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

The sewage was black and smelly.

Zhou Yang carried Qin Shuang on his back and walked through the narrow, dark passage for about the time it takes for an incense stick to burn. Finally, light appeared ahead. It wasn't firelight, but the kind of pale, almost imperceptible daylight that had been squeezed out by tall buildings.

He climbed out of the exit hole.

The two were instantly enveloped in a cloud of murky air. The smell was a mixture of pungent coal dust, the sour stench of rotten vegetables, and the stale odor unique to densely populated low-lying dwellings, a mixture of sweat and food scraps.

This is a slum outside Daning City, known as "Washe District". The houses are like randomly stacked building blocks, crooked and crammed together. The sky is fragmented by the messy shacks and clothes drying in the sun.

Qin Shuang shifted slightly on his back, her voice weak: "I... can walk by myself."

"Don't move." Zhou Yang's voice was somewhat deep. The wound on his back was still bleeding, the sticky fabric clinging to his flesh, making every step a torment. But his steps were steady. Here, falling was more dangerous than getting injured.

He needs to find a place immediately.

A completely safe hiding place that will go unnoticed by anyone.

His gaze swept quickly across the alleyway. Finally, it settled on a solitary building at the end of the alley. It was a mortuary, the inscription on the plaque above the door peeling away, leaving only a blurry trace of paint. Two dilapidated lanterns hung at the entrance, one of them with half its lampshade broken, swaying ghostly in the wind.

The Washa district had the highest death toll, and the people there were also the least afraid of death. Soldiers would instinctively avoid such places during searches.

Zhou Yang carried Qin Shuang on his back and limped over.

The door to the mortuary was ajar, one of the hinges was broken, and the door panel leaned precariously against the frame. He squeezed in sideways, and a long-dormant, rotten smell hit him.

It was dark inside. Only a small window in the main wall let in a few rays of gray light. In the light, countless dust particles swirled and danced.

Several thin-skinned coffins were neatly placed in the corner of the house, a final resting place for the poor. Thick layers of dry grass were laid on the ground, presumably for moisture protection.

Zhou Yang carefully placed Qin Shuang on a pile of relatively clean hay. He leaned against the wall and let out a long breath. His chest was still burning with pain, and the wound on his back felt like it had been torn open again.

He couldn't care less about himself; he had to first consider his current situation.

With a thought, a count that only he could see appeared before his eyes.

Lifespan: 712 days

Zhou Yang was stunned.

He clearly remembered that in the Demon Suppression Bureau's prison, in order to repair the Dragon Spine fragments and forcibly break through, he had burned off at least two hundred years of his lifespan. Later, he fought a series of battles, which also consumed a great deal of his lifespan.

How come my lifespan is not only not shorter now, but even longer than when I first transmigrated?

He recalled it.

After being imprisoned in the Demon Suppression Bureau's dungeon, he devoured the energy of the Earthly Fiend Beasts, as well as the flesh and blood of the jailers. Especially during the great riot just now, he felt as if he were in the midst of a bloody feast, frantically absorbing countless pure life energies.

It turns out that killing powerful enemies and consuming their flesh and essence can indeed replenish one's lifespan.

This is much more direct than consuming rare and precious herbs. Rare and precious herbs are hard to come by, but enemies... are never in short supply.

A huge weight was lifted from Zhou Yang's heart. This meant that his "add money" model had become cyclical. It was no longer a one-time consumable, but something that could be recycled, and even... the more you used, the more you got.

He looked at Qin Shuang.

She leaned against the wall, her face as pale as paper, her lips cracked. The wound on her collarbone was deep; although it had stopped bleeding, the surrounding skin was black, clearly indicating poisoning.

"How are you?" Zhou Yang asked.

Qin Shuang opened her eyes, the previous resolve and deathly stillness gone, replaced by a calm. She shook her head: "I won't die. This poison won't damage my core, but it will take time to neutralize."

As she spoke, she began to sit cross-legged and circulate her inner energy. It was the Qin family's ancestral inner cultivation technique, the Profound Ice Technique. It used cold energy to suppress the poison and then slowly neutralize it.

"I'll protect you." Zhou Yang didn't ask any further questions.

Qin Shuang glanced at him but did not refuse. She closed her eyes and formed a hand seal. A faint, visible layer of white, chilling energy emanated from her. The surrounding temperature plummeted, and the moisture in the air condensed into tiny ice crystals.

Zhou Yang sat opposite her, leaning against the door, his eyes warily fixed on the outside of the mortuary.

He needed to regain his strength. He pulled out half a dry, hard cornbread from his pocket, which he had hidden in prison. He nibbled on it in small bites, making very soft sounds, like a mouse grinding its teeth.

The mortuary was very quiet.

The only sounds were the faint, thread-like sounds of Qin Shuang circulating her energy when she circulated her cultivation technique, and the mournful whistling of the wind blowing through the broken window, like the weeping of a wild ghost.

Time passed by, bit by bit.

After finishing his cornbread, Zhou Yang felt some strength returning. He tore open the clothes on his back, revealing a deep wound that exposed bone. Gritting his teeth, he retrieved a method for treating injuries from the corpse soldier's memories. Lacking any wound medicine, he used his internal energy to force out the stagnant blood and bits of flesh from the wound, bit by bit. The excruciating pain made him tremble all over, his forehead covered in cold sweat.

After doing all that, he collapsed to the ground, like a dehydrated fish.

Just then, a noisy sound of footsteps came from outside the mortuary, accompanied by foul language.

"Damn it, I can't even pay my bills this month. Do I even want to stay in this place anymore?"

"Old Wang's scrap metal isn't even enough to fill a tooth gap! Smash it!"

Zhou Yang's pupils contracted. He immediately held his breath and shrank into the shadows behind the door, leaving only one eye visible.

In the alley, three or four thugs were surrounding an old man huddled in a corner. The leader was a burly man with a scar on his face, carrying an iron rod. They kicked over the old man's shabby stall, scattering copperware and old books all over the ground.

"Grandpa Tiger, please have mercy... my wife is sick at home..." the old man pleaded.

"If you're sick, drag him out and bury him! Don't take up space!" Scarface spat and raised his iron bar to smash him.

Zhou Yang's gaze fell on the scarred man's chest, where a menacing black tiger was embroidered.

Black Tiger Gang.

The biggest criminal gang in the capital.

This group entrenched themselves in the Washe district, colluding with powerful officials at court and exploiting ordinary people. They engaged in all sorts of shady, clandestine activities: selling information, kidnapping people, and handling "trouble" for certain important figures. They were the unseen hand extended by the powerful and wealthy.

The government troops might not find the mortuary, but the Black Tiger Gang, these local thugs, know every blade of grass and tree here like the back of their hand. If they come in to loot, or even just to take shelter from the rain, Zhou Yang and Qin Shuang will be exposed.

Zhou Yang's hand had already reached for the pipe at his waist. He would strike without hesitation if any of the thugs outside made a move. Killing a few people was nothing to him.

But he suddenly stopped.

Forcing their way out would draw too much attention. Both he and Qin Shuang were wanted criminals; their movements had to be kept absolutely secret.

As he looked at the Black Tiger Gang swaggering outside, an idea quickly formed in his mind.

He needed a completely new identity. An identity that would allow him to establish himself in the capital without arousing suspicion from anyone.

He needs money. A lot of money. He and Qin Shuang need money to survive, to buy medicine for their injuries, and to gather information.

He needed intelligence even more. He needed to know the Grand Tutor's next move and the situation outside; he needed an intelligence network.

And isn't this Black Tiger Gang the perfect stepping stone?

They have powerful relatives and influential figures as backers, a gang of thugs under their command, and control over this small area of ​​the theater. They have established identities, money, and intelligence channels.

They were like a piece of fattened meat, placed in front of Zhou Yang.

Zhou Yang's gaze slowly shifted from wariness to something else entirely. It was the look of a hunter eyeing its prey—cold, focused, and full of calculation.

He glanced at Qin Shuang, who was recovering from her injuries. She was fragile and needed a stable environment.

He could no longer keep her on the run. He needed to take the initiative and carve out a foothold for himself in this murky water.

Outside the mortuary, Scarface's threats continued. The old man's wailing mingled with the thugs' sneers, creating a tragic elegy for the lower rungs of society.

But to Zhou Yang, the sound was like a suitable background music.

A cold smile slowly spread across his lips.

The smile never reached his eyes; his eyes held only a bottomless darkness.

Black Tiger Gang.

Fat meat delivered to your door.