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

Burning, ten-year lifespan.

The moment the words fell.

The world before Zhou Yang's eyes had changed.

The mummified corpse's lunging body was no longer a swift shadow. Its movements were broken down into slow-motion frames. Its withered arms, dragging its tattered sleeves, traced clear paths through the air. The foul-smelling wind had also become a trackable airflow.

His thinking was clearer than ever before.

The weakness of that mummified corpse was no longer a vague guess, but a crystal-clear blueprint unfolding in his mind. Between the third and fourth cervical vertebrae, there was a tiny crack. That was the only turning point in its stiff body. There, all its strength was concentrated, and it was also its most vulnerable spot.

Power, the immense power accumulated over ten years of life, surged through his limbs and bones. It wasn't a warm torrent, but a cold, pure, and extreme energy. His body reacted even faster than his brain.

The mummified corpse's claws were less than three feet from his face.

Zhou Yang advanced instead of retreating.

His toes lightly touched the ground. His entire body, like a weightless leaf, floated half a step to the left. This angle was extremely tricky. It perfectly avoided the direct attack of the dried corpse, and also placed him precisely in its most vulnerable spot.

The inertia of the dried corpse prevented it from changing its tactics.

Right now.

Zhou Yang's right hand, fingers together, formed a palm. The edges were taut, like a red-hot knife. He didn't use any fancy moves. Just the simplest, most direct slash.

The goal is that clear crack in my mind.

"Pfft."

A muffled thud. Like a hot knife cutting into solidified lard.

Zhou Yang's palm precisely slashed into the mummified corpse's neck. There was no hard, bone-like sensation as he had imagined. His palm, as if melted, sliced ​​through the dried flesh and wedged itself directly into the fragile bone crevice.

A chilling aura rushed into his palm.

Zhou Yang's eyes narrowed. The power he gained by burning his lifespan was equally cold. The two chilling currents collided within his arm, sending a shiver of tingling pain through him. He twisted his wrist sharply.

"Snap!"

The crisp sound of bones breaking echoed through the empty ancient tomb.

The massive, dried-up corpse froze in mid-air. Its lunging motion was solidified into an absurd pose. A trace of disbelief seemed to linger in its empty eye sockets. Then, the power completely dissipated.

Its head drooped down at an odd angle.

"Boom!"

The massive, dried-up corpse crashed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. Then, silence.

Zhou Yang withdrew his hand, his palm turning bluish-black. The chilling energy was still churning within him. He frowned, channeling his pure Yang energy to slowly expel the foreign energy from his body.

After doing all this, a feeling of exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed me.

A chill ran from his feet to the top of his head. It wasn't a physical cold, but the emptiness brought on by the passing of life. Ten years, a full ten years. His hair seemed to have turned a few strands white, and fine wrinkles had appeared at the corners of his eyes. This body had most honestly recorded the price of this transaction.

He leaned against a nearby stone pillar and took a few deep breaths.

Their gaze fell upon the three-tiered altar.

The dried corpse is dead. The guardian has vanished. Now, it's the main character's turn to appear.

He dragged his slightly heavy steps onto the altar. The stone slabs beneath his feet were cold, engraved with many ancient characters he couldn't understand. He walked to the central platform. It was very empty, with only a circular recess.

He closed his eyes.

The power gained from burning ten years of his lifespan wasn't just the strength to deal with the dried corpses. It also included a piece of information—a ritual to unlock the true core of this ancient tomb. That method was imprinted in his mind.

He opened his eyes, his gaze returning to calm.

He stretched out his left hand and, without hesitation, bit his thumb. A sharp pain shot through him, and blood quickly seeped out. Crimson, full, and warm with life.

He crouched down and pressed his blood-stained fingertips into the cold, round groove.

Then, begin drawing.

This was not random graffiti. Every stroke, every line, had a specific direction and rhythm. His fingers moved across the stone slab, leaving winding trails of blood. These bloodstains were quickly absorbed by the dry stone, their color fading.

But Zhou Yang knew it was useless.

He had to use his own lifeblood to draw the rune called "Bloodmark Mark" completely and continuously. This required a high degree of mental concentration and precise control over the blood in his body.

One drop, two drops...

He kept biting his fingers to replenish the "paint".

Time passed slowly. His face grew paler and paler, and his lips lost all color. Finally, as the last stroke was made, the entire mark was completed.

It was an intricate and eerie pattern. It resembled a coiled spider, or a blooming blood-red lotus.

It was completed in the very instant.

"Buzz..."

Suddenly, the entire mark glowed with a faint red light. The light rose and fell like breath. At first, it was dim, like a candle flickering in the wind. But soon, the light grew stronger and stronger, dyeing the entire center of the altar with an eerie red hue.

Zhou Yang took two steps back, watching everything warily.

The ground beneath my feet began to tremble slightly.

"Boom!"

A muffled, loud thud came from directly in front of the altar. It wasn't an explosion, but the sound of some massive mechanism being activated.

Zhou Yang looked up.

On the ancient carvings on the stone wall directly opposite the altar, a crack is slowly appearing. The crack extends from the middle upwards and downwards, like a black lightning bolt.

Dust fell in rustling sounds, like a black snowfall.

The stone wall moved very slowly, accompanied by heavy groans. The grinding sound was teeth-grinding, as if some giant beast was struggling to awaken behind the stone wall.

Zhou Yang didn't urge him. He just watched quietly.

He knew this was a trial within the ancient tomb. Only by passing the test of the dried corpse's strength could one be qualified to open this final door with the bloodstain mark. Impatience was pointless here.

The stone wall receded inwards and eventually disappeared completely into the walls on both sides.

A pitch-black hole appeared before Zhou Yang.

A stream of dry, pure air flowed from the cave entrance. It lacked the musty, decaying smell often found in tombs, carrying only an aura of something like a mixture of metal and dust. It was very clean, and very ancient.

Zhou Yang stood at the cave entrance, not going in immediately.

He looked inside.

The dark room was small, about ten feet square. The walls were smooth, without any superfluous decorations. And in the very center of the dark room, something was silently suspended in mid-air.

It has no support frame and no ropes.

It just hung there, defying all logic.

Zhou Yang's heart skipped a beat.

What did he see?

The object was about the size of a palm, shaped like a fish scale, yet thicker and heavier than any fish scale. Its entire body was an indescribable silvery-white. It didn't reflect light; rather, it seemed to absorb all the surrounding light, making itself appear exceptionally deep.

The surface of the scales is etched with countless intricate patterns. These patterns are not static; they flow slowly, intertwine, and evolve, as if possessing their own life. A tiny scale seems to contain an entire starry sky.

An invisible pressure emanated from the scale.

This oppressive aura wasn't violent or wild. It was calm and profound. As it spread, the air seemed to thicken. Zhou Yang felt he was having difficulty breathing. It wasn't physical pressure, but an absolute suppression on a life-level scale.

Dragon spine fragment.

These three words naturally came to mind.

Unlike the dark, deathly fragment belonging to Master Fangtian, this piece before me was brimming with extreme vitality. Although it merely floated silently, it seemed to be the only source of light, the only living thing, in this desolate ancient tomb.

Zhou Yang looked at it.

There was no greed or ecstasy in his eyes.

There was only a cold, almost detached calm. Like a shrewd businessman examining a priceless commodity.

His gaze swept over the flowing patterns on the fragment, feeling the calm pressure emanating from it, and his mind began to calculate rapidly.

What do you need to give up to get it?

Repairing it will burn through many more years of its lifespan.

After acquiring it, how many benefits can one gain in return?

Ten years have passed, and this is what we see before us.

Is it worth it?

Zhou Yang slowly raised his hand, reaching for the floating silver scale. His fingertips, pale from blood loss, trembled slightly. Not from excitement, but from physical weakness.

But his outstretched hand was unusually steady.