Chương 65: When the World Screamed (1/3)

Hmmm… so in conclusion, it attacks the mind?

"I assume some… ignorant cultivators have tried to break these rules before?" Shi Yan asked, tilting his head slightly so the woven brim of his bamboo hat shifted, casting the upper half of his veiled face into deeper shadow. The lamplight caught only the pale glint of his eyes beneath—calculating, patient, already sorting probabilities.

"Three years ago," Su Yin said, her voice hollow, as though the memory itself had scraped her throat raw. The obsidian gleam of her eyes dimmed momentarily, pupils contracting as if recoiling from some inner vision she could not banish.

"An Elder from the Celestial Remnants Sect—a man who had just broken into the late stages of the Shattered-Halo Realm—forced his way into the market. He possessed a Domain of pure Yang Fire."

Her porcelain features tightened, the corner of her mouth twitching downward in a barely perceptible grimace. She drew a slow breath through her nose, the scent of cassia incense mingling with the acrid, sulfurous tang still poisoning the air.

"A technique capable of incinerating a lake," she continued, each word carefully enunciated as though she were carving them into stone.

"He refused to wear a mask and spat upon a Paper-Doll merchant who demanded a toll."

She looked directly at Shi Yan then, her dark eyes gleaming with morbid, remembered terror—a visceral dread that settled into the fine lines around her mouth and the shallow furrow between her brows. Her shoulders, already stiff, drew inward as though bracing against an invisible weight.

"He was a pseudo-immortal to the mortals above." Her voice dropped lower, barely louder than the rain pattering against the paper windows.

"But in the market? The shadows simply stretched. A pair of entities carrying rusted iron chains stepped out of the fog."

Her fingers, still pressed flat against her abdomen, curled slightly inward, nails pressing into the fine silk of her robe.

"His Heavenly Flame extinguished like a blown candle."

The words fell like stones into dark water.

"They shattered his Dao Halo with a single strike, hooked his collarbone with chains of cold Yin, and dragged his screaming soul into the black water of the Yellow Spring."

Su Yin's breathing quickened, shallow and tight. A faint sheen of perspiration appeared at her temple despite the chill radiating from the black-jade token on the desk. Her voice cracked slightly on the next sentence, a hairline fracture in her merchant's composure.

"His body was reduced to a floating corpse-lantern." She swallowed hard, the motion visible in the slender column of her throat.

"Do not rely on your monstrous physical strength there, Daoist Shi. Pure brute force cannot kill a law of ancient karma."

So powerful? Although Shi Yan didn't know what a Dao Halo was, nor what that Heavenly Flame was, even Tier 3 could fall there, so it was basically more like heavenly rules, or a remnant of the Heavenly Court's rules?

Shi Yan pondered, his breathing still slow and even beneath the veil. His fingers, resting on his knees, curled slightly inward—blunt nails pressing once more into the sodden fabric of his trousers as he processed the tactical implications. The dense musculature along his shoulders remained coiled, ready, despite his outwardly motionless posture.

The room fell into an absolute, suffocating silence.

The cassia incense smoke drifted lazily upward, spiraling toward the shadowed ceiling beams. Beyond the rain-slick paper windows, the steady patter of rain continued its monotonous rhythm. But within the chamber itself, the air had thickened—cloying, almost tactile—pressing down like a shroud.

The only sound was the faint, acidic hiss of the demonic arm's blood eating into the expensive mahogany floorboards, a slow, corrosive whisper that gnawed at the silence like a rat in the walls.

Then Shi Yan closed his eyes for a moment—pale lashes briefly obscuring those cold, analytical eyes—then opened them again.

"I see."

His tone was flat, neutral. No tremor. No hesitation.

He didn't ask if there was a backup plan. He didn't ask for an escort.

Instead, he bent his knees, the sodden weight of his rain-soaked cloak shifting heavily across his shoulders as he moved. His center of gravity remained perfectly balanced, his movements economical and deliberate as he reached for his crude, scavenged canvas haversack—already stained and fraying at the seams—to gather his newly unlocked wealth.

He ignored the beautifully crafted, fragile spatial pouches resting on the desk beside the black-jade token and the hissing pool of demonic ichor. The delicate embroidery and jade clasps caught the flickering amber lamplight, almost mocking in their elegance. But Shi Yan knew he couldn't push Qi into them to open them anyway.

Before he could begin shoveling the pristine, glowing towers of mid-grade spirit stones and the neatly stacked cultivation manuals into his rough sack, a soft sigh broke the silence—a quiet exhalation that carried the weight of resignation and faint exasperation.

"Daoist Shi, let us." Su Yin rubbed her temples briefly, her slender fingers pressing against the smooth porcelain skin as though trying to massage away a creeping headache. Her eyes—dark and sharp despite the fatigue lurking at their edges—flicked from his crude, ugly bag to the acidic demonic blood currently hissing and eating into her expensive mahogany floorboards, carving shallow, blackened furrows into the rich grain.

She made a subtle, almost imperceptible flick of her fingers—a refined gesture, precise as a calligrapher's brushstroke.

"Rou'er."

Rou'er, standing silently by the wall like a shadow woven into the dim lamplight, instantly understood. The attendant glided forward with silent, practiced grace, her footfalls making no sound against the wooden planks. Her plain robe whispered softly as she moved, the hem barely stirring the thin layer of dust near the baseboards.

From a hidden cabinet built seamlessly into the wall paneling, she produced a large, heavy-duty satchel made of dark, woven beast-hide—thick enough to muffle the crude clinking of coins and structurally reinforced with triple-stitched seams designed to carry heavy loads without tearing. The leather was supple yet durable, faintly scarred from previous use but well-maintained, smelling faintly of oil and preserved hide.

She swiftly and elegantly transferred the glowing spirit stones—each one radiating a soft, pale luminescence that pulsed faintly like captured starlight—the stacks of untraceable silver taels wrapped in oiled paper, and the cloth-bound cultivation manuals into the high-quality bag. Her movements were economical, precise, each item placed with care to distribute the weight evenly. Finally, she set the bag gently at Shi Yan's feet, stepping back without a word.

Then Rou'er unfurled a thick, silvery-gray cloth from a separate compartment—a broad sheet of Frost-Moth silk, shimmering faintly in the amber light like moonlight trapped in woven thread. The material was designed to quarantine corrosive and Yin-tainted materials, its surface cool to the touch and faintly repellent to spiritual contamination. She draped it carefully over the severed demonic arm, the silk settling over the grotesque, clawed appendage like a burial shroud.

The acidic hissing lessened immediately, muffled by the protective weave.

"Thank you," Shi Yan said, casually cupping his hands in the traditional salute—a gesture executed with surprising fluidity despite his foreign soul. His tone was quiet, unburdened by ceremony, yet sincere in its simplicity.

But unlike what Shi Yan thought was a simple thanks, it was different for both women, who were stunned.

Rou'er, who was stepping back into the shadows, actually paused mid-stride. Her eyes—dark, wide, and carefully trained to never linger—widened a fraction of an inch. Her lips parted slightly in silent surprise, the mask of servile composure slipping for the briefest heartbeat before she caught herself. Her fingers, which had been folding smoothly back into the sleeves of her robe, twitched involuntarily.

Behind the desk, Su Yin's eyes gleamed with something unreadable—surprise, perhaps, or faint approval. Her brows lifted almost imperceptibly, a subtle arch that betrayed her astonishment.

She had spent the last ten minutes watching this man weigh life and death with cold detachment, as though human lives were no heavier than dust scattered on the wind.

Ancient terrors that would chill others to the bone—whispers of karmic chains and soul-cleaving laws—had been treated by him as no more than passing wind and rain, cataloged and filed away with clinical precision.

Yet now, he was showing a quiet, unbidden courtesy to a mere servant… If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Hmm, he is utterly ruthless, but he is not arrogant. Su Yin nodded slowly, a faint hum of acknowledgment escaping her lips—barely audible, a low resonance in her throat. The tension in her shoulders eased fractionally, though her posture remained controlled. Her fingers, still pressed against her abdomen, relaxed slightly, no longer pressing divots into the silk.

On the other hand, Shi Yan didn't linger to observe their reactions. He grabbed the newly provided beast-hide bag, hauling it up with practiced ease despite its considerable weight. The leather straps bit into his palms as he adjusted the load, slinging it over one shoulder alongside the frost-silk-wrapped demonic arm. The combined burden settled heavily against his back, but his posture barely shifted—dense muscle compensating effortlessly.

It was vastly more efficient and drew far less attention than his bleeding canvas sack.

When the money and the payload were secured, he reached into his robes with deliberate care, his calloused fingers brushing aside the damp inner layers until they found the hidden pocket stitched into the lining. He carefully tucked the black-jade token inside, feeling the unnatural chill radiating through the fabric even after being wrapped. The frost clung stubbornly to his fingertips for a moment before fading.

"I will see you in three days, Deaconess," Shi Yan said, his voice low and steady. He cupped his hands once more in formal salute, the woven brim of his bamboo hat dipping slightly as he inclined his head.

Then he turned and strode toward the door, his boots pressing firmly into the carpet beneath, leaving faint impressions in the woven fibers. The rain-soaked cloak swayed heavily behind him, trailing the faint scent of wet leather and street grime.

The skies above Skycloud City were forever shrouded in a heavy gray gloom, a oppressive canopy that pressed down upon the sprawling streets and crumbling rooftops like the lid of a vast, unfeeling tomb. A biting cold rain fell without end, each droplet sharp and stinging against exposed skin, carrying through the air a faint metallic scent—iron and ash mingled together—from the smoke and furnace-breath of the Flesh-Forge Pavilion belching endlessly into the smog-choked horizon.

Shi Yan did not return directly to his rented lodging.

For reasons even he could not fully explain, he had never trusted the straight road. In his heart—a heart forged in battlefields where ambush lurked behind every ridge and supply line—a path too direct was often the easiest for others to follow, a thread too obvious for hostile eyes to overlook.

Thus, he circled through the low quarters instead, passing through rain-soaked alleys slick with refuse and crowded markets where hawkers' voices rose and fell like crashing waves. He stepped over foul canals choked with rotting vegetable matter and nameless filth, crossed ruined stone bridges whose arches sagged under centuries of neglect, their carved guardian lions eroded into faceless lumps.

From time to time, he paused beneath the eaves of abandoned shrines—their painted beams faded and peeling, roof tiles missing like broken teeth—and broken Dao temples whose incense altars lay cold and deserted, offerings long since rotted into black mold. He stood motionless in the shadows, rain dripping steadily from the brim of his hat, pale eyes scanning the narrow street behind him with methodical precision. He counted faces. Noted patterns.

Watched for anyone who lingered too long, anyone whose gaze returned too often.

I just... couldn't trust them. Shi Yan frowned beneath his veil, the muscles along his jaw tightening imperceptibly. Especially after hearing those last sentences when he accepted this commission, stating they would throw him under the bus if he got caught.

If she could throw me aside to protect her faction, then the same would apply if there were a similar situation.

The logic was simple. Cold. Unavoidable.

Trust was a luxury he could not afford.

Thus, it took him nearly two hours to return to the shabby boarding house nestled in the dense, chaotic heart of the Ash-Ring—a district where the streets tangled like knotted rope and the air reeked perpetually of burning coal, spoiled cabbage, and unwashed bodies pressed too closely together.

The boarding house itself was a crooked, three-story structure of warped wood and cracked plaster, its walls stained with decades of soot and grime. The roof sagged in the middle, patched haphazardly with mismatched tiles. A faded wooden sign hung above the entrance, the characters barely legible beneath layers of mildew.

The proprietor, a half-blind mortal who asked no questions as long as the silver was good, didn't even look up from his cheap wine when Shi Yan stepped through the creaking wooden doors. The old man sat hunched behind a scarred counter, his milky left eye wandering aimlessly while his good eye remained fixed on the clay cup in his gnarled hands. The sour stench of rice wine clung to him like a second skin.

Shi Yan ascended the rotting wooden stairs to his rented room on the second floor, each step groaning underfoot, the banister sticky with years of accumulated grime. The narrow hallway reeked of mildew and stale cooking oil, the walls warped and water-stained.

Of course, this was the room where he killed that courier back then and got the Phantom Veil technique.

The memory surfaced briefly—clinical, detached—before he dismissed it.

Now he unlocked the door with a tarnished iron key, the mechanism clicking softly as the latch disengaged. He stepped inside, the hinges protesting with a low, rusty whine, and immediately went to work. He didn't drop his heavy bag or sit down to rest. The beast-hide satchel and frost-wrapped demonic arm remained slung over his shoulder as he moved with purpose.

He set up a standard military perimeter defense.

In this world, cultivators relied heavily on magical formation flags—embroidered silk banners inscribed with esoteric trigrams—warning talismans that flared when intruders crossed invisible thresholds, and Qi barriers woven from spiritual energy to secure their privacy.

Unfortunately, Shi Yan had none of those.

More importantly, he knew that an invading cultivator would scan a room primarily for those exact magical triggers. They wouldn't look for the mundane.

Shi Yan unspooled a coil of nearly invisible, razor-thin steel wire he had scavenged from a ruined smithy, supple yet wickedly strong. He rigged a shin-high tripwire across the threshold of the door, looping it carefully around a bent nail driven into the doorframe on one side and threading it through a small iron ring on the opposite side. The wire was taut, almost invisible in the dim light filtering through the grimy window.

He connected the far end to a balanced ceramic cup resting precariously on the edge of a three-legged stool—if the wire was disturbed, the cup would topple, shattering loudly against the wooden floor.

He wedged a small, triangular piece of hardened wood—carved from a broken crate and filed smooth—under the doorframe at a precise angle to prevent silent entry. If someone tried to push the door open slowly, the wedge would jam, forcing them to apply noticeable pressure or make noise prying it free.

Finally, he moved to the single narrow window, unlatching the rusted iron lock with a faint scrape of metal on metal and keeping it cracked open by half an inch—just wide enough to slip through if necessary. A pre-cleared exfiltration route over the rain-slick rooftops in case his front door was compromised. He tested the frame once, pressing gently to ensure it wouldn't creak or stick when speed mattered.

Only when the room was fully secured against blind entry did he finally exhale—a slow, controlled release of tension that rippled through his shoulders and down his spine.

"Finally, sight." He sighed quietly, the words barely audible beneath the steady drumming of rain against the roof tiles above.

Then he unshouldered the heavy beast-hide bag, setting it gently on the warped wooden floor alongside the frost-wrapped demonic arm. The impact made a soft thud, the floor creaking faintly under the weight. The silvery Frost-Moth silk shimmered faintly in the weak gray light leaking through the window.

He took off his bamboo hat, setting it carefully on the small writing desk—a rickety piece of furniture scarred with old ink stains and knife marks. He stripped off his dripping beast-leather cloak, the waterlogged material sloughing away from his shoulders with a wet, heavy sound. He draped it over the back of the desk's single chair, water pooling slowly on the floor beneath.

Finally, he sat down on the edge of the hard, straw-stuffed bed—the ropes creaking under his weight, the thin mattress lumpy and unyielding. The faint scent of mildew rose from the coarse fabric.