“Then wait for me in the underworld.”


    If there really was such a place, and if Han one day cultivated to a point where he could stroll into it alive, he’d visit Zuo Tianzheng—if the guy hadn’t reincarnated yet. Maybe he’d even chat with the King of Hell, pull some strings for a decent next life.


    Looking down at the broken Zuo Tianzheng, Han felt a sudden pang of reflection.


    Back when he first heard of and met this imperial envoy, Zuo had been a figure of awe and dread. Before the Yujing envoy arrived, Han had fretted over what kind of man would show up and how it might disrupt his life. When Zuo did appear, he was all force and flair—decisive, imposing, radiating authority. Also, insufferable. Lounging with beauties as chairs, resting with them as pillows, feet propped in their laps—indulgence dialed to eleven.


    Back then, Zuo’s every word and whim could shift Black Cloud Town’s tides, deciding the fates of its people. One thought could bless many or doom others. He was the town’s axis—everyone revolved around him. No one dared defy him openly; even his detractors bit their tongues in his presence. Only when bigger players rolled in did his grip loosen, but he remained a cut above.


    Now, though? This lofty envoy lay ruined. The turnaround was impossible not to marvel at.


    Han hadn’t started out aiming to cross Zuo. When those Wuchang Hall creeps ambushed him, Han had been pissed—hell, he’d even killed one of Zuo’s attackers, avenging him in a way. Fate, though, had a twisted sense of humor, turning two men with no personal beef into enemies. It wasn’t hatred at first—just circumstance and profit, step by step, pushing them to this point, then the ambush sealed it.


    “Lord Zuo, people are all the same deep down,” Han said softly. “Even an emperor, in some moments, is no different from a beggar. Get killed, and you die. In death’s face, emperors and beggars are equal.”


    This world’s folks, shaped by their ways, often held a shred of reverence for the Emperor. Not Han. Emperor? The Qing dynasty’s long gone.


    “You dare insult His Majesty!” Zuo rasped, fury flaring. Loyal to the end, no matter what.


    “Just stating facts,” Han said, shaking his head. Then, as if struck by a thought, he added, “Lord Zuo, I’m a soft-hearted guy, so I’ll let you in on something. The Sky-Mending Vine? It’s mine. You were a step too late.”


    Zuo’s eyes bulged, raw unwillingness surging, but before he could spit another word, the Righteous Sword of Heaven and Earth soared again, snuffed his life out. The Emperor’s envoy, Zuo Tianzheng, was done.


    A spark of red flame flicked from Han’s fingertip, landing on the body. It blazed fast, reducing Zuo to ash. The other two got the same treatment. A breeze swept through, scattering them into the ether.


    Of course, Han pocketed Zuo’s soul—some questions needed answers. Same with the Bone-Refining fighter’s. The cultivator’s soul, though? Wiped out in the fight—soul-based combat meant no leftovers. Two was plenty.


    Two spatial pouches, one spatial bracelet—Han scooped them up. Zuo’s Primordial Martial Weapon and inner armor? No way he’d leave those. Burning fifty years of lifespan had juiced him up too much, and with peerless techniques in play, Zuo’s crew hadn’t had time to self-destruct or trash their gear.


    Back at early Day-Wandering, Han had taken down a wounded Sanctified cultivator. Now, mid-tier, even without burning life, he was a force. Add fifty years, and he’d dominated from start to finish—victory locked in. Soaring Immortal demanded death per use—its boost had to be massive. Fifty years to steamroll Zuo’s trio? Anything less would’ve been fake.


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Pity they hadn’t pushed him harder—kind of a letdown.


    Surveying the wrecked forest, Han pondered, then blasted it a few more times, reshaping the terrain to mask the fight.


    An Lang floated over with his body. Han slipped back in, his aura fading to normal. She watched him like a hawk, tense as hell, until his face stayed rosy and his breath leveled out—no wounds.


    “Young Master, you’re really okay?” she pressed.


    “What could be wrong with me?”


    Her question almost made him feel like he’d lost—like he was the one down and out.


    “But Zuo said you burned too much lifespan—you’d die from backlash.”


    “You buying his word or mine?” Han tapped her head. “You’ve been siphoning me for years—don’t you know how tough I am? How much I’ve got? This little burn’s nothing.”


    “True…” An Lang nodded, then gaped. “Young Master, you’re a freak! How do you burn that much and stroll away fine?”


    “A little ghost like you can’t grasp my magic,” Han smirked. “Stick around—plenty more to gawk at.”


    Roar!


    A bellow cut through. Han’s face shifted. “Let’s move—beasts are closing in.”


    The fight was quick but loud enough to rile the locals. Picking a direction, Han earth-escaped a stretch, then bolted. Earth escape was handy, but not constant—some beasts lived underground. He’d once crashed into one mid-tunnel; chaos ensued.


    Reaching a safer spot, Han pulled out Zuo’s and the fighter’s souls, probing their memories. The fighter’s was a bust—too many hardcore seals, barely any juice. He’d mostly holed up in the garrison since arriving, occasionally aiding the Black Cloud Guard. Nothing useful, and he seemed clueless about the ambush.


    “The artifact’s called the Heaven-Net Earth-Web Mirror,” Han muttered. “Zuo got a Sky-Mending Vine fragment from the royals…”


    Zuo hadn’t known the vine was on Han—spatial rings hid it—but the mirror sensed its lingering aura. To Zuo, that meant contact.


    Next, Zuo’s soul. Barely starting, Han felt it turn chaotic and volatile. Alarmed, he chucked it.


    Boom!


    It blew up midair. Han stared, dumbfounded. “Zuo’s soul seals are nuts—self-destructing like that?”


    An Lang jumped. “Young Master, you good?”


    “Fine.” Zuo was a martial guy—his soul was weak and messy. The blast was puny. “Not a total loss, though,” Han sneered. “Caught a scrap of recent memory. The ambush on me and Senior Sister? Zuo’s doing. Among the Yujing crew, he had a hidden Sanctified cultivator—‘Master Qian’—the one who hit us.”


    That’s all he got before the seals kicked in and trashed it. Royal-grade secrecy—tight as hell. These seals outdo the Tianmu Cult’s. Who’s the real evil faction here?


    “It was really him?” An Lang fumed. “Bastard deserved it!”


    “He’s already toast,” Han said, sending the other soul off too, then sinking into thought. “Next steps are tricky, though. Zuo was Yujing’s envoy, the Emperor’s man. Him dying in Black Cloud Town… Great Qi’s royals…”


    No regrets about killing Zuo. The guy wanted him dead—Han wasn’t about to play nice over some title. No sense in that. Plus, with bad blood this deep, sparing Zuo just meant waiting for him to call in reinforcements. Kill or be killed.


    Still, trouble was trouble—and this was big.


    An Lang’s face grew grave. She got the stakes. Back when she was alive, killing a county envoy—or even a magistrate’s childhood buddy—would’ve flipped a region upside down. An imperial envoy? Way worse.


    “Young Master, this can’t leak as your doing,” she warned.


    “No kidding. If it does, I’m a fugitive,” Han said, rubbing his brow. “No staying in Great Qi then.”


    “Gotta talk to Aunt Mo first.”


    “Was gonna surprise Sister Lu when we got out…” An Lang’s expression twisted. “Now it’s less surprise, more heart attack.”


    “…”


    When Lu Qingmo picked up the snail call, Han stayed quiet too long. She spoke first.


    “It’s been days since you last checked in. What’s up? No Sky-Mending Vine?”


    Her tone was gentle. “No worries if you didn’t find it. Come out—safe’s all that matters. The world’s big; I can hunt elsewhere later.”


    Han sighed. “Aunt Mo, there’s something I need to tell you.”


    “What?”


    “I killed Zuo Tianzheng.”


    “…”


    Dead air on the other end.


    “You killed Zuo Tianzheng?” Lu Qingmo’s voice wavered. “Even a standard Marrow-Washing martial artist couldn’t take him. How?”


    “Uh… just fought and fought, then he was dead.”


    No way he’d say he burned fifty years—Lu Qingmo might storm Black Mountain herself.


    She went quiet again, digesting it, then shifted gears, calm and sharp. “Did you get his spatial pouch?”


    “Yeah, a bracelet.”


    “Check it in Black Mountain. Anything sketchy—anything that might track—don’t touch. Destroy the whole bracelet. Don’t bring it out.”


    “Anything else?”


    “A blade, an inner armor.”


    “Burn them with yang fire,” she said, firm and fast. “Wipe every trace—reduce them to raw materials.”


    Her instructions were crisp, methodical—erasing all evidence. This had to be airtight.