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

The night wind whipped up gravel and lashed against the rock face, making a soft, grinding sound.

Zhou Yang lay prone in the shade of the mountain ridge, his knuckles holding three jade slips. The jade slips were engraved with dark patterns, tokens used by the Heavenly Principle Sect to transmit top-secret messages. He had retrieved these from Fang Tian's relics and then completed the contents in the stone chamber at the entrance to the abyss.

Torches lined the foot of the mountain like dragons and snakes, and at least five hundred people formed an iron barrel. The three bishops stood on a makeshift platform, their black robes fluttering in the wind.

Zhou Yang licked his chapped lips. The taste of blood still lingered on his tongue, a remnant from his breakout. He pulled out a tinderbox and lit a roll of cloth soaked in kerosene. In the instant the flames shot up, he tossed the jade slip into the air.

The three jade slips traced arcs in the air before falling into the camp at the foot of the mountain.

"Catch!"

Someone shouted. The jade slip landed at the feet of a small flag bearer, reflecting the firelight. The flag bearer picked it up, but before he could even examine it, a second and a third jade slip were thrown into the crowd. The believers stirred, and in the scramble, the jade slip slip slipped from their hands and rolled to the edge of the platform.

The bishop on the left, wearing a bronze mask, bent down to pick it up. The pupils beneath the mask suddenly contracted.

The jade slip contained details of the distribution of spoils within the Church last month. Of the three mines that should have been divided equally, half ended up in the private coffers of the fat bishop on the right. Even more fatal was the last line—"The three thousand followers of the C-Character Church were, in reality, sacrifices."

The fat bishop's expression changed. He snatched the jade slip and swept the bronze incense burner off the table with his sleeve.

"Slander!"

A roar ripped through the night sky. The fat bishop's beard and hair bristled, his robes billowing with inner energy. He pointed at the bishop on his left, his finger trembling: "It's you! You must have embezzled the treasury silver that disappeared last month, and now you're turning around and accusing me!"

The bishop on the left sneered, a chill seeping from the edge of his mask: "Treasury silver? The disciple of the Bingzi Hall was transferred to Black Wind Gorge yesterday, and today he's a corpse. You know perfectly well who gave the order."

The third person on the platform—the silent bishop—quietly took a half-step back. Her hand rested on the soft whip at her waist.

The ranks below the mountain were thrown into chaos. Cracks appeared in the once impenetrable encirclement; the cultists on the east gripped their sword hilts tightly, watching their fellow disciples on the west with vigilance. The members of the Bingzi Hall, who were already standing on the outer perimeter, suddenly became agitated upon hearing that they were to be sacrificed.

Explain yourself!

A burly man, his face contorted with rage, pushed through the crowd, pointing his knife at the platform: "My brother was transferred last night, and this morning his body was nowhere to be found. Bishop, give me an explanation!"

The fat bishop's forehead veins bulged. Before he could defend himself, the bishop on his left had already launched an attack. The palm beneath the bronze mask glowed with a bluish light, and a palm struck the fat bishop in the back.

boom!

The shockwave ripped open the felt cloth covering the platform, extinguishing most of the candlelight. The fat bishop hastily turned around, his palms clasped together, but he was still forced back three steps, crashing into a wooden pillar and breaking it. He spat out a mouthful of blood and roared as he retaliated.

The two bishops collided in mid-air, the shockwaves of their energy severing the flagpole. The banner embroidered with black stars fluttered down, draping over the heads of the chaotic crowd.

Zhou Yang lay prone behind the rock, watching the farce unfold below. He pulled out the fourth jade slip—this one was engraved with even more ruthless information, detailing the cult leader's training secrets. But he didn't throw it away immediately; he simply watched the bishops tear each other apart.

The fat bishop was struck on the left shoulder, leaving it a bloody mess. In his rage, he hurled three bone-piercing nails, only to have them blocked by the bishop on the left using his mask. The nail tips pierced through the bronze and lodged above the mask's wearer's brow bone, blood dripping down the mask's chin.

"That's enough!"

The bishop finally made her move. Her soft whip, like a venomous snake, coiled around their wrists, forcibly separating them. Her voice was shrill, resonating with inner energy: "The external enemy has not been eliminated, yet you kill yourselves? What kind of behavior is this!"

The fat bishop, panting heavily, his eyes bloodshot, cried out, "He defamed my innocence!"

"Innocence?" The bishop on the left removed his mask, revealing a bloody hole in his brow bone, his smile twisted in a grimace. "Three hundred lives from the C-Character Hall, is that enough to clear your name?"

The commotion below the mountain had escalated into a standoff. The followers in the eastern camp drew their swords, while the soldiers in the western camp raised their shields. The sound of bugles relaying orders rose and fell, but no unified command could be conveyed.

Zhou Yang shrank back and slid down the rock face. The loose rocks beneath his feet tumbled and rustled softly. He didn't care; the chaos below was enough to mask the noise.

He reached into his robes, the sharp edges of the dragon's spine fragment digging into his palm. The temperature was a few degrees higher than before, as if urging him to leave.

Just as he turned around, a person emerged from the shadows ahead.

The man was dressed in tattered, close-fitting clothes, with half a torn star embroidered on the cuff—the mark of a traitor to the Heavenly Principle Sect. He was a middle-aged man with a burn scar on his left cheek and two fingers missing from his right hand.

"Zhou Yang?"

The man's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing together. He didn't draw his knife, but simply opened his left hand, which had only three fingers left, and a copper coin lay in his palm.

The copper coin is round on the outside and square on the inside, with "On Behalf of Heaven" engraved on the front and "Acting on the Right Path" on the back.

Zhou Yang's hand rested on the hilt of the knife; he remained silent.

"We are not the bishop's men." The man took half a step forward, but stopped immediately when he saw Zhou Yang's eyes turn cold. "The survivors of the Bingzi Hall just heard the contents of your jade slip."

He turned his head and pointed down the mountain: "We'll only be happy when those beasts that we want to sacrifice are all dead."

Zhou Yang's gaze swept over the man's knees. His legs were trembling slightly, a sign that old injuries hadn't healed. But his posture was steady, and there were calluses on the web of his left hand, marks from gripping a knife.

"How many of you are there?" Zhou Yang asked.

"Seventy-three outside the valley," the man said bluntly. "They're all escaped from their respective branches, refusing to believe the cult leader's lies. You have evidence, and we have connections and manpower."

A scream echoed from the foot of the mountain; it was unclear which bishop had struck with deadly force. The flickering torchlight distorted the shadows of those in the figures.

The man pulled a yellowed piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over. A simple map of mountains and rivers was drawn on the paper, with a red dot marked in vermilion somewhere. Zhou Yang glanced at the red dot and saw the words "Dragon's Backbone" written next to it.

"Cooperation?" the man asked.

Zhou Yang took the drawing and rubbed his fingertip against the vermilion. The paint wasn't completely dry yet; it had only been drawn recently.

"What do you want?" Zhou Yang folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Alive." The man grinned, revealing a toothless smile. "And while we're at it, we'll see those beasts in black robes die."

He turned and pointed to the secret passage on the other side of the ridge: "In half an incense stick's time, the encirclement on the east will change hands, that's a gap. Our brothers will be there to meet us at the bottom of the cliff."

Zhou Yang didn't move immediately. He stared at the man's back, his right hand never leaving the hilt of his knife. The mountain wind blew into his collar, carrying the smell of gunpowder and blood.

Down the mountain, the fat bishop finally used his trump card, a poisoned dagger slicing through the throat of the bishop on the left. Blood splattered onto the female bishop's whip, and she screamed and retreated.

The chaos reached its peak. The believers on the east side began to scatter, and some took advantage of the confusion to escape out of the valley.

"Lead the way," Zhou Yang said.

The man nodded, and tapped the rock face three times with his three-finger left hand. Two partridge calls came from the shadows in response.

Zhou Yang glanced one last time at the firelight below the mountain. The bishops were still fighting; no one remembered there should be another target within the encirclement. He withdrew his gaze and followed the man into the crevice in the rocks.

The crevice was narrow, allowing only one person to pass sideways. Water seeped from the stone wall, making it slippery and cold to the touch. Zhou Yang's shoulder grazed the protruding ridge, tearing his clothes, but he did not stop.

A faint light was shining through from ahead.

The man's silhouette swayed in the halo of light, like a fish swimming upstream.

Zhou Yang clutched the blueprints and fragments in his arms and quickened his pace. The sounds of battle still echoed from the valley behind him, but they grew farther and farther away, eventually fading into the sobs of the wind.

At the end of the crevice was a precipice, with vines hanging down like curtains. Three men dressed identically stood below, heads tilted back, their eyes wary and intense.

Zhou Yang grabbed the vine and jumped down.