If I, a death row inmate, am not to become a demon, am I to become a member of the Imperial Guard?

"Butcher's knife".

Those two words were forced out of his throat like two pieces of rusty iron. The sweeping monk's hand moved. He still held the broom in his hand, but half a foot of cold light sprang out from the tip of the bamboo handle. Those were not bamboo strips, but fine barbs made of fine steel.

He pounced. There were no footsteps, no sound of clothes fluttering in the wind. Like a piece of dead meat being thrown out, yet his speed was absurd.

The goal is clear. (Zhou Yang)

"Take them down!" Qin Shuang roared. All the Embroidered Spring Blades were drawn, their gleaming blades sweeping down.

Three guards rushed forward, their blades slashing towards the gray-robed monk's back. The blades pierced flesh with a dull thud. No blood splattered. The grayish-white skin rolled back, revealing the dark yellow fascia beneath, like cutting open dried, stale meat.

The sweeping monk didn't even turn his head. His arm was bent backward, the joints making a sickening cracking sound. The steel-spiked broom thrust out at an eerie angle, striking a guard squarely in the throat. The guard collapsed, clutching his neck, black blood seeping from between his fingers.

"Back off!" Zhou Yang slid to the side, dodging the oncoming steel blade. The gust of wind grazed his cheek, carrying with it a foul stench. The smell didn't resemble a living person; it was more like a dead rat buried in a deep pit for a long time.

Qin Shuang leaped forward, slashing at the sweeping monk's shoulder and neck with her blade. The blade caught at his collarbone, making an unpleasant scraping sound. The sweeping monk raised his other hand, his nails bluish-black, and clawed straight at Zhou Yang's heart.

Zhou Yang retreated again, his back hitting a pillar.

This thing wasn't breathing. Its chest didn't rise and fall. Its eyes were fixed on Zhou Yang, his reflection shimmering in its grayish-white pupils. Every attack was terrifyingly precise, the force even, the rhythm constant. It didn't seem like a human fighting; it was like a wound-up killing machine.

"It's a puppet!" Zhou Yang roared. "Joints! Break the joints!"

Another guard was struck in the knee, his leg bone snapping backward, and he fell to the ground screaming. The remaining Imperial Guards formed a sword array, their blades flashing, slashing at the ashen body, leaving only gaping cuts. No blood flowed, no cries of pain. The body seemed devoid of nerves, driven only by the pure command to kill.

Zhou Yang was struggling to defend himself. His opponent's speed was increasing, the steel spikes whistling through the air as they targeted his throat, chest, and groin. Each strike was a suicidal attack, with no regard for defense.

We can't delay any longer. This thing is tireless; it'll exhaust us.

Zhou Yang's eyes darkened. At the thought, the system panel flashed across the edge of his field of vision.

Lifespan consumed: 10 years

【Eight Trigrams Swimming Dragon Hand - Deduction to Perfection】

A surge of heat exploded from his dantian, instantly flowing to his limbs and bones. Zhou Yang's fingers felt slightly warm, and his bones emitted a series of subtle popping sounds. Countless afterimages of martial arts moves flashed through his mind, finally coalescing into a single line.

The sweeping monk pounced again, his steel spike aimed straight for Zhou Yang's right eye.

Zhou Yang didn't retreat. He turned slightly to the side, yet the deadly sharpness grazed his nose. His right hand formed a claw, veins bulging beneath his skin, true energy surging from his fingertips.

He saw it clearly. There was a one-thousandth delay in the opponent's elbow joint at the moment of exertion. That was the gap in the mechanism's engagement.

Zhou Yang slipped his hand under the Sweeper Monk's armpit. Not with a direct strike, but by using the force of the backward bend to lift and twist. *Crack*. The shoulder dislocates. His left hand followed, gripping the wrist and twisting it in the opposite direction. The wrist bone shatters, and the steel spikes fall to the ground.

The Sweeper Monk's left hand was still attacking. Zhou Yang ducked and delivered a sweeping kick to the outside of the Sweeper Monk's knee. The leg bone cracked and twisted at an angle. The Sweeper Monk's body tilted, and Zhou Yang seized the opportunity, unleashing a series of palm strikes, each landing on the joint.

Elbow joint. Snap.

Cervical spine. Snap.

Lumbar spine. Snap.

That wasn't the sound of flesh and blood; it was more like dismantling a pile of building blocks or snapping a bundle of firewood. Zhou Yang's movements were fluid and graceful, carrying a cruel elegance. This was the perfected Bagua Youlong Hand technique, a skillful method specifically designed to dismantle human joints.

The final blow struck the top of the head. The sweeping monk's head lolled to one side, his neck completely broken.

Its tall body crashed to the ground like a bag of sand, raising a cloud of dust.

The courtyard fell silent. Only the groans of the wounded guard remained.

Zhou Yang stood there, catching his breath. His fingertips were slightly numb. Whether it was worth exchanging ten years of his life for this moment of explosive power was another matter; his priority was to save his life.

"Not dead?" Qin Shuang sheathed her sword, the blade stained with dark yellow tissue fluid that emitted a putrid stench.

"He's been dead for a long time." Zhou Yang squatted down and nudged the corpse with his toe. The grayish-white skin began to dry out rapidly, like a leaky sac. He tore open the ripped monk's robe, revealing the corpse's chest.

A black mark was branded in the center of his chest. The twisted character resembled a coiled venomous snake.

"The Heavenly Principle Sect," Zhou Yang said in a low voice, "the mark on Fang Tian's body."

Qin Shuang's pupils contracted. She took two steps closer and used the tip of her knife to pry open the clothing on the corpse's back. Along the spine, there was a row of small holes, the black blood already congealed. Around the holes, the skin had an eerie bluish-purple hue.

"Look at this." Zhou Yang pried open the corpse's mouth. The tongue was rotten, and a wad of oiled paper was stuffed deep in the throat. He carefully took it out and unfolded it. Inside was black powder, emitting a faint bitter almond smell.

"Corpse-dissolving powder." Zhou Yang dipped his fingertip in it, smelled it, and said, "A slow-acting poison. The people in this temple who were poisoned didn't die from the poison itself, but were slowly eroded by this stuff, turning them into living dead."

Qin Shuang looked around. The monks and pilgrims lying on the ground had ashen faces, exactly the same color as the puppet.

"They're silencing us." Zhou Yang stood up, dusting off his hands. "Fahua Temple is a front. Buddha relics? Bullshit. The Heavenly Principle Sect is making human puppets here, using corpse-dissolving powder to control the monks. Now that things are about to succeed, these accomplices who know the truth must be eliminated."

"Wanfo Temple?" Qin Shuang immediately realized.

"That's right." Zhou Yang nodded, his eyes cold and stern. "The Water and Land Assembly at Wanfo Temple three months from now is their real target. This Fahua Temple is just a small workshop, a place to test their skills. Now that the test is over and their skills are perfected, the workshop should be burned down."

He kicked at the scattered puppet remains on the ground: "This thing moves with unpredictable agility, it's impervious to pain and death. How could anyone possibly detect it if it infiltrated the monks of Wanfo Temple?"

Qin Shuang's grip on the knife tightened. Her knuckles turned white. She thought of the Wanfo Temple's status, the scale of the Water and Land Assembly, and the powerful figures and renowned martial arts masters who would gather there. If these puppets appeared in large numbers…

"We must intervene." Qin Shuang's voice was resolute. She looked at Zhou Yang, her gaze changing. It was no longer the scrutiny of a superior towards a subordinate, but a solemn expression of camaraderie. "You're right, this can't wait."

"You believed it?" Zhou Yang raised an eyebrow.

"I believe you." Qin Shuang sheathed her embroidered spring knife, the blade ringing crisply as it went back into its sheath. "I've believed it ever since I saw this thing. The work of the Heavenly Principle Sect... I've heard of it."

She paused, then stopped speaking and ordered, "Collect the bodies and take the samples. Notify the surrounding area to seal off the area within a ten-mile radius of Fahua Temple; not even a fly is allowed to escape."

The guards, enduring their injuries, responded.

Qin Shuang turned to Zhou Yang, the sunlight illuminating her face, softening the frost in her eyes and revealing the anxiety beneath: "What do you need?"

"Money." Zhou Yang grinned, revealing his gleaming white teeth. "Also, the route to Wanfo Temple should be as secretive as possible. We need to expose their secrets before the news leaks out."

"Okay." Qin Shuang nodded, turned and walked out of the temple, her gray cloak billowing in a resolute arc behind her. "Follow me."

Zhou Yang took one last look at the pile of decaying puppet parts on the ground and followed. Outside the temple gate, the wind swirled fallen leaves across the threshold. An even greater storm awaited them.