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 swirled fallen leaves past the pavilion, making a soft rustling sound.

Zhou Yang stood still, without moving.

The knife in his hand was already sheathed, and the linen wrapped around the hilt had loosened, revealing the dark red wood grain underneath. It was the color of blood that had soaked through and dried.

The saint's words were like a thorn stuck in his mind.

"The fate of Anyang Prefecture."

That's an overstatement. So overstatement it sounds like a joke. But Zhou Yang couldn't laugh. He had witnessed the Saintess's methods, and he had seen the shadow of the "god" behind her. Such people disdain lying, because they feel it's unnecessary.

They believe that mortals are not worthy of hearing lies.

Zhou Yang took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. The night air was cool, and inhaling it felt like swallowing a mouthful of ice water.

He turned and walked back.

Their footsteps were so light that they were barely audible on the stone pavement. This was a habit honed in the dead – those who live long walk lightly.

Outside the pavilion is a long corridor lined with bamboo on both sides. The bamboo shadows sway in the moonlight, like countless hands waving.

Zhou Yang walked slowly.

he was thinking.

Every word the saintess just said was strange. The terms "celestial messenger" and "transcending" sounded like the ravings of a madwoman. But a madwoman wouldn't have that kind of look—her eyes were calm when she spoke.

They were as calm as if they were discussing what to have for dinner.

This calm sent a chill down Zhou Yang's spine.

He walked to the end of the corridor, where a small courtyard lay ahead. The gate was ajar, and a sliver of candlelight shone through the crack.

Zhou Yang stopped in his tracks.

The candlelight is new.

There was no light in the yard when he left.

He raised his hand, pressed the hilt of the knife, and then pushed open the door.

The courtyard was very clean. There was a stone table, several stone benches, and a well in the corner. The wellhead was covered with a stone slab, and the gaps were filled with wet mud, a traditional method to keep out mosquitoes.

A person was sitting at the stone table.

She was dressed in white, her hair was loosely tied up with a wooden hairpin, her face was very white, her features were very beautiful, but she had no expression.

Saintess.

She held a cup of tea in her hand, the tea leaves floating on the surface. She didn't drink the tea, but just looked at the water, as if studying the patterns on the tea leaves.

"You've arrived." She didn't even look up.

Zhou Yang stood at the door, without moving.

"Even if I don't come, you have to come to me," he said.

The saint finally raised her head. Her eyes were very dark, so dark they looked like two holes, and if you looked at them for too long, you would feel as if you were falling into them.

"sit down."

This is not an invitation, it's an order.

Zhou Yang smiled, walked over, and sat down opposite her.

"Speak, what do you want from me?" he cut to the chase. "That festival, how do you want me to cooperate?"

The saintess put down her teacup. The bottom of the cup tapped on the stone table with a soft, crisp sound.

"You agreed?"

"I need to know what I'm supposed to do first." Zhou Yang leaned back on the stone bench, relaxed. "I can't exactly go and die, can I? I'm not a follower of your religion, I don't think I'll go to heaven after I die."

The saintess looked at him, her gaze lingering on his face for a moment.

"You're smarter than I thought."

"You flatter me." Zhou Yang raised his hand in a fist salute. "Wise people live long."

"The ceremony is simple," the saintess said. "You only need to stand at the center of the formation and hold out for the time it takes to brew a cup of tea."

"Then what?"

"Then you don't have to worry about it."

Zhou Yang squinted.

That was said too casually. It was as casual as saying, "Stand there and bask in the sun for a while." But Zhou Yang knew that nothing comes easy; only knives will fall from the sky.

"Hold on for the time it takes to brew a cup of tea, then that 'celestial messenger' will emerge from my body." He repeated the saintess's earlier words, "And then what?"

"You will be very weak."

"How weak are you?"

"I can't get out of bed for three to five days."

Zhou Yang sneered.

"Three to five days?" He shook his head. "While I was lying in bed, what happened outside? Who protected me? You?"

The saintess remained silent.

The night breeze rustled through the bamboo leaves, filling the brief silence with its sound.

"You can name your terms," ​​the saint said.

That's exactly what Zhou Yang was waiting for.

He straightened up, his nonchalant expression vanishing. His eyes sharpened as he looked at the saintess.

"I want three things."

"explain."

"First, the complete layout diagram of the Heavenly Principle Sect's 'Blood Sacrifice Array,' including the location of the array's core, its operation method, and its weaknesses."

The saintess's fingers twitched slightly.

This was the first time she had shown a weakness tonight.

"Secondly," Zhou Yang continued, "I want a Blood Essence Pill. The real thing, don't try to fool me with some blood-nourishing pills."

"And the third one?"

"Third, during the festival, I need someone to assist me. This person must listen to me, not be one of your subordinates."

The saint picked up her teacup and took a sip this time. The tea had gone cold, but she seemed oblivious.

"I can give you the diagram of the Blood Sacrifice Array," she said. "I don't have any Blood Essence Pills on hand; you'll have to wait three days."

"Then wait three days."

"The third thing..." she paused, "...who do you need to cooperate with?"

"Qin Shuang."

The saint put down her teacup.

"She's a member of the Embroidered Uniform Guard."

"I know."

"You want her to get involved?"

"I need someone I can trust to back me up," Zhou Yang said calmly. "You can refuse, but I can also choose not to attend the ceremony. At worst, we'll both go down in flames, and your celestial messenger won't be able to get out either."

The saintess looked at him.

Zhou Yang was also looking at her.

The two stared at each other for a long time. Their looks made Zhou Yang's eyes start to sting.

"Alright," said the saint.

She stood up, took a scroll from her sleeve, and placed it on the stone table.

"This is a diagram of the Blood Sacrifice Array. Look at it yourself, and then burn it."

Zhou Yang reached out to take it, but the saintess's hand was on the scroll.

"I advise you not to have any wicked thoughts." She looked down at him, her tone indifferent. "The map is real. But if you dare to hand it over to the Imperial Guard or the court, I'll make you regret being alive."

Zhou Yang smiled.

"I'm a man who gets paid to do things, not a man who risks his life." He pulled out the scroll and stuffed it into his pocket. "I'll do anything as long as the price is right."

The saint turned and walked out.

"Three days later, at midnight, in the same place. I will bring you the Blood Essence Pill."

"Wait," Zhou Yang called out to her.

The saint stopped walking, but did not turn around.

"When exactly is the festival?"

"The seventh of next month," the saint's voice came from the darkness, "Ten days to go."

Her figure disappeared into the night.

Zhou Yang sat by the stone table without moving.

He reached into his pocket and touched the scroll. The paper on the scroll was rough and felt like some kind of leather.

He didn't open it immediately.

Some things cannot be done in this place.

He stood up and walked outside. When he reached the courtyard gate, he paused and glanced back at the well.

The soil in the cracks of the stone slabs at the wellhead was wet.

Zhou Yang withdrew his gaze and continued walking forward.

When they returned to Qin Shuang's courtyard, it was almost dawn.

The courtyard was quiet, and Qin Shuang's room was dark. Zhou Yang didn't knock on the door; he went straight back to his own room in the backyard.

He lit an oil lamp, closed the door and windows, and only after making sure there were no gaps did he take the scroll out of his pocket.

When the scroll is unrolled, it reveals a picture covered with lines and runes.

Zhou Yang couldn't understand it.

He knew nothing about formations. But he knew one person who definitely could understand them.

He rewound the scroll and tucked it into a hidden compartment under the bed.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed and began to think about the evening.

The saint agreed to all the conditions. Too fast, abnormally fast.

Either she was confident that Zhou Yang couldn't cause any trouble, or she needed Zhou Yang even more than he needed her.

Neither of these is a good thing.

Zhou Yang lay on the bed, staring at the roof beam. There was a crack in the beam, shaped like a centipede.

He stared at the crack, countless thoughts racing through his mind.

Collect the Blood Essence Pill in three days. The ceremony is in ten days. And Qin Shuang is there too.

He had to bring Qin Shuang in. Not for any other reason than to have someone of his own by his side. The Holy Maiden had too many subordinates; he couldn't handle them all alone.

But how can I tell Qin Shuang about this?

Saying, "I'm going to a cult festival, can you help me out?"

Qin Shuang would kill him first.

Zhou Yang turned over and lay on his side.

I'll think about these issues tomorrow.

He closed his eyes. Sleep was like a bucket of cold water poured over his head.

In his last moments of lucidity, a thought flashed through his mind: Was the picture of that blood sacrifice array real or fake?

This question remains unanswered.

He fell asleep.

There were no saints or celestial messengers in the dream, only a flickering oil lamp illuminating a blurry face. The face was smiling, smiling happily, but Zhou Yang couldn't make out who it was.

The next day, he was awakened by knocking on the door.

Zhou Yang.

It was Qin Shuang's voice coming from outside the door.

Zhou Yang opened his eyes, and the sunlight outside the window made him squint.

"Come in," he said.

The door opened, and Qin Shuang stood in the doorway. She had changed her clothes; she wore a light blue long gown with a leather belt around her waist, and her hair was tied up high, revealing a section of her fair neck.

"Something's happened," she said.

Zhou Yang sat up.

"What is it?"

"The Prefect died suddenly last night." Qin Shuang's voice was calm, but Zhou Yang could hear the tension in her tone. "He died in his study, without any wounds, but his body was as emaciated as a sheet of paper."

Zhou Yang's heart skipped a beat.

Shriveled.

Like paper.

This description reminded him of a word: suck dry.

"There's one more thing," Qin Shuang continued. "The constables found a letter in the prefect's study; it only contained four characters."

"Which four words?"

Qin Shuang looked at him, her eyes filled with complex emotions.

"The festival is about to begin."