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

The night was as dark as ink. Zhou Yang stopped at the entrance of the Ministry of War warehouse in the north of the city, and the system on his chest softly announced: "High-value target." He raised his hand and pushed open the iron gate, the creaking sound echoing in the empty warehouse.

The lamplight was dim, and the candles flickered. Rows of wooden crates stood, their surfaces covered in dust. Zhou Yang's footsteps were soft, yet each step was carefully considered in terms of danger. He drew a dagger with a dark pattern, his fingertips trembling slightly. The inscriptions on the crate lids were no longer weapon serial numbers, but rather the names of several unfamiliar medicinal herbs.

"This isn't a weapon," he muttered to himself, his eyes scanning the heavy wooden crates. At the bottom, scrolls were pressed flat, revealing accounting records on paper. The numbers didn't match the contents—the iron ingots stored were labeled "spiritual herbs." He unfolded the paper; the handwriting was messy but clear: "Smuggling 'Heavenly Spirit Grass' and 'Bloodwood Root,' profit of 500,000 per crate, delivered to Jinling Prefecture."

Zhou Yang's heart raced. Exposing this would inevitably unearth a massive darkness within the Ministry of War. Qin Shuang's status as his sugar daddy was enough to protect him, but it would also drag her into the vortex.

Just as he was reviewing the accounts, the wooden door of the warehouse was suddenly pushed open with a bang. Two assassins from the Eastern Depot, dressed in dark blue robes, burst in, their eyes sharp and piercing. The leader's sword had a blood-red mark hanging on its back.

"Zhou, don't even think about escaping." The voice from the back of the knife was deep, yet chilling.

Zhou Yang didn't back down; he turned to face them. Behind him, the pile of medicinal herbs emitted a faint herbal scent, mixed with the smell of sawdust. The situation before him was like a dense net; there was only one way to break free.

He quickly scanned his surroundings and noticed several broken pottery jars piled up next to a row of boxes filled with "bloodwood roots." The ash remaining in the jars seemed to be remnants of old gunpowder. A thought flashed through Zhou Yang's mind: use the medicinal herbs to create thick smoke, then ignite the jars to create an explosion.

"It's all an exchange," he said softly, but before the other person could react, his hand had already slid to the medicine pouch at his waist.

He pulled out a small pinch of "Heavenly Spirit Grass" and quickly ground it into powder. The powder glowed faintly at his fingertips. Then, he grabbed a bloodwood root, smashed it into pieces, and scattered them at the bottom of the box.

Bang—the first ceramic jar was ignited, instantly bursting into a blue-green flame. The flames spread, the powder burning rapidly in the air, billowing thick smoke. The assassins from the Eastern Depot instinctively covered their mouths, but their vision was obscured by the smoke.

In the blur of vision, Zhou Yang charged towards the foremost assassin. A gust of palm wind swept past, knocking the hilt of the assassin's sword away, the blade slicing through the thin clothing at the chest. Blood dripped onto the ashes, instantly releasing an even thicker black mist.

The assassin on the other side tried to draw his hidden weapon, but the thick smoke burned the back of his hand, causing him to stagger backward in pain. Zhou Yang showed no mercy, kicking aside a wooden crate and smashing the iron ingot underneath into the assassin's chest. The iron ingot struck with a dull thud, and the assassin's head tilted to the side.

The warehouse lights began to flicker, the firelight casting mottled shadows on the walls. Just before the last pottery jar exploded, Zhou Yang leaped onto the high beam. The fire instantly engulfed the box, the flames illuminating his profile, his eyes like cold stars.

"Don't think I don't know your methods," he shouted, his voice echoing through the burning sawdust.

Another assassin from the Eastern Depot finally rushed out, wielding a slender, concealed staff. Zhou Yang remained calm, using the pillar he was leaning against as a shield. The tip of the staff struck some gravel, making a crisp sound. Seizing the opportunity, Zhou Yang kicked the staff, breaking it in two, and the assassin lost his balance.

The fire was out of control, and the warehouse's wooden structure began to tilt after several muffled thuds. Zhou Yang decided not to linger any longer and ran towards the warehouse's side door. The side door was locked tightly with an iron lock, the key obviously inside. He grabbed a burning wooden stick and smashed it against the lock cylinder; the metal cracked open with a resounding crack.

The door was pushed open, and a cold wind howled in, carrying the lingering warmth of the flames. The night outside was still pitch black, but the starlight was already faintly visible. Zhou Yang rushed out of the warehouse, the sound of dragging wooden crates echoing behind him, as if even more undercurrents were swirling within.

He ran to the dilapidated alley outside the city wall and leaned against it, panting. He could still feel the lingering heat of the flames on his chest, and clutched the torn roll of account paper tightly in his hand. The edges of the paper were charred black by the flames, but the key numbers were still legible.

"This is a gift for Commander Qin," he muttered to himself, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Not far away, the city wall lanterns lit up, and the sounds of patrolling soldiers drew closer. Zhou Yang quickly gathered his sleeves, wiping away the ashes from his clothes. The night remained deep, with only the sound of the wind gently rustling through the stone slabs.

He turned, his gaze locking onto the entrance to a secret passage in the north of the city. It was a secret passage leading to the former site of the Heavenly Principle Sect, mentioned only by his former master, Fang Tian. The system notification sounded again: "High-value target—internal evidence." Zhou Yang nodded, stepped into the passage, and his figure gradually disappeared into the darkness.

The walls of the secret passage were covered with decaying cloth, and the air was thick with the damp smell of earth. Footsteps echoed in the narrow space, each step seeming to pound against his heart. Ahead, he heard the faint sound of water, like the murmur of an underground river.

Zhou Yang's fingers lightly touched a protruding stone, which instantly moved backward, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside was a thick booklet, its cover titled "Internal Accounts of the Ministry of War." He opened it and saw more details about corruption—money transactions between officials and merchants, clandestine deals in military equipment, and even connections to the inner workings of the imperial palace.

The sound of pages turning was exceptionally clear in the silence. Zhou Yang's eyes sharpened as he secretly calculated: if this information were made public, it would surely shake the foundation of the Ministry of War and give Qin Shuang greater bargaining power.

Just as he was engrossed in the pages, he heard soft footsteps coming from the other end of the secret passage. A figure appeared at the dimly lit exit; a woman in brocade robes stood under the lamp, holding a short knife in her hand.

"Zhou Yang?" The woman's voice was calm, yet carried an undeniable authority.

Zhou Yang looked up, his gaze meeting hers. It was Qin Shuang's figure; in the darkness, her eyes remained cold, but now held a hint of weariness.

"I thought you would be waiting for me in the warehouse," Zhou Yang said with a smile, his voice low but full of calculation.

Qin Shuang approached calmly, step by step. The hilt of her sword lightly touched the scabbard, producing a soft metallic sound. She said in a low voice, "You've already dragged the Ministry of War's culprits into this mess, and you still want to take the evidence away?"

Zhou Yang handed her the booklet, raising an eyebrow slightly: "The evidence isn't in our hands; its real value lies in who dares to touch it."

The two stared at each other for a moment, but said nothing more. Only the lingering warmth of the flames and the damp smell remained in the air.

Just then, the sound of horses' hooves approached from afar; the Eastern Depot's pursuers were closing in. Zhou Yang quickly put away the booklet and gave Qin Shuang a look. Qin Shuang nodded, drew her short sword, the blade gleaming coldly in the lamplight.

The two rushed out of the secret passage side by side, only to be drowned out by the sound of horses' hooves. Eastern Depot cavalry charged up the city wall, bowstrings drawn taut, arrows whistling through the air. Zhou Yang raised his hand, grabbed a long rope, and hurled it at a fallen wooden stake. The stake, pulled by the rope, slammed into the cavalry's carriage, its wheels tumbling and the horses thrown into panic.

Qin Shuang's blade sliced ​​through the air, precisely piercing a cavalryman's chest. Blood splattered; her movements resembled a dance routine honed through countless rehearsals. Another cavalryman paused at his bowstring, hesitating before being pulled down by Zhou Yang's other rope, falling to the ground.

In the firelight, the thick smoke rising from the warehouse ruins mingled with the gunpowder smoke outside the city walls. Zhou Yang's heart was still pounding in his chest, but he felt no fear. The system notification sounded again: "Mission Completed—Gained Extra Lifespan." He chuckled softly, secretly noting down this gain.

The night wind ruffled his hair, and the firelight flickered slightly in the distance. Qin Shuang looked back at the warehouse destroyed by fire, a complex light flashing in her eyes. She didn't speak, but simply nodded gently.

Zhou Yang walked side by side with her towards the city gate, the burning ruins behind them, and an unknown storm ahead. In the shadows, the system's text flashed in his mind: "High-value target—continue." He raised his hand to touch the lifespan depletion device on his chest, feeling a warmth at his fingertips.

"To live is to calculate every exchange clearly," he murmured to himself, his steps firm.

Outside the city gate, the first rays of dawn pierced through the thin mist, casting their light upon the broken rubble. Zhou Yang's figure stretched long at the boundary between light and shadow, like a cold blade, ready to be drawn again.