The Overseer of White-Forest Town, a stern-faced man with a neatly trimmed beard and an air of authority that came from years of dealing with unruly cultivators and bureaucratic headaches, slammed his fist on the table. The polished wood groaned in protest, but his advisors, gathered around the table in various states of apprehension, remained silent.
"So, you're saying," he growled, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the meeting chamber, "that we have a Heavenly Demon on the loose, one who somehow stole from multiple clan vaults and libraries - taking books that seemingly have no relation to each other, a few valuable manuals, nearly emptying all the gold but leaving the spirit stones from those vaults? And we have absolutely no idea where this monstrosity is?!"
He glared at his advisors, each one representing a different facet of the town's administration – a grizzled old cultivator with a missing eye, a sharp-witted woman clutching a stack of scrolls, and a nervous plain-faced young man with short cropped hair who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"I have doubts that it is a Heavenly Demon and not a Heavenly Saint, Overseer!" the old cultivator interjected, his voice gravelly but firm. "Through either serendipity, prior knowledge, or simply divine retribution from the Heavenly Court, the only ones stolen from were those rumored to be involved in demonic influence."
The Overseer's frown deepened. “What about the artifact-class transport shuttle? The one this… ‘saint’ apparently commandeered from one of the vaults before crashing it in the middle of the marketplace?”
“A means of a lucky escape, perhaps?” the young advisor offered timidly. “Maybe a deliberate distraction? It would be hard to keep an object like that hidden and selling it would be a pipe-dream. Leaving it where it was is the wise move for someone expecting to be on the run.”
The Overseer sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. The insane bastard who took us all on a short, wild goose chase, then vanished, is no longer our problem. Send a report up the chain to the White-Willow-Forest City Citylord. He will certainly have diviners who can ascertain the truth of this matter."
He turned his attention to the sharp-witted woman, who was now poring over a stack of scrolls. “What of the moron who somehow convinced the guards that he was from the illustrious Qing Clan while the actual Qing Clan has no record of him?”
“It is being handled, Overseer,” she replied, her voice crisp and efficient. “We’ve dispatched messengers to the Qing Clan elders with a detailed account of the imposter’s appearance and… unique vocabulary.”
She paused, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. “They were not amused.”
The Overseer chuckled dryly. “I can imagine. Well, let’s hope the Citylord’s diviners can shed some light on this mess before the entire region is convinced we’re harboring a demonic mastermind with a penchant for flowery language and stupidly wild celebrations.”
The advisors murmured their agreement, each one silently hoping that this strange, chaotic episode would soon be nothing more than a footnote in the annals of White-Forest Town’s history.
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The ancestral hall of the Qing Clan thrummed with suppressed rage. The air crackled with unspoken threats, and the faint scent of incense did little to mask the underlying tension that permeated the grand chamber.
"I want whatever little shit who called himself Kong found and then shredded into a million pieces!" The Patriarch of the Qing Clan, a withered figure with eyes that burned with a cold fury, slammed his fist onto the ebony table. The sound reverberated through the hall, silencing the whispers and nervous coughs of the assembled elders.
"How dare he use the name of my deceased grandson!" The Patriarch's voice cracked with emotion, his grief morphing into a venomous hatred. "Kong Ru Qing should never be disgraced with such a rotten, weak imposter! Find him!"
From the shadows behind the Patriarch, a group of figures emerged. They moved with a chilling silence, their presence radiating an aura of lethality that sent a shiver down the spines of even the most hardened elders.
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Clad in black robes that concealed every inch of their bodies, faces hidden behind featureless red masks, they were the Death-Soldiers of the Qing Clan. Each one was a weapon honed to a razor’s edge, their minds purged of all thought save for duty and absolute obedience. The weakest among them had already stepped into the second realm of cultivation, The Meridian Opening Realm, their bodies tempered by rigorous training and fueled by a chillingly detached ruthlessness.
At their head stood the Captain, a figure that exuded an aura of quiet menace that dwarfed the others. He was a cultivator of the fourth level in the Meridian Opening Realm, his every movement a graceful lethality that was absolute proof of the years of brutal discipline and mastery of deadly techniques. His mind, a blank slate devoid of emotion or hesitation, was focused solely on the task at hand: to hunt down and eliminate the imposter who dared to besmirch the name of Kong Ru Qing.
“Yes, Lord!” The Death-Soldiers spoke as one, their voices a chilling chorus of steel and obedience.
With a final nod to the Patriarch, the Captain turned and vanished into the shadows, his squad following close behind. They moved like phantoms, their presence fading from the hall as quickly as it had appeared.
Outside, the red desert of the Shu Long Wastes stretched out before them, a vast and unforgiving landscape. But for the Death-Soldiers, there was no fear, no hesitation. Only the relentless pursuit of their quarry, driven by the unwavering will of the Patriarch and the chilling promise of retribution.
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The opulent chamber, hidden deep within the labyrinthine depths of a seemingly ordinary tavern, reeked of spilled wine, cheap perfume, and desperation. Gilded cages housed exotic birds with feathers that shimmered with an unnatural iridescence, their screeching a discordant song of trapped life, whatever message it was meant to convey didn’t matter, only that it was incredibly unsettling and would reveal anyone who did not actually wish to purchase the service of murder here. The birds were, in fact, part of an array to detect if a customer was actually there to hire or to attack.
Thick tapestries, depicting scenes of both sensual pleasure and brutal violence, adorned the walls, their colors faded but their message clear: power and indulgence reigned supreme in this den of shadows.
This was the hidden heart of the Assassin's Guild, a place where contracts were forged, secrets whispered, and lives extinguished for the right price.
And at this moment, the air crackled with the shrill, grating voice of a woman who embodied the very essence of entitled rage.
"I WANT MY ALREADY DEAD SON TO STOP WALKING!" The Matriarch of the Ku Clan, a woman whose beauty had long since been corrupted by a lifetime of excess and cruelty, paced back and forth, her silk robes rustling like a venomous serpent. Her face, once striking, was now a mask of fury and grief, her eyes narrowed to slits, her lips twisted into a snarl.
"NO ONE DESERVES TO STAND IN THE FLESH OF MY WONDERFUL BABY BOY!" Her voice, sharp and piercing, echoed off the tapestries, the birds in their cages fluttering in alarm. "I DON'T CARE IF IT'S A HEAVENLY SAINT OR SUN WUKONG HIMSELF! HE MUST DIE!"
Behind her, a greasy, obsequious figure bowed low, his oily smile doing little to mask the avarice in his eyes. He was the Guild's contact, a man who thrived in the shadows, his pockets lined with the blood money of countless contracts.
"Yes, yes! We all feel your pain, beautiful mistress of the Ku Clan!" He oozed false sympathy like a slug leaving a trail of slime. "We will hunt down the walking corpse and destroy him. We will bring it back whole for your funeral, just you wait! The Assassin's Guild always gets the job done, no matter the job! The customer is always right!"
The Matriarch, her rage momentarily appeased by the promise of vengeance, flung a heavy pouch onto the table. It landed with a thud, spilling forth a hundred low-quality spirit stones – a pittance to her, but a fortune to most. It was more than enough to buy a hundred replicas of every item Kong Di Qing had acquired during his spree.
With a final, disdainful sniff, the corpulent menace swept out of the chamber, leaving behind the scent of cheap perfume and a lingering aura of malice.
The Guild contact, his smile now genuine, scooped up the spirit stones, his fingers lingering on their rough surfaces.
"Another satisfied customer," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. "And a very profitable one at that."
The birds in their cages resumed their discordant screeching, a fitting sound to match the dark business that thrived in the hidden heart of the taverns of many a city in every empire of this world, the Assassin's Guild was a force that was truly everywhere.
The White orchard region of the Azure Dragon Empire, where the largest portion of cultivation clans and city leaders are at least partially controlled by Demonic Cultivation sects...
Was heating up.
The cause of this had no idea at all.