. "That means… Scarface… What if–"
"Enough," Yao Qin interrupted, rubbing his forehead as if trying to push the headache away. "Did you hear anything about Scarface?"
Fang Hui shook his head quickly, his gaze fixed on the ground. "I don't know. I just… I came back here as fast as I could."
Han Wei's panic escalated. He turned to Yao Qin, his voice rising again. "How could anyone survive that? It's a blaze big enough to take out the Dark Mountain stronghold! How could Scarface–"
"He's a mid Qi Sea cultivator," Yao Qin said evenly. "Of course, he survived."
Han Wei froze, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face Yao Qin fully. "How do you know that?" he demanded. "How do you know what level Scarface is? How do you know any of this? You've been different lately–colder, sharper. What the hell's going on with you, Qin?"
Yao Qin felt his lips twitch in irritation. His mind churned, calculating what to say. He didn't have the energy for this–not after the night they'd just had. He was exhausted, his muscles aching from tension, and all he wanted was for this day to end so he could collapse on his threadbare mat. Yet, he knew Han Wei wouldn't let it go without an answer.
He let out a slow breath, tilting his head toward the fluorescent smoke curling into the sky. "I remembered," he said finally, his voice low and deliberate.
"Remembered what?" Han Wei pressed, his tone tinged with desperation.
"My parents," Yao Qin said quietly. "I awakened memories of my parents. Of what happened to them. Of who they were."
Han Wei's anger faltered, replaced by a flicker of guilt. "Your parents… You were only five when–"
"They burned alive," Yao Qin finished, his tone devoid of emotion. He turned his gaze back to Han Wei, his dangerous eyes locking onto his friend's. "But that's not the point. I've learned things, Han Wei. Things about the world we live in. About cultivation."
Han Wei frowned, his earlier panic tempered by curiosity. "What kind of things?"
Yao Qin gestured for him to sit down on one of the cracked stone benches in the courtyard. As they settled, Yao Qin began to speak, his voice steady and methodical. "There are three main paths of cultivation: Qi, Body, and Soul. Each has its own levels, strengths, and weaknesses. Scarface only cultivates Qi. That's why I can tell he's mid Qi Sea."
He paused, letting the information sink in before continuing. "Qi cultivation is about harnessing energy. It starts with Qi Refinement, then Qi Sea, and then Core Formation. Body cultivation is about physical strength–defying mortal limits. And Soul cultivation… That's the rarest. It's about controlling spiritual energy and the Shadow Realm."
Han Wei listened intently, his earlier panic replaced by a thoughtful silence. "You sound like you've been studying this for years," he said softly. "It's almost like you're not… you."
Yao Qin forced a tired smile, shaking his head slightly. "I've had time to think."
Han Wei sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "For snapping at you. I know how much you've been through. I can't imagine what it must've been like… losing them like that."
Yao Qin shrugged, his expression unreadable. "It doesn't matter anymore. The only thing that matters now is surviving. And for that, we need to stay ahead."
As Han Wei nodded, Yao Qin's gaze drifted to the fluorescent sky again. He felt no regret for lying to Han Wei–it wasn't worth the emotional drain. The truth was simple: he wasn't sharing half-truths because of newly awakened memories of his parents. He knew about cultivation because he was living his life a second time. And he wouldn't be the naïve boy he once was.
Han Wei's apology lingered in the air, but Yao Qin's thoughts had already shifted. Perhaps Po Luoyang's lessons had proven more useful than he realized. Manipulation, veiled truths, and calculated deceptions–those were tools his former master had instilled in him. Tools he was now wielding with quiet precision.
Yao Qin allowed himself a bitter smirk, his mind already steps ahead of the conversation as he leaned back against the cold stone.
The orphanage's dim common room felt suffocating, the faint flicker of fluorescent smoke from the upper city fire casting eerie shadows on the cracked walls. Han Wei sat slumped on a bench, his hands gripping the edge as though it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His earlier panic had dulled into a smoldering unease, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his underlying fear.
"This is a mess," Han Wei muttered, breaking the silence. "Scarface… the fire… the Tang…" He shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. "What the hell are we supposed to do now?"
Yao Qin leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. His sharp eyes flicked toward Fang Hui, the boy whose knee he'd shattered days ago, now curled on a mat in the corner of the room. Fang Hui's pained whimpers barely reached his ears; he was too deep in thought to care.
"We wait," Yao Qin said evenly.
Han Wei looked up, his brow furrowed. "Wait? For what? For Scarface to crawl out of the ashes and wring our necks?"
Yao Qin's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice measured. "If Scarface survived–and he did–we'll know soon enough. He'll find us before we find him."
Han Wei's eyes darted to the glowing sky outside. "You sound so sure. Like you've already seen it happen."
Yao Qin didn't respond immediately. His thoughts wandered to his previous life, to the moment Scarface had staggered out of the Tang stronghold's ruins. Back then, the sight of the bloodied gang leader had sent shivers down his spine. But now, with the clarity of hindsight, he understood what had kept Scarface alive. A mid Qi Sea cultivator didn't go down easily, even against overwhelming odds.
"He's too strong to die like that," Yao Qin said finally. "Not to fire, not to the Tang. Scarface will survive."
Han Wei's fists clenched on his lap, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "And what happens then? You think he'll just pat us on the back for screwing up?"
Yao Qin pushed off the wall, his dangerous eyes locking onto Han Wei's. "No," he said bluntly. "He won't. But panicking won't help. We need to be ready for whatever comes next."
Han Wei exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging. "Ready… Yeah, sure. Like we'll ever be ready for whatever Scarface has in store."
The mention of Scarface brought another name to Yao Qin's mind–a name rarely whispered even among the gang's ranks. The Redbloom King. The man Scarface and the other captains answered to.
He was a shadowy figure who had plucked Scarface and his ilk off the streets, moulding them into his tools. Rumour had it he was a third son of the Gu family in the Bright Sword Empire–an outcast deemed too weak by their standards. But "weak" was relative; at the peak of the Qi Sea realm, he was anything but powerless. The Redbloom King had fled to this forsaken city to carve out his own domain, his ambitions hidden behind layers of proxies and shadows. Few knew his name, but his influence was inescapable. If Scarface was terrifying, the Redbloom King was the puppeteer pulling the strings.
Han Wei shifted uneasily on the bench, his unease mirroring Yao Qin's growing focus. Yao Qin's hand drifted to the small satchel at his side. Inside lay the Azure Pill–a rare treasure stolen in the chaos of the heist. Its energy pulsed faintly, a promise of power and leverage. It wasn't just a valuable cultivation resource–it was a lifeline, a bargaining chip for survival. The Redbloom King wouldn't be so easily impressed by excuses, but a tool that could push him to Core Formation? That was a different story.
"We have something he wants," Yao Qin said, his voice calm but deliberate.
Han Wei's head snapped up. "What do you mean?"
Yao Qin didn't elaborate, his dangerous eyes narrowing. "Just trust me. We have a way out of this."
Han Wei frowned, his worry plain as he leaned forward. "You sound so damn sure, Qin. Like you've already planned this."
Yao Qin allowed himself a faint smirk, though exhaustion tugged at the edges of his expression. "Not planned, just prepared."
"We'll give him a reason not to kill us," Yao Qin stated, his voice firm. "The Azure Pill is more than enough. Men like him crave power above all else."
Han Wei fell silent, his doubt simmering beneath the surface. But Yao Qin's confidence was unshakable. He had lived through this before–or something close to it. His rebirth had given him the advantage of foresight, even if it wasn't perfect. He wasn't the same naïve boy he had been; he had the tools to manipulate, to survive, and to thrive.
As Yao Qin adjusted the satchel and felt the pill's energy through the cloth, a flicker of irritation crossed his mind. Lying to Han Wei no longer stung like it once did. Manipulation had become second nature–a necessity in a world where trust was a luxury. He didn't feel guilt for using the Azure Pill to save their lives. The only regret he had was that it might not be enough.
"Get some rest," he said over his shoulder, his voice devoid of sympathy. "Tomorrow will be worse."
Han Wei nodded reluctantly, his movements slow and stiff as he settled onto his mat. Yao Qin leaned back against the wall, his sharp eyes glinting in the dim light. The Redbloom King loomed in his thoughts–a shadowy predator waiting to strike. But Yao Qin had always known how to play with fire.
The orphanage was silent, the muffled sound of Han Wei's deep breathing the only sign of life in the room. Yao Qin sat cross-legged on his mat, the faint moonlight through the cracked window glinting off the small body cultivation pill in his palm. The glow of the upper city fire still lingered in the distance, casting an eerie hue across the room.
Han Wei had fallen asleep, his earlier worries momentarily subdued. But Yao Qin's mind was far from rest. Tonight, he would take another step forward–alone.
Carefully, he brought the Crimson Vein Pill to his lips, his fingers trembling slightly. Crafted for those seeking to push their bodies to the peak of mortal limits, the pill was renowned for its brutal efficiency and the sheer pain it inflicted. Yao Qin swallowed it, the bitter taste sharp against his tongue. Almost instantly, a surge of heat roared through his core, spreading like wildfire. He doubled over, clenching his fists as the pill's energy began its violent transformation within him.
The pain was unbearable, a raw, searing agony that tore through his body. His muscles tightened, his veins bulged, and his vision blurred. Blood seeped from his nose, ears, and the corners of his mouth, pooling quietly on the mat beneath him. He gritted his teeth, stifling a cry. He couldn't afford to wake Han Wei.
Endure. Focus. Push.
The mantra wasn't just words–it was a lifeline, an anchor to keep him steady against the storm. His mind reached back, recalling the codex Yao Rui, had once recited to him.
"Pain is the path. Blood is the price. Strength is the reward."
Over and over, he repeated the words, clutching onto them like a drowning man to driftwood. As the energy raged, he focused it, guiding it through his body as the Crimson Tyrant Body technique demanded. His blood roared in his ears, pounding like war drums. Each heartbeat felt like a hammer striking molten iron, reshaping him from within.
He spasmed violently, his limbs jerking as blood seeped from his pores. Steam rose from his skin in wisps of crimson mist, filling the air with the metallic tang of iron. The technique wasn't just reshaping him–it was reforging him, tearing apart weakness and leaving only strength in its wake.
Slowly, the agony began to transform. The wild energy settled, coiling in his core like a smouldering ember. His ratty, dull red hair glimmered in the moonlight, the strands shifting to a brilliant, fiery crimson. His skin, once pallid and marred, radiated a faint glow, as though his body had embraced the technique entirely.
Yao Qin flexed his fingers, marvelling at the newfound strength coursing through him. He could feel it–he had reached the peak of level one body cultivation. Every fibre of his being felt alive, charged with power. Yet, he stopped short of pushing further. The temptation was strong, but he knew better. Advancing too quickly would raise questions he couldn't answer.
His breathing slowed, the residual heat from his body dissipating into the cold night air. The crimson mist lingered faintly, curling around him like a shroud before fading. His body, battered but stronger, sagged against the mat.
Exhaustion claimed him before he could reflect further. His vision darkened, and he slumped forward, his consciousness slipping away. The last thought that flickered in his mind was of the path ahead–a path paved with blood, pain, and survival.
The room was still once more, save for the faint steam rising from Yao Qin's form and the sound of Han Wei's steady breathing.
---
Darkness enveloped Yao Qin like a shroud, the edges of reality fraying as he slipped into restless sleep. The air in his dream was suffocating, heavy with the stench of iron and decay. He found himself standing in a vast, blood-drenched wasteland, the ground beneath him pulsating with a grotesque, fleshy rhythm. The sky above was not a sky at all, but an endless expanse of swirling crimson, writhing with shadows that whispered unintelligible horrors.
In the distance, malformed shapes lumbered and crawled, their grotesque, patchwork bodies sewn together by veins of pulsating red light. They emitted guttural wails, their voices a blend of agony and longing. Yao Qin's stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as he tried to steady himself.
The ground beneath his feet split open with a wet, sickening tear, and from it emerged a monolithic figure, its form shifting and incomprehensible. It had no defined face, only a mass of undulating tendrils and eyes that seemed to exist and vanish all at once. The air around it shimmered with an aura of primal hunger, and its presence pressed down on Yao Qin's soul like an unbearable weight.
"You will carry it…" the entity rasped. Its voice was an otherworldly chorus, each word dripping with malice and searing into Yao Qin's mind. "You will be my vessel."
Yao Qin stumbled back, his feet sinking into the pulsating ground. He tried to speak, but his voice came out as a strangled whisper. "What… are you?"
The entity leaned closer, its tendrils writhing like a nest of serpents. "I am the blood that binds. The hunger that devours. The god whose name echoes through eons. You will be mine, vessel."
As it spoke, the grotesque creatures in the distance turned their eyeless faces toward Yao Qin, their wails rising into a discordant cacophony. The ground beneath him quaked, splitting further to reveal rivers of boiling blood that coursed like molten lava. His body froze, his limbs refusing to obey him as the figure loomed closer.
Desperation clawed at Yao Qin's chest, and he forced his lips to move. "Gravewalker!" he screamed, his voice cracking with terror. "Where are you? Help me!"
The figure laughed, a sound so deep and resonant it felt as though the world itself would collapse under its weight. "The reaper cannot save you here. You tread my domain now, mortal. Feel the weight of eternity."
A tendril lashed out, wrapping around Yao Qin's throat with a grip that burned like acid. His vision blurred as the entity pulled him closer, its shifting mass now seeping into his skin, his veins, his very soul. The whispers grew louder, incoherent and maddening, each one tearing at his sanity.
Then, with a final, guttural roar, the Blood God's presence surged forward–and Yao Qin woke with a gasp.
He bolted upright, his breath ragged and his body drenched in sweat. The room was dark, the faint scent of blood still lingering in the air. His chest heaved as he tried to calm himself, the vivid images of the nightmare seared into his mind.
For a moment, he sat there in the silence, his trembling hands clutching the threadbare blanket. Then, in the faint glow of the distant fires outside, he saw his reflection in the cracked glass of the window. His crimson hair gleamed faintly, and his dangerous eyes burned with an intensity he hadn't seen before.
Yao Qin exhaled slowly, his fear giving way to a grim resolve. "Gravewalker," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "What in the Nine Hells was that."
He lay back down, his body still trembling, but his mind sharper than ever. The nightmare had shaken him, but it had also reminded him of one crucial truth: the battle for his soul was only just beginning.