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

The walls of the abandoned palace were mottled, and withered vines climbed the stone pillars. The red-lacquered door at the entrance had been smashed open from the inside, lying haphazardly. As soon as Zhou Yang crawled in, three black streaks of light appeared almost simultaneously.

The Blood Shadow Guards stood in neat rows at the entrance, followed by two night watchmen. Their sleeves gleamed with a cold, silvery light, and they looked like sleek, untouched blades. The middle-aged man leading them had two scars near his eyes, and his smile was sickeningly thick. His voice echoed twice in the empty corridor: "Is the heating still on in the cellar? When is that rat in the jar going to jump out and visit?"

The other two also hummed softly, one pointing to the ground: "I think Zhou Yang is stuck in that pile of grave dust. Miss Qin Shuang's chosen 'pawn' is really interesting." The three of them looked very relaxed, as if they were picking out fatty meat around a warm kang (a heated brick bed).

They tightened their formation, swiftly sealing off several exits. The staircase leading north from the cellar was blocked by the Blood Shadow Guards' black cloth, the steps strewn with pebbles. They kept their torches low, staring at the stone door, as if Zhou Yang were still around some corner. Zhou Yang looked up; the shadows at the stairwell entrance were filled with moisture, the damp smell of stone mingled with tobacco and old ash, like the mold that had long been trapped in an old house.

He ignored their laughter. The cellar was pitch black, the damp air making his chest feel heavy. Zhou Yang pulled the tinderbox from his pocket, his fingers, calloused from years of cold combat, even more stiff and dry. He lightly tossed it, then lit it. A cluster of red light burst forth in his hand, flames leaping out. The firelight illuminated the wall, spilling onto the dense array of runes, neatly arranged like a woven net. These were originally the front of the Soul-Suppressing Talismans, but Zhou Yang had turned each one upside down, then used the Blood Shadow Guard's blood to write reversed strokes, assembling them into curved array eyes. The array exuded a metallic smell and a certain putrid stench, like a blackened fumes suddenly leaking from a sword-forging furnace.

There was no echo around him. In the firelight, he saw his black belt, inlaid with silver thread, gleaming coldly, illuminating the marks on his face along with the tinderbox. His eyes were deep, holding within them the night of a city.

"You really thought I wasn't prepared?" He flicked his pipe, the ash falling neatly to the ground. He didn't speak; the words remained only in his heart.

Three Blood Shadow Guards raised their torches, the flames flickering in the darkness. One of them approached and said, "Your skills are no less than those of the most cunning gamblers in the martial world; you're determined to get yourself into a death trap." He spoke with a smirk. Another man touched the dagger in his hand, his laughter light: "If it weren't for the Imperial Advisor's orders, who would willingly wait to die in this dilapidated cave?"

Zhou Yang didn't move. The air deep in the cellar swayed gently like a wing, and he felt the damp stone wall behind him breathe. The light from the tinderbox flickered slightly, reflecting the cold blue hue of the runes on the wall.

He didn't speak, but instead raised his hand. The cold, black iron ring slid between his fingers. He snapped his index finger, producing a crisp sound. A system notification rang in his ears, its sound like a bell in an old palace.

[Consumes one month of lifespan to activate the Yin Gathering Array and summon Imperial Tomb Corpse Soldiers.]

The voice was devoid of warmth, its measured tone like that of a transaction. Zhou Yang lowered his eyes.

The temperature in the cellar suddenly dropped outside the firelight. The flame of the tinderbox froze between their fingers. The three were still talking, their laughter frozen in the air, then stopped abruptly. The first person looked up, about to utter a word, when he felt something soft beneath his feet. Zhou Yang raised his gaze slightly and saw a crack appear in the ground.

An arm emerged from a crack in the stone, pale and thin like the decaying wood on an old coffin lid. And there were more. Those arms, like black vines, covered the ground and the corners of the walls. They grabbed the Blood Shadow Guards' ankles, then yanked them back sharply with their deeply embedded fingernails.

"He's using the wall as a knife." One of them pried open his jaw, trying to utter a "kill," but no sound came out. His legs were tightly bound by arms on the wall, and even his sword was off the ground. The blade had lost its gleam.

Zhou Yang remained silent. His gaze darted between the firelight and shadows. The Yin Gathering Array lit up without a sound: numerous fireflies flickered within the runes, but utterly devoid of warmth. The night wind surged up from the cracks in the ground, carrying the scent of earth and the minty aroma of corpses. Those soul-suppressing talismans were no ordinary array bases; Zhou Yang had combined the remnants of the corpse soldiers from the imperial tomb. They weren't the current corpses, but rather the spirits of the corpses he had already captured into his ring using the "Soul Matrix."

He swung his wrist and pressed down with his palm, widening the cracks in the wall, revealing arms that had crawled out as marks of binding. They clenched their ankles tightly, like shackles rising from the earth's core. The Blood Shadow Guards began to struggle, their bodies pressed neatly together, the torches falling to the ground, the flames shifting to the corner, illuminating the previously unseen paper talismans. The reversed runes swayed in the firelight, appearing as if someone were smearing them on a face.

A veiled Blood Shadow Guard attempted to draw his sword. The tip had barely risen an inch when a hand rose from the ground, pressing it back down. The hilt vibrated, and his fingers went numb. The sounds from the cellar became clearer; a hand rubbed against the cracks in the stone, like someone sharpening a knife beneath him.

"If you want to live, crush these runes." He finally heard the man shout. There was a bloody stench in his voice. His chest heaved violently, and a line of blood trickled down his clothes.

Zhou Yang remained silent. He reached out and retracted the tinderbox, dimming the light further. The flickering, eerie light between his fingers cast a shadow in his eyes with each flicker. He remembered Qin Shuang saying in the Embroidered Uniform Guard camp: "Entering the door is like entering a landmine." What he was doing now was like entering a landmine.

That power didn't manifest itself. He reached out with his other hand, put his pipe into his pocket, and used his ring to pull out a small plaque. The plaque was engraved with the words "Corpse Emperor." That was the gift he was offering to the Grand Preceptor, and it remained silent until then.

The arms on the wall tightened, pressing against the wall like whips. The three Blood Shadow Guards were firmly restrained, their arms twisted at unnatural angles. None of them could move. A sense of looking down filled their eyes, and they finally realized that there was no "pale prey" on the other side, but rather the deep darkness of the stone wall and the tunnel.

Zhou Yang emerged from the shadows. The firelight illuminated the profile of his face, revealing faint shadows in his eyes. Dampness seeped up from the seams of his sleeves. He nodded to the trapped Blood Shadow Guards and said softly, "The Prince's mansion is your Grand Preceptor's chessboard, and I'm here to settle the score."

The words were spoken lightly, yet carried a strange chill. The three could only respond with their eyes, their lips twitching. Zhou Yang turned, looking back at the stone gate, the direction they had come from. The mechanism he had placed beneath the gate quietly activated as he nodded, the stone gate emitting a low click.

He slowly crouched down and relit the tinderbox. The flames reflected on the wall, casting blood-red lines. These lines stretched out like blood ties, eventually connecting to the center of the earth. Zhou Yang reached out and traced the runes with his fingertips at the end of the flame; the runes flickered with the movement of his knuckles.

He stood up, standing in the very center of the Yin Gathering Array. His shadow on the ground distorted, resembling an overturned nest. In the distance, at a corner of the wall, a long hand slowly emerged from a crack in the stone, but before it was fully revealed, it was bound back in place.

The cellar fell silent again. His arms remained wrapped tightly, the air around him feeling like blades. Zhou Yang said nothing, glancing at the lights outside the door, a reminder that the three Blood Shadow Guards had only just lost control. He didn't know how long this method could last; after all, the weapon wasn't in his hands yet.

He reached for the pipe on the ground and took a puff. The flame flickered between his fingertips, making the cellar seem even darker. The sound of smoke rising from the flame rang softly in his ears, like a string suddenly taut in his throat.

Zhou Yang turned and went deeper into the cellar. The runes on the walls flickered silently as he passed. Holding onto the wall, he felt the coolness of the stone, like the hand of a gatekeeper in an ancient tomb.

He listened intently. Footsteps echoed from the dark end of the staircase outside. The footsteps were slowed by the array, as if treading on thick cloth. He nodded slightly, indicating that the Yin-Gathering Array was still operating. A trace of warmth lingered in his chest, a remnant of his struggle on the brink of death.

He slowly walked to the deepest part, where there was a small door. The wood on the door was rotten, but still sturdy. He placed his hand on the door knocker and slowly turned it. The floor beneath the door trembled slightly again, as if something was wriggling.

The wind rose again from the depths of the cellar, carrying the smell of blood and coal smoke. He sensed the airflow from another secret passage in the distance, a faint, almost inaudible breathing sound. He didn't turn around, but simply gently placed his pipe back at his waist and went inside.

There was an eye in the shadows. It wasn't looking at him, but rather to the right, towards the unsealed exit. Its gaze held a mixture of repression and anticipation.