Feng Zhiming's consciousness jolted back abruptly, finding himself in a dimly lit courtyard. He stood facing a stage where a shadowy figure loomed, its presence commanding yet shrouded in mystery. The air felt heavy, as if something important had slipped just beyond his reach—a memory, perhaps, of what transpired after he vanquished the grotesque creature. Yet, try as he might, it eluded him, teasing the edges of his mind.
Glancing around, he noticed he was not alone. Other shadowy figures surrounded him, all eerily similar to his own form. Their presence felt familiar, as if they were reflections of him in some twisted mirror.
“All those who stand here,” the figure on the stage began, its voice deep and resonant, “have slain an opponent equal in power, an adversary nearly unrivaled within their realm.”
Feng Zhiming felt a pang of surprise. The creature he had fought, though monstrous, didn’t seem nearly as formidable as this proclamation suggested. Perhaps its weakened state had masked its true power. Unable to ponder further, the figure continued, “You will receive further instructions once all have arrived. Until then, you must be patient.”
As Feng Zhiming looked down, he noticed with mild alarm that even his own body had taken on the same shadowy form. All his belongings, including his precious storage ring, were inaccessible, as though sealed away by some unseen force.
“Quite the predicament, isn’t it?” a voice, smooth and laced with irony, cut through his thoughts. Another shadowy figure approached, its shape indistinguishable but its tone distinctly feminine.
Feng Zhiming, unfazed, observed the figure cautiously. He was confident that in this shadowy realm, no physical harm could befall him. “Please elaborate,” he prompted, maintaining his composure.
“Well, being torn away from home and loved ones, thrust into this... situation. It’s a bit unsettling, don’t you think?”
The voice, though feminine, was void of any real emotion. Feng Zhiming smirked, recognizing the ploy. “Let’s be honest, fellow cultivator,” he replied, his voice tinged with sarcasm, “This is a gathering of miscreants. We have no loved ones.”
The figure hesitated, its attempt at sympathy falling flat. “Apologies, my efforts were a bit too transparent.”
“No matter,” Feng Zhiming replied dismissively. “Idle conversation before death is as good a pastime as any.”
Despite the nonchalance in his words, a simmering frustration gnawed at him. The realization that this mysterious figure could erase his existence with a mere thought was infuriating. Had his century of cultivation and struggle been for nothing in the eyes of this being?
The figure giggled softly, an unsettling sound in the quiet courtyard. “Isn’t this anonymity amusing? One of us could be a Dao Lord, another a lowly Body Refiner, and we’d never know.”
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Feng Zhiming’s eyes narrowed. “Stop trying to discern my cultivation level,” he said coldly. “It’s a tedious game.”
The figure paused, seemingly taken aback by his bluntness. “I—”
“We’ve all defeated an opponent at the peak of our respective realms,” Feng Zhiming interrupted. “No one here will be easily fooled.”
His words rang true, especially for those who walked the demonic path. Cunning and deceit were second nature to them, often necessary for survival in a world that sought to suppress their existence.
Suddenly, a loud voice rang out from across the courtyard. “THIS ONE IS HUANG FANG!” The announcement was bold, bordering on arrogance.
Feng Zhiming exchanged a bemused glance with the shadow beside him. “There are always outliers, I suppose,” he remarked dryly.
“Indeed,” the figure agreed, the tension between them easing slightly.
As more shadows materialized, their numbers steadily grew, approaching a hundred. The figure beside Feng Zhiming spoke once more, this time more subdued. “This reminds me of a game I used to play,” she mused. “I’d gather the most poisonous creatures I could find and trap them in a jar.”
Feng Zhiming’s eyes widened in realization. “The sharpest blade,” he murmured, “Is one that can shatter all others.”
“Well spoken,” the figure replied, a note of admiration in her voice. “I’ll remember that.”
“Likewise,” Feng Zhiming responded, a wry smile on his lips.
A brief silence followed as they shared a mutual understanding. “Crow,” she offered.
“Serpentess,” he replied, shaking her hand, sealing their unspoken pact.
The title “Serpentess” suited her, given her affinity for poison. But the fact that she called him “Crow” revealed her keen intuition, for it was a name he had earned over a century of wandering the cultivation world.
“She must have some sort of technique that sharpens her instincts,” he thought, scanning the courtyard as more figures appeared. “There’s no other way she could know my alias from a few words.”
“Since we’re both waiting,” she said, breaking his reverie, “why don’t you tell me about your opponent?”
“I fought a grotesque creature,” Feng Zhiming replied, the memory of its hideous form making him cringe involuntarily.
She chuckled. “Much more interesting than mine. I faced a demonic cultivator, a human, of all things. He tried to absorb my blood essence with some basic, boring technique.”
“Is that so? And what makes your techniques so intriguing?” Feng Zhiming asked, a subtle smirk playing on his lips.
“If you ever fight me, darling, you’ll find out,” she teased, her tone almost flirtatious.
Feng Zhiming shook his head in mild amusement. Their conversation tapered off as the one hundredth shadow finally appeared. The moment it materialized, a suffocating aura descended from the sky, pressing down on them with the weight of a thousand mountains.
The pressure was overwhelming, like a peasant standing before a king. Even the shadows seemed to tremble under its weight, their very souls quivering in its presence. Feng Zhiming struggled to lift his gaze, and when he did, he saw a shadow figure, much like the others, but engulfed in red flames as it descended onto the stage.
Chaos erupted in the courtyard as the shadows began to panic. But the figure on the stage spoke a single word, its voice quiet yet absolute. “Silence.”
Instantly, the courtyard fell into a deathly hush. The figure surveyed the hundred shadows before it, its gaze cold and unyielding.
“There are a hundred of you in this courtyard,” it declared, its voice echoing in the stillness. “By the end of this, only one will remain—alongside ninety-nine corpses.”
Feng Zhiming’s mind raced, anger boiling beneath his calm exterior. “One hundred corpses,” he thought darkly, “if I add you to the pile.”
But despite the fury simmering within him, Feng Zhiming remained composed. He knew that, even now, he could not afford to let his emotions cloud his judgment. After all, beneath the shadowy form, he was still human.