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

Zhou Yang tied the last nail cord in front of the bronze mirror.

The man in the mirror had gray hair and deep wrinkles around his eyes, like a cracked riverbed. He reached out to smooth the wrinkles on the shoulder of his flying fish robe; his knuckles were rough, and the veins stood out. The uniform of a thousand-household commander looked somewhat empty on him. A hundred years of lifespan had taken away not only his lifespan, but also the essence and spirit within his flesh and blood.

He picked up the Dragonspine Sword. The blade was sheathed in a specially made sharkskin scabbard, the runes hidden beneath the dark leather. The hilt was wrapped with newly replaced hemp rope, which felt rough like sandpaper to the touch.

Hurried footsteps came from outside the door.

"Commander Zhou, the Imperial Preceptor's retinue has arrived at the city gate."

Zhou Yang pushed open the door and stepped out. The night wind rushed into his collar, carrying the distinctive rusty smell of late autumn. In the distance, a line of torches lit up the direction of the city wall, like a winding fire dragon.

He mounted the horse. The horse jolted, and the muscles on the inside of his thighs tensed. This tangible sensation reminded him that he was still alive, even though he only had one year, three months, and seven days left.

The altar was set up on the Prayer Platform, three miles outside the city. When Zhou Yang led his troops to arrive, the outer perimeter was already under martial law. The Imperial Guards' soldiers gripped their embroidered spring knives, the scabbards striking their leather armor with a dull thud. No one spoke; only the crackling of the burning torches could be heard.

"Lord Commander, this way please."

Zhou Yang followed the guide through three lines of defense. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. It felt like someone was stuffing wet cotton into his lungs; each breath required effort. The Dragon Spine Sword trembled slightly at his waist, its hilt tapping against his hip bone, again and again.

The Prayer Platform stands nine zhang tall, entirely constructed of obsidian. The stone steps are inscribed with sacrificial texts, the cinnabar-filled patterns gleaming dark red in the firelight. A massive canopy drapes the top, its yellow silk billowing in the wind.

As Zhou Yang stepped onto the last stone step, the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end.

He stopped in his tracks.

A person is standing in the center of the stage.

The man wore a purple robe, the hem embroidered with a golden dragon. He wore no hat, and his hair was neatly combed, revealing a full forehead. He had his back to Zhou Yang and was looking at the large bronze cauldron in the center of the altar. Some kind of incense was burning inside the cauldron, and the blue smoke rose straight up, then suddenly dispersed three feet above the man's head.

It felt like I'd bumped into an invisible wall.

"You're here?"

The voice was soft, even gentle. Zhou Yang felt a sharp pain in his eardrums, as if he had been pricked with a needle. He knelt on one knee, clasped his hands in a fist and palm salute: "Your subject Zhou Yang is ordered to oversee the outer perimeter security."

The man in purple robes turned around.

Eyes facing each other.

Zhou Yang saw a pair of eyes. Very ordinary eye shape, eyelids slightly droopy, corners drooping, as if they hadn't slept. Something was swirling deep within the pupils. Not light, but a deeper darkness, like two dry wells, the bottoms filled with millennia-old silt.

"You're the commander who killed Fang Tian?"

"yes."

"Very good." The man in purple robes smiled, a few fine lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. "That traitor Fang Tian, ​​I've been chasing him for three years. You've done a good job."

He reached out and gave a slight push. Zhou Yang felt a powerful force supporting his elbow, forcing him to stand upright. This force was cold and sticky, like a venomous snake coiling around his arm, trying to burrow into his heart through his blood vessels. Zhou Yang secretly circulated the "Shattering Star" technique, and the cold force circled his chest, ultimately failing to penetrate.

The man in purple robes raised an eyebrow slightly, but not by much.

"You're in good health." He withdrew his hand, rubbing his fingertips together inside his sleeve. "Keep an eye on the perimeter tonight, don't let any unauthorized personnel get close. I'm about to begin a ritual, and I don't like being disturbed."

"Yes, sir."

Zhou Yang turned to leave, but suddenly froze.

A woman emerged from the shadows on the east side of Taitung.

She wore a plain white dress, the hem damp with dew. She wore no veil, and her face appeared excessively pale in the firelight. In her right hand she held a string of bone bells, which jingled softly with each step, their clear sound drowning out the wind.

The smile on the purple-robed man's face vanished.

"The Imperial Preceptor certainly has quite the airs," the woman said, her voice hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against wood. "After three years of fruitless pursuit of my sect's leader, you still have the nerve to put on airs here."

The air condensed.

Ten feet apart, the ground suddenly cracked. The obsidian platform groaned under the weight, sending fragments of stone flying. Zhou Yang's Dragon Spine Sword trembled violently, almost spilling from its sheath. He gripped the hilt tightly, his hand splitting open, blood seeping into the hemp rope between his fingers.

The man in purple robes stood with his hands behind his back, his robes fluttering even without wind: "The Holy Maiden has come to her death?"

"Here comes a gift." The Holy Maiden of the Heavenly Principle Sect raised her hand, her bone bell pointing to the bronze cauldron. "Is that ambergris burning inside? Trying to suppress the earth's veins with dragon energy? Too bad..."

She shook her wrist slightly.

The bell rang three times.

The smoke from the bronze cauldron suddenly changed color. It turned from bluish-green to pitch black, viscous as ink, churning and gushing out of the cauldron's mouth. A putrid stench spread out, not the stench of corpses, but an even more ancient, fishy smell, like an anchor salvaged from a sunken ship at the bottom of the sea.

The purple-robed man's expression changed slightly. He waved his sleeve, sending out a burst of purple energy that forced the black smoke back into the cauldron. The two forces clashed at the cauldron's mouth, producing a metallic clang. Sparks flew, burning small craters into the ground.

Zhou Yang stood slightly to the right of the two, caught in a dilemma.

He saw it clearly. The purple aura of the purple-robed man was solid and substantial, while the black smoke of the saintess was unpredictable and ever-changing. Neither of them was fighting seriously; they were merely testing each other. The aftershocks of this testing had already caused several lower-level Imperial Guards around them to bleed from their mouths and noses and collapse to the ground.

This is the significance of the final boss.

Zhou Yang lowered his head, staring at the tips of his boots. Mud splattered on the boots, from the path he'd taken. He slowed his breathing, letting his heartbeat steady. The Dragon Spine Sword no longer trembled; the blood on the hilt soaked through the hemp rope, making it slippery to the touch.

"Commander Zhou." The man in purple robes suddenly called out his name.

"Your subject is present."

"Take your men and retreat to a distance of thirty feet. No one is to approach without my order." The Grand Preceptor's voice, though still gentle, now carried a metallic chill. "I wish to speak with the Holy Maiden alone."

"I obey."

Zhou Yang waved, leading his remaining subordinates who could still stand back to retreat. He walked at the back, his back to the two big shots. He could feel two gazes fixed on his back, one cold and sinister, the other indifferent.

He gripped the Dragonspine Sword tightly, his nails digging into his palms.

He stopped and turned around thirty feet away.

On the Prayer Platform, a figure in purple robes and a white silhouette faced each other from afar. The night wind whipped up yellow sand, forming a swirling earthen wall between them. The black smoke and purple mist from the bronze cauldron continued to entwine, slicing the moonlight into fragments.

Zhou Yang touched the wrinkles on his face; the rough texture brought him back to his senses.

He was just a commander with only one year left to live. The two on the stage could crush him with a mere flick of their wrists. With the Dragon Spine Sword in hand and the "Shattering Star" technique flowing through his body, the number "1 year, 3 months, and 7 days" on the system panel was blindingly red.

The festival hasn't started yet.

The locations of prey and hunter are never fixed.

He licked his chapped lips, turned, and walked back to his post. His flying fish robe fluttered in the night wind like a tattered flag.