In a single day, Han transcended his mortal limits and became a martial artist.

Such feats were unheard of—even before coming to Black Cloud Town, Huang Shiren had only heard vague rumors of such occurrences. He had dismissed them as baseless tales.

Yet now, the impossible stood before him.

“Zheng!”

The ornate sword hanging on the wall emitted a sharp hum. Suddenly, it unsheathed itself and shot toward Han, hovering menacingly in the air.

Psychic weapon control—a unique ability of soul cultivators, fundamentally different from the methods of martial artists.

Han’s eyes narrowed as he noticed the flying sword and instinctively moved to evade it.

But the two ghost servants grew even more aggressive, and a wave of invisible energy crashed into his mind, leaving him momentarily dazed.

“Slash!”

The sword grazed Han’s body, slicing through his robes and leaving a deep gash. Blood sprayed into the air as pain surged through him, forcing him to stagger back several steps.

Had he not twisted his body at the last moment, the blade would have struck his neck.

“That was... psychic shock?” Han muttered through gritted teeth.

Before he could process further, the sword and the two ghost servants attacked again in unison.

Han fought to fend them off, but his movements were clumsy, and fresh wounds began to appear on his body.

“Hiss!”

The pain made Han suck in a sharp breath.

With Huang Shiren personally joining the fray, the battle took a dire turn for Han.

The ghost servants, while ferocious, were straightforward in their attacks. Han could handle them even with his limited combat experience. His innate yang energy offered him protection, and direct confrontation worked well enough.

But against Huang Shiren, Han’s lack of battle-hardened skills became glaringly obvious.

Adding to the difficulty, Huang occasionally unleashed psychic shocks that further disoriented Han. While Han’s cultivation could resist the illusions of the ghost servants, it wasn’t enough to fully withstand the attacks of Huang, a ghost master.

As his injuries multiplied and blood loss took its toll, Han felt a dark force stirring within him.

A pair of bull-like demonic eyes seemed to appear in his mind, and suddenly, the pain vanished. His consciousness gave way to a feral, frenzied state.

“You’re a genius,” Huang Shiren said with a sadistic smile. “Your martial talent is extraordinary, and your will is unyielding. If given time, you might have become a martial powerhouse even at the age of twenty-two.”

Huang’s voice carried a mix of mockery and excitement. Though his own talent was mediocre, the thrill of crushing a rising star brought him joy.

“I will extract your soul and turn it into my ghost servant.”

Despite his taunts, Huang’s attacks never relented. His words were venom, but his blows were lethal.

Han was barely holding on, his body covered in wounds.

Yet, as the battle dragged on, something remarkable began to happen—Han’s combat instincts and skills visibly improved.

Indeed, Han was a natural-born talent, though his current abilities had been artificially enhanced by a treasure.

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But the situation grew critical. Blood loss and exhaustion loomed like specters over Han. Desperation surged within him.

“Damn it,” he thought. “To hell with staying hidden!”

In that moment of resolve, a pattern resembling the Three-Light Fortune Mirror appeared on Han’s right palm.

He activated the artifact he had kept hidden all this time.

Pouring his scarce inner energy into the mirror, Han felt it respond, even if the energy wasn’t perfectly compatible.

Instantly, a faint white glow enveloped his body.

Huang Shiren’s psychic shocks crashed against the glow like stones sinking into the ocean, losing all their potency.

With the artifact’s protective light shielding him, Han unleashed a flurry of punches on the ghost servants. Their anguished howls filled the air as they staggered back, their forms flickering and fading.

Empowered by the infused energy, the artifact’s strength grew exponentially.

Seizing the momentum, Han took a powerful step forward, closing the distance to Huang Shiren. His right fist shot forward like a cannonball.

Huang Shiren, caught off guard, sent his flying sword to intercept.

Fist clashed against blade, but Han’s other foot lashed out, catching Huang Shiren squarely in the chest.

“Bang!”

The kick sent Huang Shiren crashing into the wall behind him with a deafening impact, reducing the structure to rubble.

Pain shot through Han’s right hand as the sword had managed to pierce his fist, though not deeply.

The speed of the psychic-controlled weapon was incredible, making it nearly impossible to evade in such a confined space.

While the artifact’s light was highly effective against spiritual attacks, its defense against physical weapons was less reliable.

“Clang!”

The sword fell to the ground, its power spent. The two ghost servants, now severely weakened, retreated back into the tattered flag.

Han stepped through the collapsed wall, his eyes locked on Huang Shiren, who lay sprawled amidst the debris.

Huang Shiren lay in a pool of blood, his lifeless body grotesquely torn apart. His chest was split open, and crimson stains soaked the floor. It was evident—he was dead.

Dead by Han’s hand.

Han froze, staring at the corpse. The fiery battle lust that had consumed him moments ago dissipated, leaving him in a state of stunned clarity.

Huang Shiren... was it really that simple?

Had he truly died?

Had Han just killed someone?

His clenched fists loosened as the glow of the artifact faded, leaving his body exposed once more. Han gazed at Huang’s lifeless form, his mind racing to catch up with the gravity of what had just happened. The pain from his injuries was momentarily forgotten.

Ever since realizing he had transmigrated into this perilous world, Han had understood that this day would inevitably come.

But he hadn’t expected it to come so soon—on only his second day here.

A complex wave of emotions swirled in his chest. He didn’t regret killing Huang Shiren. Nor did he feel disgusted or nauseous. Surprisingly, he was calm—eerily calm.

Still, there was no denying it—he had crossed a line he could never uncross. He had taken a life.

“For justice, there’s no need for guilt,” a gentle voice spoke behind him, accompanied by a firm pat on the shoulder.

Startled, Han’s body tensed as he spun around, his fist already halfway raised for a strike.

Yet, before he could move further, his arm felt an invisible force press it down, holding him in place.

He turned his head and found himself looking into the familiar face of his master.

“Master? What are you doing here?” Han blurted out, a mixture of relief and confusion flashing across his face.

Bai Tian, his towering and enigmatic mentor, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and replied evenly, “When I learned someone had targeted you with such malicious intent, how could I, as your master, stand idly by?”

“I’ve been following you in secret ever since you left the martial arts hall.”

“Unexpectedly, you gave me quite the surprise.” Bai Tian’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Impressive. You’ve exceeded my expectations.”

Warmth spread through Han’s chest. He hadn’t expected Bai Tian—renowned head of the martial arts hall—to personally watch over him.

Or rather, to shadow him as protection.

Han’s impression of his master had always been of a mysterious and dutiful martial arts instructor, ruthlessly efficient in imparting knowledge. Bai Tian’s teaching methods felt more like a machine than a person—bombarding him with advanced techniques and relentless drills.

But now, Bai Tian seemed more human, more approachable, more real.

Han had anticipated someone from the martial arts hall would quietly guard him after he left, but he never thought Bai Tian himself would take up the role.

Earlier in the day, Han had consulted Bai Tian about ghost creatures and their manipulators.

Bai Tian had given him a clear answer: the person controlling the ghosts to attack Han must be a cultivator, but likely not a high-level one. With time and training, Bai Tian had assured Han he would be able to handle such threats.

It was those words of confidence that had encouraged Han to follow the men to Huang Manor. He wasn’t marching in blindly—he had come prepared.

After all, Han wasn’t foolish enough to follow their invitation without a plan.

Now, however, another concern nagged at Han. Would Bai Tian notice the artifact he had used in the battle?

What excuse could he come up with this time?

“Han,” Bai Tian’s voice broke through his thoughts, his tone calm yet probing. “Your background may not be as simple as you think.”

“That sudden surge of power—it felt remarkably similar to bloodline magic.”

“...”

Han stiffened, speechless.

Master, you hit the nail on the head.