Suddenly, black lines appeared on the fingers of the boy's hand. His eyes widened in shock as he alternated between blue and red hues, clutching his hand, which the black lines rapidly overtook, gaining complete control. He screamed, his body trembling in unbearable pain and extreme heat. Within seconds, sweat began to pour from his body, and veins protruded as if they might burst at any moment.

The black lines continued to grow, spreading to his forearm, elbow, and eventually rendering his left hand entirely powerless. As the lines expanded, the heat intensified to the point where his body felt like a blazing furnace.

After some resistance from the boy's body, the black lines moved to the left side of his neck, branching into smaller lines that climbed up to turn the lower left side of his eye entirely black. Upon closer inspection, these lines were extremely fine—so subtle that, without focus, they might appear as nothing more than a faint half-circle.

Now, having reached this stage, the lines seemed to form a specific pattern or mark that appeared for a fraction of a second before vanishing. Left behind was a body whose blood seemed to boil, as though a few more seconds would have been fatal.

Drenched in sweat, his tears fell like a waterfall. His veins were in turmoil, and he could feel his heartbeat through them, his mind a chaotic storm. Despite his dire condition, it seemed as though the boy had anticipated this event. He showed no signs of surprise or shock, only placing his hand over his left eye and breathing heavily as he gazed at the severed head before him with an expression of immense killing intent.

He let out a mocking smile and sighed. With a snap of his fingers, the girl in the room was lifted into the air, surrounded by a bubble. Standing upright, he climbed down from the bed. Despite the supernatural display moments earlier, his legs shook more with every step he took toward the severed head. When he finally reached it, his legs gave way, and he fell to his knees.

He picked up the head and raised it to his face.

Now, two faces were visible. One belonged to the lifeless head, blood oozing viscously from the severed neck, the eyes slightly bulging. The other was the boy's face, wrinkled with grief, streaming with tears. He clutched his father's head tightly, raised his head to the heavens, and roared, "I will avenge you, Father! I will slaughter them to the last one! Let your soul rest in peace and watch as I annihilate these wretched bastards!"

At the sound of his cry, the door was flung open by one of Tu Yuan's men. His face, initially full of malice, turned pale upon seeing the boy's blackened eye. The man's skin began to melt suddenly—not burning or exploding but dissolving, as though liquefied.

At the sound of the word "Assemble," the man's body began to crack, blood seeping out as his flesh disintegrated until he was entirely drained. But instead of collapsing, his body remained upright as the blood gathered into a pool near the boy's hand. The blood pulsated and writhed as though miniature explosions were taking place within it. The boy gestured, and the blood returned to the man's body, sealing the cracks. A deafening sound followed, and the man disintegrated into a pool of blood that melted through the floor.

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The boy stood up, snapping his fingers. His father's head rose into another bubble beside the one containing the girl.

He walked heavily, his face grim, toward the door. Upon reaching it and taking a step outside the room, a voice shouted, "Stop! If you dare take another step, you won't live to see daylight again!" Though the voice tried to sound threatening, it quivered with fear. Around him, Tu Yuan's men began to gather in a disciplined formation, signaling that traps and assassins awaited him.

The boy looked at them mockingly and smiled before stepping forward again. The men felt chills run down their spines, their legs trembling uncontrollably. Another step, then another, and by the seventh step, one of the men could no longer hold his composure. He shouted, "Y-You! This is your final warning! Take another step, and you won't see the good in us!"

"Oh, really? Let's see." The boy stomped the ground hard, causing it to tremble beneath their feet. The vibration intensified with each passing second.

Suddenly, the tremors ceased, and nothing happened. Suspicious, some of the men glanced at the ground beneath them. That was when spikes shot up, piercing their chests. The spikes extended inside their bodies, turning their faces blue and purple, their eyes rolling back as they spat blood, feeling their organs turn to stone.

The remaining men, who had not lowered their heads, watched in disbelief as their comrades—those they had shared drinks and sworn oaths with—were turned into lifeless statues. Overwhelmed, they dropped their swords and fell to their knees, pleading for mercy.

"Pleading now? How amusing," the boy said coldly. "Wuchi was right—humans will do anything to save their lives. They'll endure humiliation, betray lifelong friends, kill their children, wives, even their parents. I want to test this theory. Show me your true selves—the ugliest, vilest side of your humanity. Let me see if filth is better than you! Devour each other, rip each other apart, and drink their blood like wine!"

At his words, the once-organized men devolved into beasts, perhaps less rational than animals. Each turned on the other, tearing into the flesh of their former comrades. One extracted another's skull, using it as a goblet to drink blood. They cursed, struck, and mutilated one another. Some shattered bones and used them as weapons to dig into the bodies of others still alive.

"Hahahaha! Excellent, excellent! You were right, Wuchi!"

Hours later, the once-beautiful courtyard, fragrant with blooming flowers, had become a grotesque slaughterhouse. The stench of rotting blood, flesh, and scattered bones filled the air, repelling even animals. The lush green grass was soaked red, the flowers withered, and the area was unrecognizable as a place fit for human habitation.

Surveying the carnage, the boy's heart felt slightly lighter. He sighed, stood upright, and began constructing a grave at a vantage point overlooking the bloody scene. He gestured, and his father's head moved to rest before him. He slammed his forehead to the ground, prostrating himself.

"Father! This unworthy son could not stop them from killing you. But at least I created this scene from their blood to ease some of your rage!

I vow now, before your grave, as you watch from the heavens, that I, Zhang Yu, will tread a muddy and arduous path so I will never again be weak or ashamed. I will become a man capable of protecting our family. Yong'er—I will take responsibility for her, and no harm will ever touch her again. Father! The debts have been repaid; everything is returned to its rightful owners. So please, rest in peace without worry!"

Zhang Yu remained prostrated for nearly an hour before rising. His gaze was cold and determined. His thoughts held a singular focus: to never be weak again. His sole goal was to protect his sister and pursue strength. He placed his father's head in the grave, sealed it, and engraved a single inscription: The Tomb of Zhang.

Leaving the massacre behind, he walked through the house, reminiscing about his final memories there: playing with Yong'er, arguing with his father, hunting and eating together. "Wonderful memories," he thought. "Pity they're just memories now."

Finally, he reached the house's main door. Turning one last time, he gazed at the home. He stood still for a few moments before turning away without a word. Externally, the house bore the name Zhang Manor. Staring at the nameplate, Zhang Yu smirked and thought, "Zhang Mausoleum. That sounds better." With a wave of his hand, the nameplate changed, and the new inscription glowed briefly before fading.

Then, without looking back, he disappeared into the mist.