The groan of the iron-wheeled cart was a constant companion, a mournful dirge against the whistling wind that swept across the Crimson Expanse. Shen Mo, his striking white hair a stark banner against the rust-colored dust, kept his hand resting loosely on the hilt of his sword, Glimmer. It wasn't a grand or ornate weapon, but a masterwork of deadly simplicity. Glimmer was a slender, straight-bladed sword, light and perfectly balanced for his swift, precise fighting style. The blade was forged from a unique pale gray steel that seemed to drink the light, giving it a dull, non-reflective finish that only revealed its nature in motion, when the razor-sharp edge caught the light for a split second—a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer. The hilt was practical, wrapped in dark leather for a perfect grip, with a simple guard.
His crimson eyes, the color of freshly spilled blood, scanned the desolate landscape. They were a week out from Dustwind City, escorting a shipment of what he was told were rare medicinal herbs for the powerful Lin Clan. A simple, well-paying job. Too simple.
He was a mercenary, a cultivator at the sixth level of the Foundation Establishment realm. In the vast and unforgiving world of the Nine Heavens, this was a respectable, if not awe-inspiring, level of power. The path of cultivation was a treacherous ladder, and most never made it past the first rung.
It began with the Qi Condensation Realm, where mortals first learned to sense the spiritual energy of heaven and earth, drawing it into their bodies to refine their flesh and open their meridians. Those who succeeded, after years of toil, could attempt to build a Dao Foundation, stepping into the Foundation Establishment Realm. This was the first true leap, granting cultivators a greatly extended lifespan, the ability to fly on spiritual artifacts, and a powerful spiritual sense to scan their surroundings. Shen Mo, at the sixth of this realm's nine levels, was a seasoned expert, far beyond the common cultivators who formed the backbone of clans and sects.
The Core Formation Realm, where the Dao Foundation was compressed into a perfect Golden Core, granting its master the status of an Elder. Then came the Nascent Soul Realm, where the Core shattered to give birth to a miniature, sentient soul, a second life that made its cultivator a true Ancestor. Higher still were the mythical Soul Transformation and Void Returning realms, populated by beings who could warp reality and traverse continents in a single step—existences so powerful they were closer to gods than men.
For a man like Shen Mo, those lofty heights were distant dreams. His reality was here, in the blood-soaked dust, earning spirit stones one life-or-death battle at a time. He had survived this long by trusting his instincts, and right now, they were screaming.
The caravan was a sizable force, consisting of three large, iron-reinforced carts. A contingent of thirty guards from Merchant Jin's own trading house formed the core of the defense. To supplement their numbers, another ten mercenaries, including Shen Mo, had been hired. This force of forty men was a mix of strengths; about half were elite mortals at the peak of the Qi Condensation Realm, while the other half were true cultivators in the early stages of Foundation Establishment. Leading the merchant's guards was Captain Feng, a grim-faced man with a long scar and a cultivation at the sixth level of Foundation Establishment, a man on par with Shen Mo himself. The leader, a portly merchant named Jin, rode at the front, his face a mask of forced cheerfulness that did little to hide the nervous sweat beading on his brow.
"Brother Shen Mo," Jin called out, his voice a little too loud. "Another day and we'll see the spires of Verdant Oasis! The Lin Clan will reward us handsomely!"
Shen Mo gave a noncommittal grunt. He didn't care about the Lin Clan's rewards. He cared about the unnatural stillness in the air, the way the dust devils danced with a malevolent energy, and the faint, almost imperceptible scent of blood that tainted the wind. He had tasted that scent too many times to mistake it.
His spiritual sense, honed through countless life-and-death battles, spread out like a fine net. He felt the thrum of life from the desert scorpions burrowing beneath the sand, the lazy circling of a carrion hawk high above, and then... something else. A flicker. A dozen flickers, like guttering candles in a storm, hidden just beyond the ridge a li ahead. They were cultivators, their auras deliberately suppressed, but not perfectly. Amateurs, they were not.
"Ambush," Shen Mo said, his voice low and flat, yet it cut through the wind like a shard of ice.
The other mercenaries tensed, while the merchant's guards instinctively tightened their formation around the carts. Captain Feng's hand immediately went to the greatsword on his back, his expression hardening. "What? Where?" one of the younger mercenaries asked, his hand flying to his saber.
Before Shen Mo could answer, the world exploded.
Swish! Swish! Swish!
A volley of black-fletched arrows, each humming with potent Qi, rained down from the ridge. They weren't aimed at the men, but at the giant Horned Lizards pulling the carts. The beasts shrieked in pain as the arrows, enchanted with a paralytic poison, found their marks. With their motive power gone, the caravan ground to a halt, a perfect kill box.
From the ridge, figures emerged, clad in tight-fitting black leather that seemed to drink the sunlight. There were twelve of them, their faces obscured by obsidian masks carved into snarling demonic visages. Each one moved with a fluid grace that spoke of years of killing. Their auras, now fully unleashed, were cold and sharp, ranging from the third to the fifth level of Foundation Establishment. But it was the man in the lead who drew Shen Mo's attention.
He was taller than the others, his presence heavier, and his cultivation was at the peak of the seventh level, a step above Shen Mo's own. A palpable killing intent rolled off him in waves, so thick it felt like wading through a sea of gore.
"The Paid Ferrymen," Shen Mo breathed, his grip tightening on Glimmer. He recognized their signature masks and the chillingly efficient way they operated. They were the most feared assassination organization in the southern territories, known for their flawless record. Taking on a contract from them was a death sentence.
The portly merchant Jin was babbling, his face pale with terror. "A misunderstanding! We are but humble merchants! There must be a mistake!"
The leader of the assassins tilted his head, a gesture of mocking curiosity. "No mistake, fat man. Your journey ends here. The price was paid for this cargo... and for your lives."
The implication hit the caravan guards like a physical blow. Betrayal. The mission was a setup from the very beginning. The Lin Clan, their own employers, had hired these assassins to slaughter them and reclaim the cargo, likely to avoid paying the escort fee or to silence them about the true nature of the goods. It was a classic, brutal move by a powerful clan that saw mercenaries and loyal retainers alike as disposable tools.
Captain Feng's face contorted in a mask of fury. "You treacherous dogs!" he roared, his Qi exploding outwards. "For the House of Jin! Form a defensive perimeter! Protect the goods!"
The slaughter began.
The guards, a mix of Qi Condensation and Foundation Establishment cultivators, fought with desperate courage. The Qi Condensation guards unleashed volleys of Qi-infused crossbow bolts while the Foundation Establishment experts created earthen walls and barriers of light. But it was a hopeless struggle. The assassins of The Paid Ferrymen were a well-oiled killing machine. They moved like shadows, their attacks precise and deadly. Two assassins engaged the front line, their movements a blur of feints and parries, while a third used a movement technique to appear inside the perimeter, slitting throats before the guards even knew they were flanked. A mercenary would unleash a powerful fire-based technique, only to have it dissipated by a coordinated water-elemental barrier before two assassins descended upon him.
Shen Mo didn't charge in blindly. His mind was a cold, calculating engine. He was outnumbered, and the enemy leader was stronger than him. Survival was paramount. He channeled his Qi, a silvery-white energy that coated the blade of Glimmer.
[Void Flash Step]
His body flickered, leaving an afterimage as he appeared beside one of the carts, inside the failing defensive line. An assassin, his attention on gutting a merchant guard, didn't even see him coming.
[Silent Fang Strike]
Shen Mo's sword moved in a silent arc, almost invisible to the naked eye. It wasn't a flashy technique, but it was lethally fast and efficient. The blade slid between the plates of the assassin's leather armor, severing his spine. The man dropped without a sound, his life extinguished before he was under attack.
Shen Mo didn't pause to admire his work. He kicked off the side of the cart, his body spinning in mid-air to avoid a thrown kunai aimed at his back. He landed lightly, his red eyes locking onto two more assassins who were now turning their attention to him.
"This one's different," one of them rasped, his voice distorted by the mask.
"He's sixth level. Take him together."
They advanced, their movements synchronized. One attacked high, his longsword a blur of silver light, while the other went low, his twin daggers aimed at Shen Mo's legs. It was a classic pincer attack, designed to overwhelm and disorient.
Shen Mo stood his ground, his expression unreadable. As the attacks were about to land, he didn't retreat. He advanced.
[Mirror Soul Illusion]
His form shimmered, splitting into three identical images. The two assassins faltered for a split second, their killing intent confused. It was all the time Shen Mo needed. The real Shen Mo, now behind the assassin with the longsword, brought Glimmer up in a brutal, rising slash. The blade, infused with his sharp, metallic Qi, sheared through leather, bone, and flesh, cleaving the man in two from the waist up.
The second assassin's recoil in shock gave Shen Mo the opening he needed. He spun, the momentum of his last strike flowing seamlessly into the next.
[Reaping Shadow Dance]
It was a technique he had developed himself, a whirlwind of deadly sword strikes that left no room for defense. Glimmer became a vortex of silver light, each flash a fatal blow. The remaining assassin tried to parry, his daggers a desperate defense against the storm, but he was too slow. Shen Mo's blade found its way past his guard, piercing his throat. The man gurgled, clutching at the sword embedded in his neck, before Shen Mo ripped it free with a vicious twist.
In less than a minute, three Ferrymen assassins lay dead at his feet. The battlefield fell silent for a moment, the remaining combatants, both friend and foe, staring at the white-haired man standing amidst the carnage. The leader of the assassins, who had been observing the battle with a detached air, finally focused his full attention on Shen Mo.
"Interesting," the leader said, his voice a low growl. "You're no ordinary mercenary. You fight like one of us."
Shen Mo didn't reply. He was conserving his energy, his spiritual sense tracking the remaining eight assassins who were now converging on his position. The last of the other guards and mercenaries had fallen, their bodies littering the sand. He was alone.
"It matters not," the leader continued, taking a step forward. "You killed my men. For that, you will die."
He drew his own weapon, a wicked-looking scythe with a blade forged from blackest obsidian. The air grew heavy, thick with auras of death and decay.
Shen Mo knew he couldn't fight them all at once, especially with a seventh-level cultivator leading the charge. He needed to even the odds. His eyes darted to the carts. The Lin Clan had betrayed them for this cargo. It must be something valuable. Or dangerous.
An idea, born of desperation and cold logic, formed in his mind.
He used his [Void Flash Step] again, not to attack, but to retreat, putting distance between himself and the closing circle of assassins. He landed beside the main cart, the one Jin had been so protective of. With a single, powerful slash, he cut the ropes holding the canvas cover in place.
The canvas fell away, revealing not medicinal herbs, but a series of heavy, iron-bound crates. A faint, volatile energy pulsed from within them. Shen Mo's eyes widened slightly. He recognized the markings on the crates. They were seals used to contain unstable, explosive materials. Spirit Stones were often mined in a raw, volatile state before being refined. These were raw, high-grade Ignis Stones. The Lin Clan wasn't transporting herbs; they were smuggling a mobile bomb.
"You fools," Shen Mo muttered.
The Ferryman leader also saw the contents of the cart, and for the first time, a hint of alarm entered his voice. "Stop him!"
But it was too late. Shen Mo used [Void Flash Step] one last time, his body flickering backwards, creating a significant gap between himself and the carts. As he reappeared, he was already in motion, spinning and unleashing a devastating Qi-infused slash.
[Crescent Moon Pierce]
A blade of silvery-white energy, sharp and condensed, shot from Glimmer's edge. It flew through the air and struck the nearest iron-bound crate. The unstable Ignis Stones within were instantly agitated.
A blinding white light erupted from the cart, followed by a deafening roar that shook the very heavens. The resulting explosion was immense, a blossoming flower of fire and destructive energy that vaporized the three carts and the assassins closest to them. Shen Mo, already retreating, angled his body and used the initial force of the shockwave to propel himself even further away, a leaf caught in a hurricane. Even so, the wave of pure force slammed into him, battering his body and scorching his back.
He landed hard, tumbling across the sand, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs. His ears were ringing, and his vision swam. Through the haze of smoke and dust, he saw the devastating aftermath. A massive, blackened crater marked where the caravan had been. The bodies of at least five more assassins were gone, utterly annihilated.
But the leader had survived.
He stood on the edge of the crater, his black leather armor scorched and torn, his obsidian scythe glowing with a protective dark energy. He was wounded, blood dripping from several cuts, and his aura was fluctuating, but he was alive. And he was furious.
"You... will... pay!" he roared, his voice filled with venom. He charged, his speed incredible despite his injuries.
Shen Mo pushed himself to his feet, his own body screaming in protest. He had taken a gamble, and it had paid off, but it had cost him dearly. His Qi reserves were dangerously low, and the internal shock from the explosion had injured him.
The two cultivators clashed in the center of the devastation. It was a brutal, primal fight. The leader's scythe was a torrent of deathly energy, each swing capable of reaping a soul. Shen Mo, relying on his superior technique and combat instincts, was a phantom of silver light, his [Void Flash Step] allowing him to dodge and weave through the deadly attacks, looking for an opening.
Sparks flew as Glimmer met the obsidian scythe. The force of each blow sent tremors up Shen Mo's arms. He was being overpowered. The difference of a single cultivation level was a chasm in a direct confrontation.
The leader, sensing victory, pressed his advantage. He unleashed his ultimate technique. [Reaper's Embrace]. A massive, spectral image of a skeletal reaper formed behind him, mimicking his movements. The scythe swung, not just as a physical weapon, but as a manifestation of death itself, aiming to sever Shen Mo's very life force.
There was no dodging this. The attack locked onto his soul. Shen Mo's mind went into overdrive. With a grimace of pained resolve, his hand blurred to a small pouch at his belt. He had one last card to play, a trump card he had spent a fortune on and hoped to never use.
He withdrew a tiny, crimson pill, no bigger than a grain of rice, that pulsed with a violent, unstable aura. It was a Berserker's Bloodsoul Pill, a forbidden concoction that could forcibly ignite a cultivator's potential for a short time, at the cost of grievous internal damage that would take several days, if not weeks, to heal.
Without hesitation, he tossed it into his mouth and swallowed.
An instant later, a wave of unimaginable agony and power tore through him. His veins bulged, his skin flushed a terrifying shade of red, and a guttural roar of pure pain escaped his lips. The Qi in his body went from a flowing river to a raging tsunami. His aura surged violently, shattering the barrier of the sixth level and touching the peak of the seventh.
He didn't try to block the scythe. Instead, he used his [Void Flash Step] to move inside the leader's guard, a suicidal move. The spectral scythe passed through the space he had just occupied, while the physical blade grazed his side, tearing a deep gash.
But Shen Mo was already there, his face inches from the leader's demonic mask, his red eyes blazing with a terrifying, drug-fueled light. He had channeled all the explosive power from the pill into Glimmer.
[Dragon's Tooth Thrust]
The sword didn't slash. It pierced. It was a simple, straight thrust, but at this moment, it contained all of Shen Mo's will and the raging, temporary power coursing through his veins. The blade struck the center of the assassin's chest. The enchanted leather armor, which could deflect a normal sword blow, offered no resistance. Glimmer punched through it like paper, shattering the man's sternum and piercing his heart.
The Ferryman leader froze. The massive spectral reaper behind him dissolved. He looked down at the silver blade protruding from his chest, then up at the cold, crimson eyes of the man who had killed him.
"How..." he gurgled, blood bubbling past his lips from behind the mask.
Shen Mo ripped his sword free and kicked the man's body away. He stood there, panting, his body screaming in agony. The artificial power began to fade, replaced by a wave of crippling weakness and a deep, tearing pain in his meridians. The adrenaline was gone, and the devastating after-effects of the Bloodsoul Pill were setting in.
He was the only one left alive.
He limped over to the body of the leader. He needed to make sure the man was truly dead and see if there was any loot worth taking. He reached down and pulled off the obsidian mask. The face beneath was unremarkable, a man in his late thirties with a cruel scar across his lips.
As Shen Mo's fingers brushed against the man's chest, he felt something hard and cool beneath the leather armor. He tore the tunic open and found a small, intricately carved token made of black, otherworldly iron. It was shaped like a coin, one side smooth and the other bearing the grim visage of a skull. It was cold to the touch, and seemed to thrum with a faint, deadly energy.
He recognized it instantly from the rumors he'd heard in mercenary taverns and shadowy information brokers. It was a Ferryman's Toll. A symbol of identity.
He remembered a peculiar rumor about the organization, one that most dismissed as a dark joke. The Paid Ferrymen didn't recruit in any traditional sense. Entry was restricted, governed by a brutal, simple rule: only by killing a Ferryman of sufficient rank and claiming their Toll could one earn the right to take their place. Killing a mere foot soldier wouldn't grant entry; one had to prove their strength against a worthy target. They believed that anyone capable of such a feat was worthy of joining their ranks. It was the ultimate meritocracy of murder.
Shen Mo stared at the black iron coin in his hand. The Crimson Expanse was silent, save for the mournful cry of the wind. He was wounded, exhausted, and betrayed by his employers. He had no allies, no backing, and the powerful Lin Clan would surely want him dead to tie up loose ends. He was just a lone mercenary trying to survive.
And in his hand, he held a key. A key to a world of shadows, secrets, and immense power. A world where he could become the hunter instead of the hunted. A world where his skills would not just be for survival, but for ascension.
A slow, cold smile touched Shen Mo's lips. He pocketed the coin. His path had been uncertain, a bloody road with no destination. Now, a new one had opened before him.