Chapter 36 - A hand from the Shadows

The Nine Hells Demon Sect was not built upon trust, but rather, on leverage. Debts. Chains unseen but ever-present. Zhang Yan understood this well, which is why, when the knock came at his door, he was already on guard.

The pale dawn barely crested over the sect's jagged peaks, and the scent of charred incense from the Blood Hall's night rituals still lingered in the air. He rose from his seated cultivation, his gray mist-like demonic qi retreating back into his core as he donned his outer disciple robes. The knocking came again; steady and deliberate. Not the urgent pounding of a lackey with news, nor the deferential taps of someone bringing good tidings.

Sliding open the door, Zhang Yan found himself staring into the hollow eyes of a gangly disciple with sallow skin and a slightly hunched posture. The boy, perhaps sixteen at most, bowed stiffly. "Outer Deacon Ghost Nine requests your presence."

Zhang Yan studied him for a moment, noting the frayed edges of his robes and the faint, purplish lines around his throat. Ghost Nine's favored techniques were said to involve soul extraction. The implication was clear, this disciple was bound in more ways than one.

"Lead the way."

They moved swiftly through the sect, passing training grounds where disciples sparred under the watchful eyes of cruel instructors. The deeper they ventured, the fewer the gazes; the halls became quieter, the shadows longer. Ghost Nine's domain lay beneath the Hall of Chains, where punishments were carried out in secret and debts of flesh and soul were collected.

The chamber reeked of damp stone and incense; heavy, cloying, a scent meant to mask something far worse. Ghost Nine sat cross-legged atop a platform of twisted bones, his thin fingers lazily turning the jade ring on his index finger. His robes, dyed a deep, rotting purple, hung loosely over his skeletal frame, the sleeves pooling onto the floor like spilled ink. His sunken eyes lifted as Zhang Yan entered.

"Zhang Yan," Ghost Nine rasped, his voice carrying the breathy quality of the dying. "You have been chosen for a most important task."

Zhang Yan did not bow. Instead, he met the deacon's gaze with an impassive expression, waiting. A test. Always a test.

Ghost Nine smirked, revealing yellowed teeth. "The sect requires a shipment of mortals to be moved from Yangzhou across the border into Qingzhou. A delicate matter, as you can imagine. The righteous sects keep a watchful eye on such movements. I have selected you for this duty."

His fingers curled around his jade ring, as if testing its strength. "It is… mandatory."

Zhang Yan let the silence stretch, reading between the words. He was being forced into the task. Ghost Nine, acting under someone else's hand; Bai Ziyun, no doubt, was maneuvering him into a situation where death was highly probable.

He exhaled through his nose, offering no protest, no sign of hesitation. "I accept."

Ghost Nine's lips twisted in satisfaction. "Good. You leave in two days. Report to the transport yard at the southern gate." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to something even softer, more insidious. "Do try to return alive, Zhang Yan. I would hate to see such… potential wasted."

Zhang Yan inclined his head, neither deferential nor defiant, and turned to leave. As he stepped out of the chamber, the hunched disciple from before gave him a fleeting, pitying glance.

Rather than returning to his abode, Zhang Yan made his way toward the Sutra Hall. If he was being forced into this mission, he would at least ensure he knew the terrain.

The Sutra Hall was one of the few places within the sect untouched by bloodstains. An ancient structure, its obsidian pillars inscribed with golden demonic runes hummed faintly as he entered. The air smelled of old parchment and dried herbs, a sharp contrast to the sect's usual scent of iron and decay.

A lone elder, his face partially hidden by the folds of his ink-black hood, sat at the entrance, scrawling idly on a bone scroll. He barely spared Zhang Yan a glance as he moved past.

The archives stretched into the gloom, endless rows of scrolls and manuals detailing the history, geography, and demonic techniques of the world beyond. Zhang Yan moved with purpose, fingers tracing over the wooden plaques until he found what he sought: A Cartographer's Reckoning – The Provinces of the Eastern Continent.

Settling into a shadowed alcove, he unfurled the aged parchment.

Yangzhou was a landlocked province, straddling the contested borders between demonic sects and righteous factions. Home to several major cities, including Yangcheng, a sprawling trade hub with both legal and underground markets. The Luohan Sheng Si, a militant monastic sect, held significant influence here.

His lips curled slightly. "So this is the viper's den Bai Ziyun wishes to throw me into."

Qingzhou was larger, richer, but rife with internal strife. While still within demonic sect territory, many minor factions warred for control. It was a place where allegiances shifted like sand, where a man could carve out a new fate if he was willing to spill enough blood.

He traced a finger along the path that connected Yangzhou to Qingzhou. Several checkpoints lay between the two, some held by unaffiliated warlords, others by righteous sect patrols. But one thing stood out; the Mistshadow Gorge.

A treacherous mountain pass frequently shrouded in dense fog. According to the records, it was avoided by most travelers due to its reputation for swallowing entire caravans. Ghost Nine's directive made no mention of this route… but Bai Ziyun was too meticulous to have overlooked it.

"They want me to take the standard route", Zhang Yan mused. "But that's exactly where the trap will be".

Closing the scroll, he exhaled slowly. He would not walk blindly into Bai Ziyun's game. He would set the board himself.

As Zhang Yan left the Sutra Hall, the sun had risen fully, casting long shadows across the sect grounds. He could feel the eyes on him; disciples whispering, watching, waiting. Bai Ziyun's reach extended deeper than he had thought, but it did not matter.

Two days. That was all he had before this mission began.

And if Bai Ziyun thought he was herding a beast to slaughter, he would soon learn; some beasts did not die so easily.

Zhang Yan strode forward, his mind sharpening like a blade.

Let the hunt begin.