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

Commander Chen's knife was very heavy.

The blade was four feet long, forged from fine iron, its edge gleaming with a deep blue luster. The wind howled as it cleaved through the morning mist. This was his signature move, the River-Severing Slash. Legend has it that he once severed a tributary of the Huai River with a single strike.

Zhou Yang stood in the middle of the street, the bluestone slabs beneath his feet cracked. He did not draw his sword. The Dragon Spine Sword remained in its sheath, emitting a soft hum.

Chen Qianhu's eyes were bloodshot, and Zhou Yang's figure was reflected in his pupils.

"Hand over Qin Shuang, and I'll leave you with a whole corpse."

His voice was hoarse, filled with barely suppressed rage.

Zhou Yang smiled, but there was no warmth in his smile.

"Lord Chen, it's my turn to say that."

"If you can't afford the price, you'll lose your life."

Before he could finish speaking, Commander Chen was already in front of him. His blade flashed like a waterfall, descending upon Zhou Yang, intending to cleave him in two. Zhou Yang raised his right arm, holding it horizontally in front of his forehead.

clang!

The clang of metal clashing rang out, shaking the doors and windows of the shops on both sides. The blade struck Zhou Yang's forearm, sending up a string of blinding sparks. Commander Chen's arm shuddered violently, his hand instantly splitting open, blood flowing down his wrist.

He looked down, his pupils shrinking sharply. Zhou Yang's arm was covered with a layer of dark golden luster, like scales or metal.

Earth Dragon Profound Gold. The supreme treasure obtained from Black Wind Mountain has been completely integrated into Zhou Yang's flesh and blood.

"What kind of evil technique is this...?"

Chen Qianhu's words caught in his throat. Zhou Yang's left hand had already reached out, his five fingers like hooks, gripping Chen Qianhu's wrist that was holding the knife. The sound of bones breaking was crisp and audible, like a withered branch snapping.

Commander Chen cried out in pain, beads of cold sweat instantly forming on his forehead. He tried to pull back, but his wrist was firmly locked in an iron clamp.

Zhou Yang clenched his right fist, his punch simple and unadorned, aimed straight at Chen Qianhu's heart. This punch had no fancy moves, nor any dazzling display of true energy. It was pure power and speed.

In a moment of haste, Chen Qianhu raised his left arm to block.

Click.

His arm bone was broken, and the white bone fragments pierced his flesh. The fist continued its momentum, slamming heavily into the center of his chest.

boom!

Commander Chen was sent flying backward like a kite with a broken string. He crashed through the brick wall behind him and landed in the Huichuntang Pharmacy across the street. The medicine cabinet collapsed, the porcelain bottles shattered, and brownish-yellow dregs and white powder flew everywhere. The air was immediately filled with a strong bitter and earthy smell.

Zhou Yang gave his opponent no chance to catch his breath. He took a step forward, his figure flashing through the hole in the wall like a ghost, creating a gust of wind.

Sunlight streamed through the broken roof, illuminating the dust particles swirling throughout the room.

Commander Chen lay amidst the rubble, his chest caved in, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, staining his beard red. Fear finally surfaced in his eyes, the instinctive tremor one feels when facing a natural enemy.

"You...you're a monster..."

Zhou Yang walked up to him, looking down at this once arrogant commander. Commander Chen's official boot was missing one, and his sock, which was exposed, had several holes in it.

"Sir, you're blocking my path to wealth."

Zhou Yang squatted down, his movements unhurried. He opened his right palm and placed it firmly on Chen Qianhu's crown.

Commander Chen tried to dodge, but his bones felt like they were falling apart; every movement was excruciatingly painful. The warm hand pressed against his head had an eerily gentle touch, like a father caressing a child, or a monk performing a ritual to guide a departed soul.

"Dragon Devouring Technique."

Zhou Yang's lips moved slightly, his voice extremely soft.

A terrifying suction force suddenly erupted from the palm.

Chen Qianhu's eyes widened suddenly, his eyeballs almost bulging out of their sockets. He felt as if the true essence in his dantian was being swallowed by a black hole, flowing away wildly, and his meridians were being torn apart with pain. Not only that, but the essence of his flesh and blood, the source of his life, was being forcibly drawn out through the Baihui point on the top of his head.

The feeling was indescribable. It felt like a million ants were gnawing inside my body, or like I was being immersed in boiling oil.

"No...stop...please..."

Chen Qianhu's voice was hoarse and shrill, like a broken bellows being pulled. His facial muscles began to twitch violently, his features contorting and deforming. His full cheeks visibly sank, forming two deep pits. His jet-black hair instantly turned white, then fell out in large clumps, revealing his gray scalp.

The skin lost its luster, became sallow and dry, and clung to the bones in a wrinkled state.

The process was incredibly swift, yet felt endlessly long. Chen Qianhu's fingernails scratched at the ground, leaving deep, bloody marks. He tried to scream, but only gurgled sounds came from his throat, like a bird about to drown.

His eyes shifted from resentment to terror, and finally to an empty, lifeless silence.

After three breaths, Zhou Yang withdrew his hand.

Commander Chen had become a dried-up corpse. His eye sockets were sunken into black holes, his skin tightly covered his bones, and his cheekbones were high, like a skeleton buried for decades. The dried-up corpse remained in an open-mouthed position, silently telling of the pain before its death.

Zhou Yang stood up, shook his hand as if he had just swatted a pesky mosquito. His palm was still warm, retaining the last warmth of the other's life.

A semi-transparent system panel appeared before his eyes, with numbers flashing.

[Late-stage True Essence Realm cultivator]

[Lifespan increased by 280 years]

Current lifespan: 1272 years

Zhou Yang's lips curled up slightly, revealing a satisfied smile.

This deal was incredibly profitable.

He turned and walked out of the ruins of the pharmacy, his boot shattering a shard of porcelain.

On the street, the dozen or so personal guards who had initially followed Commander Chen to watch were now frozen in place. Their steel swords hung limply at their sides, their tips trembling uncontrollably. Some had even wet themselves; the stench filled the air, mingling with the smell of medicine to create a strange odor.

Zhou Yang's gaze swept over them, like a blade scraping against their skin.

The guards all took a step back in unison, some of them so weak in the knees that they almost collapsed to the ground.

"Take his body with you."

Zhou Yang pointed to the hole in the wall behind him, his voice calm.

"Tell the prefect that Commander Chen colluded with the enemy and has now been executed. The evidence is in my hands."

The guards looked at each other, none of them daring to move or utter a sound.

Zhou Yang narrowed his eyes, his gaze dangerous.

"Or, would you like to give it a try?"

These words struck the crowd like a cold whip. Several brave guards rushed into the pharmacy and frantically carried out the light, dried corpse. The corpse weighed less than thirty pounds; even two people couldn't lift it without it hurting their hands from the bones.

Zhou Yang ignored them and turned to walk into the alley next to him.

A morning breeze swept through the street, swirling up the dregs of medicine and dust, making a soft rustling sound. The desiccated corpse's fingers twitched gently in the wind, as if bidding a final farewell, or perhaps pointing out the murderer.

Dead silence.

The waterside pavilion was deathly silent.

The previous noise, celebration, and sounds of music were like a dream abruptly cut short. The air was thick with the stench of blood and alcohol, creating a nauseating atmosphere. The guests sat frozen in their seats, as if instantly transformed into wax figures. Some buried their heads in their arms, their shoulders trembling uncontrollably. Some stared intently at the table before them, where a few drops of dark red blood had splattered, like plum blossoms blooming in the snow. Others stood with their mouths agape, eyes wide, yet no sound came out.

Their gazes were fixed on the man in the center of the pavilion.

Zhou Yang stood there. His black official boots sank into the warm pool of blood, beneath which lay the desiccated corpse of Commander Chen, like a piece of withered wood dried over centuries. He wasn't covered in much blood, only a few dark red spots, like accidental splatters of ink. He still held the sword in his hand, its blade clean and gleaming.

"vomit……"

A suppressed retching sound rang out. It was the prefect of Anyang County. This usually imposing and powerful official was now slumped in his armchair. His official hat was askew, and his gray hair clung messily to his sweat-dampened forehead. Dark, damp stains spread rapidly from his crotch, and a foul-smelling liquid dripped down the chair leg, forming a small puddle on the floor.

He looked at Zhou Yang, his lips trembling like withered leaves in the autumn wind. He wanted to speak, to beg for mercy, to call for help, but only a "hoarse" sound came from his throat, as if someone was choking him.

Zhou Yang's peripheral vision slowly swept across the entire venue.

It wasn't an emotional scrutiny, but rather a cold, indifferent inventory. Wherever his gaze fell, the guests seemed to be whipped by an invisible lash, each one abruptly lowering their heads, unable to meet his eyes. Some stared intently at their toes, others studied the patterns on the chopsticks on the table, and some even closed their eyes, feigning unconsciousness.

Fear spread among the people like a plague.

Zhou Yang's gaze finally settled on the figure beneath the red candle.

Qin Shuang was still standing there. Her striking red dress stood out starkly against the blood-red carpet. The jewels on her phoenix coronet and wedding gown were slightly disheveled, and a single gold hairpin dangled precariously, swaying gently with her barely perceptible breaths. There were no tears on her face, but her eyes were red-rimmed.

Her gaze was complicated.

She looked at Zhou Yang, then at the gruesome, desiccated corpse at his feet. The stench of blood filled her nostrils, stinging her temples. She knew Zhou Yang. That profit-driven, masterful actor, always appearing lazy. She also knew Commander Chen. That ruthless and unscrupulous Jinyiwei colleague, determined to possess her.

But what she saw before her was beyond her comprehension.

This was not a simple killing. It was an extreme humiliation, a crushing declaration. Zhou Yang wasn't killing people; he was using the most cruel method to tell everyone what would happen to those who dared to covet what was his. That "thing" was her.

The thought made Qin Shuang's heart clench. She had always thought that her relationship with Zhou Yang was a transaction, a collaboration, a mutual exploitation. But now, for the first time, she felt like an object, a piece of private property whose ownership had been marked by its owner through bloody means.

This feeling was unfamiliar to her, and it also caused a tremor deep within her heart that she herself was unwilling to admit.

Zhou Yang moved.

He strode towards Qin Shuang.

His official boots sizzled softly over the pool of blood. Each step felt like a blow to everyone's hearts. He walked steadily across the corpses strewn on the ground, without flinching, as if they weren't once vibrant lives, but merely roadside pebbles.

He walked up to Qin Shuang.

The two were only three steps apart. The candlelight flickered on his face, casting an unpredictable glow that obscured his expression. Qin Shuang could smell the faint scent of blood emanating from him, along with a faint, almost imperceptible chill, like the night wind of Black Wind Mountain.

She didn't back down, but just watched him quietly.

Zhou Yang raised his hand.

Qin Shuang subconsciously closed her eyes, her long eyelashes casting two trembling shadows in the candlelight.

The cool hand didn't touch her skin. Instead, it reached directly to the top of her head and pinched a corner of the bright red veil.

"Sizzle—"

A soft sound.

The sound of silk being torn was particularly jarring in the deathly silent waterside pavilion.

The red veil, a symbol of both newlywed joy and imprisonment and shackles, was ruthlessly torn off by Zhou Yang. The red silk fabric drew a brief arc in the air, like a butterfly with broken wings, and fluttered to the ground, half soaked in blood and half covered in dust.

Qin Shuang slowly opened her eyes.

The man in front of her was looking at her.

His eyes were deep, like two ancient wells, containing no anger, no murderous intent, and no joy. Only a calm, bottomless darkness.

He looked into her eyes and spoke slowly and deliberately, his voice not loud, but clearly reaching the ears of everyone present who could still hear him.

"From this moment on, you are free."