From the crimson swirls, horrors poured forth without cease.

  They assailed villages, laid waste to towns, slaughtered and devoured humankind.

  The soldiers—clad in iron and arrogance—proved impotent against them. Their spears remained sheathed unless the order came to fight one another.

  Jianghu warriors, however, began to unite.

  They hunted the monstrous tide. Some dared step through the swirling gates into the alien realms beyond, seeking the heart of the darkness.

  Many perished.

  Their deaths became silent lessons for those who survived: train harder, delve deeper, ascend to greater heights.

  The creatures spurred humanity toward strength. And Heaven, in turn, bestowed gifts upon those who swiftly and completely vanquished them. The fewer human lives lost in the struggle, the greater and more bountiful the rewards.

  Now men hunted not merely to protect.

  They hunted for the treasures the monsters yielded.

  The purpose of the hunt had shifted—tainted by greed.

  And it proved true: the pursuit of wealth drives men to labours far exceeding any born of altruism.

  In a shadowed ravine far to the south, beneath a sky stained the colour of dried blood, seven massive figures gathered.

  Their forms were grotesque—some scaled, some furred, some wreathed in black mist. Eyes burned with ancient malice.

  The first among them spoke, voice like a grinding stone.

  “Our children are slain by those wretched creatures, those who call themselves men.”

  The second—taller, crowned with jagged horns—growled.

  “Elder Brother, what course shall we take? Even our Fourth Brother, Huang He, perished at human hands.”

  The second turned its burning gaze upon them.

  “We, the Seven Demon Kings—how can we permit this? Yet we are outmatched in strength.”

  A third, slender and cloaked in writhing shadows, hissed.

  “Second Brother, are we not numerous?”

  “Indeed,” the second replied, “but these humans possess formidable martial arts. A single warrior can decimate an entire nest. They strive relentlessly to elevate their cultivation. Our progeny, alas, cannot.”

  The first spoke again, slow and deliberate.

  “We must be cunning. If they crave power, we shall grant it. Black stones—infused with dark river essence. They will accelerate cultivation, grant strength beyond their years… and slowly twist their minds. Aggression. Greed. Loss of restraint. Let the humans become monsters among themselves.”

  He turned to the third—largest, most brutish.

  “Third Brother—you shall take human form. Distribute these black stones among the greedy, the ambitious, the desperate. Second Brother, you will retrieve them from the banks of the Dark River. Fifth, Sixth, Seventh—you shall aid Second Brother in his guise.”

  All bowed low, voices unified.

  “We obey, First Brother! Your command is our will!”

  The ravine grew darker.

  The Seven Demon Kings dispersed.

  And far north, in the mortal world, crimson swirls continued to bloom.

  The jianghu of Chang’an burned with restless fire.

  Whispers raced through teahouses and training halls alike.

  “Our Yong Rong Sect must possess them as well!”

  An elder of the sect slammed his fist upon the table, eyes gleaming with hunger.

  “What power do these black stones hold?”

  “A single stone elevates one’s qi by a tenth,” a senior disciple answered eagerly. “Ten stones… double the pool of energy. And in moments, not years of bitter toil!”

  The elder’s breath quickened.

  “Dispatch disciples. Scour every auction, every shadow trader. Find more—perhaps another batch will appear!”

  “As you command, Elder!”

  It was not only the Yong Rong Sect.

  Disciples of the Sheng Huang Men prowled the lanes with the same fever.

  Since the twenty stones sold for less than a tael of gold—a mere ten strings of silver—those who had missed them gnawed at regret like starving dogs.

  They watched the fortunate few who consumed the stones grow stronger—suddenly, permanently—bypassing decades of sweat and seclusion.

  Who would not crave such power—swift, unearned, enduring?

  The hunger spread.

  On the city’s outskirts, a new compound rose overnight—high walls of dark timber, gates painted crimson and gold.

  A massive plaque hung above the entrance:

  DENG TIAN MEN

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Ascend Heaven Gate.

  A single promise drew the crowds:

  All who passed the trials and became disciples would receive five black stones—freely given.

  Cultivation to Foundation Establishment guaranteed within six months.

  How could anyone resist?

  A line formed before the gates—tens, then hundreds.

  Warriors who had stagnated for years.

  Youths dreaming of instant glory.

  Even established cultivators are seeking the final push.

  Within a single moon, Deng Tian Men boasted over two thousand disciples.

  Their progress was unnatural—qi surging, meridians widening, strength blooming like weeds after rain.

  Many now stood at the peak of Qi Condensation, eyes bright with arrogant fire.

  When Han Sen still wandered the markets in quiet search, the disciples of Deng Tian Men began to stride the streets with new swagger.

  The name Deng Tian Men became known.

  And feared.

  Their words grew harsh. Their manners are crude.

  Any who took offense—merchant who protested a shoved cart, woman who frowned at leering eyes—risked swift, brutal retribution.

  Fists fell. Bones broke. Some never rose again.

  The city whispered of the new sect’s cruelty.

  Yet still the line grew longer.

  Power, after all, spoke louder than fear.

  While in shadowed halls, four figures watched.

  Grandmaster Pekong Sun—tall, bark-robe heavy, eyes cold as winter stone.

  Beside him, three elders: Pekong Lai, Pekong Tin, Pekong Houw—garments woven of tree bark and cotton, stitched with rattan strong as iron.

  They smiled.

  The trap sprang.

  Humans walked willingly through the gate.

  And the darkness within the stones began its slow feast.

  The morning sun painted the sky in soft gold.

  Han Sen sat at a low stool in the bustling market, savoring breakfast wrapped in fragrant banana leaf—steamed rice with tender slivers of chicken braised in rich coconut milk.

  Simple fare.

  Five coppers only.

  Yet the flavor surpassed anything from gilded restaurants where a bowl of plain vegetables cost a tael of silver.

  The difference lay not in the food.

  But in the surroundings—the velvet cushions, the beautiful serving girls in low-cut silk, the unspoken bargain of lingering gazes and fleeting touches.

  He had come to understand: when war or famine broke a family, the fairest daughters often found “fortune” as serving wenches.

  Some rose higher—concubines to wealthy merchants or nobles, sending coin home to starving parents.

  Once the remittance eased the elders’ hunger, few asked after the girl’s fate.

  Drunken husbands.

  Brothel nights with a dozen strangers.

  Bodies worn by disease.

  Who cared for a woman born poor?

  Beauty was currency—spent, then forgotten.

  Filial piety, they called it.

  Han Sen watched the market children—porters, runners, errand boys and girls—their thin bodies pressed against leering men for a coin or two.

  Who clothed them?

  Who asked what price they paid for obedience?

  His thoughts drifted to the Jingjiao folk—the quiet charity, the foreign priest’s words.

  Strange teachings.

  Yet no falsehood he could find.

  A sudden cry shattered the morning calm.

  An elderly vendor stumbled, roasted glutinous rice cakes scattering across the dirt.

  The charcoal brazier toppled over and split in two.

  A hulking man loomed over her, three brutes at his back.

  “Which wretched cur demands payment?” he roared.

  Market guards—nine in total, paid enforcers in official garb—hurried forward.

  They were known: passable martial skill, quick to collect fees or break thieves’ fingers.

  But this day proved different.

  The four intruders dispatched the guards in moments—fists and feet blurring, bodies crumpling like discarded rags.

  “Who dares defy disciples of Deng Tian Men?” the leader bellowed. “This market is ours!”

  He raised a boot toward the fallen vendor’s face.

  TAAKKKK!

  The kick never landed.

  Instead, the man flew upward—body twisting mid-air—crashing hard upon packed earth with a pained grunt.

  Han Sen stood before the woman, palm still extended from the casual push.

  Three others rushed him.

  One at Foundation Establishment.

  Two at peak Qi Condensation.

  Enough to dominate any common brawl.

  Not enough.

  Han Sen moved—graceful, economical.

  Eight exchanges.

  No more.

  The attackers lay groaning, bruised, unable to rise.

  The market fell silent—onlookers staring.

  Men marveled at the youth’s power.

  Women at his face—handsome, almost androgynous in its refined beauty, yet eyes steady as mountain lakes.

  The Deng Tian Men disciples scrambled away—frightened birds fleeing a hawk.

  Han Sen did not pursue.

  No questions asked.

  Their sect was known.

  Feared.

  He knelt, helping the elderly vendor to her feet.

  Gathered scattered cakes.

  Her hands trembled.

  Tears traced wrinkles as she saw her shattered oven—livelihood in splinters.

  Han Sen drew a silver tael from his pouch.

  “Mother,” he said gently, pressing it into her palm, “use this. Renew your charcoal brazier. Your roasted rice is the best in Chang’an—I would miss it.”

  The woman stared, then bowed low—tears falling anew, this time of gratitude.

  Han Sen walked on.

  Unhurried.

  Behind him, whispers rose.

  The routed disciples returned to their compound—bruised pride burning hotter than wounds.

  That day, Deng Tian Men named a new enemy:

  A handsome youth who walked the markets.

  The morning sun climbed higher, warm upon Han Sen’s back as he walked the bustling lanes.

  He had bought new garments—simple robes in white and deep blue, cut well but plain.

  Enough to replace the travel-worn clothes carried since Tongzhou.

  Wealth had come suddenly, yet he spent with measured hand.

  Abundance did not demand extravagance.

  The cloth merchant bound the bundle in coarse sackcloth—old Chang’an way, sturdy and practical.

  Han Sen carried it over one shoulder, heading back to the inn to try the fit.

  He walked slowly, letting the city’s midday rhythm wash over him.

  Halfway along the lane, an elderly man stumbled—teetering, arms windmilling.

  Han Sen reached out—steadying him with a gentle grip.

  The old man straightened, eyes wild.

  “Surrender your possessions!” he rasped, voice trembling yet fierce.

  Han Sen smiled faintly.

  “Old one, the day is young. No need for jest.”

  “Then… give me your wealth!” the man pleaded, clutching at Han Sen’s sleeve.

  Han Sen’s brow lifted.

  “Why this request, Lou Ye?”

  “I must… must have coin… for black stones! Yes—the black stones!”

  The words spilled frantically.

  “I must feel them again! The cold qi—powerful, immense! Arrrghhh…”

  The old man’s inner energy surged—wild, uncontrolled, black, and frigid.

  His eyes burned with desperate craving.

  “Black stones! I need the black stones!”

  Suddenly, he leapt—frail body propelled by unnatural force—bounding away down the lane, vanishing around a corner with startling speed.

  Han Sen watched him go.

  Shook his head.

  Returned to the inn.

  In his chamber, he tried on the new robes.

  Fit perfect.

  Colors pleasing—white for clarity, deep blue for calm.

  Simple cloth.

  Yet wearing them, he felt subtly renewed.

  Purpose sharpened.

  He left the inn once more.

  Walked toward the city’s outskirts.

  Seeking the martial academy called Deng Tian Men.

  Renown made it easy to find.

  A long queue already snaked before high gates—hundreds waiting, eyes bright with hunger.

  Han Sen paused.

  Read the crimson-lettered placard:

  THOSE ACCEPTED SHALL RECEIVE FIVE BLACK STONES—FREE. CULTIVATION TO FOUNDATION ESTABLISHMENT GUARANTEED WITHIN SIX MONTHS.

  Five stones.

  Freely given.

  He reached into his pouch.

  Drew forth a single remaining black stone.

  Held it in his palm.

  Cold qi pulsed—potent, seductive.

  Tainted.

  Memory returned: Yan Lok’s blissful face drawing shadow essence.

  The market brutes—cruel, unrestrained.

  The fleeing elder—craving like a starving ghost.

  The black panther’s lair—source of the first stones.

  Black.

  Coarse.

  Cruel.

  Brutal.

  Did the stones twist men into monsters among men?

  Han Sen’s expression darkened.

  He had sold twenty.

  Spread the poison.

  Now, Deng Tian Men used them as bait.

  Drawing the ambitious.

  The desperate.

  The greedy.

  Was Deng Tian Men a wicked sect?

  Four disciples’ brutality was not proof.

  Yet the stones were. How could they get hold of so many stones?

  The hunger they bred.

  The change they wrought.

  Han Sen slipped the stone away.

  Turned from the queue.

  The dragon walked back toward the city’s heart.

  Questions burning colder than the stone’s qi.

  While behind him, the line grew longer.

  And the gate stood open.

  Waiting for the next soul to step through.

  Into promised ascension.

  And hidden fall.