The silence that descended upon the Crimson Expanse was heavier and more suffocating than the battle that had preceded it. Shen Mo stood amidst the carnage, the black iron coin clutched in his hand, its coldness a stark contrast to the fire raging within his meridians. The Berserker's Bloodsoul Pill had saved his life, but its price was now coming due. Every channel of Qi in his body felt like it was being scraped raw with jagged glass. A wave of profound weakness washed over him, so potent that his vision swam and he had to brace himself on the hilt of Glimmer to keep from collapsing.
He had minutes, at best, before he would be completely incapacitated. The Lin Clan would undoubtedly send investigators to confirm the outcome of their scheme. Leaving a witness, especially one who knew they had hired assassins, was not their style. They would dispatch a team of experts, and in his current state, he wouldn't stand a chance against even a mid-level Foundation Establishment cultivator. He had to disappear.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Shen Mo forced his battered body to move. He limped from corpse to corpse, his movements stiff and agonizing. He ignored the fallen guards and mercenaries; their belongings would be meager. His targets were the Ferrymen. Each assassin carried a small, nondescript storage pouch at their belt. He methodically collected them, his hands working with practiced efficiency despite their trembling. He found the leader's pouch last, a slightly larger bag made of dark, supple leather. A quick probe with his weakened spiritual sense revealed it held a respectable amount of spirit stones, a few vials of pills—hopefully antidotes or healing salves—and several scrolls. There was no time to inspect them now.
He scavenged a water skin and a pouch of dried meat from one of the destroyed carts, the only supplies that had miraculously survived the blast. Then, he turned his attention to the scene itself. With his Qi reserves nearly empty, he couldn't perform any large-scale techniques to alter the landscape. Instead, he did what he could on foot. He dragged the bodies of the Ferrymen into the deepest part of the crater, hoping the shifting sands would cover them more quickly. He used Glimmer to score deep, chaotic gashes into the wreckage of the carts, mimicking the claw marks of a large demonic beast. It was a flimsy deception, one that a true expert would see through in an instant, but it might buy him a few precious hours if a low-level scouting party arrived first.
Every movement sent a fresh wave of agony through him. The backlash from the Bloodsoul Pill was intensifying. He felt his Dao Foundation, normally a stable pillar of power in his dantian, trembling as if it might crack. He had to find a safe place to recuperate, and soon.
With a final look at the smoking crater, Shen Mo turned his back on the slaughter and limped away, forcing himself into a steady, ground-eating pace. He chose a direction away from the caravan's intended destination, Verdant Oasis, and plunged into the desolate, rock-strewn badlands that bordered the Crimson Expanse.
The next three days were a living hell, a testament to the brutal tenacity that had kept him alive for so long. The desert sun was a merciless hammer, and the nights were cold enough to freeze the marrow in his bones. He traveled only during the twilight hours of dawn and dusk, spending the rest of the time hidden in shallow caves or rock overhangs, meditating to soothe his ravaged meridians. The pain was a constant companion, a fire that never ceased. He consumed the healing pills from the Ferryman leader's pouch, their effects minimal against the pill's backlash but enough to keep his internal injuries from worsening.
On the second day, as he rested in the shadow of a rock formation, he was stalked by a pack of Sandfang Vultures. He cursed his luck. The cultivation world had a clear system for classifying demonic beasts, a ladder of power that mirrored their own. The lowest were Feral Beasts, their strength equivalent to the nine levels of the Qi Condensation Realm. Above them were Spirit Beasts, a far more dangerous category whose power corresponded to the Foundation Establishment Realm. These Sandfang Vultures were Rank 2 Spirit Beasts, equivalent to second-level Foundation Establishment cultivators. In his prime, he could have annihilated the pack of five with a single sword strike. In his current state, they were a lethal threat.
The vultures circled overhead, their unnerving intelligence showing in their patient, calculating eyes. They could sense his weakness. The confrontation was inevitable. He used the terrain to his advantage, retreating into a narrow canyon where they couldn't attack him all at once. He fought not with flashy techniques, but with the cold, brutal efficiency of a cornered animal, using every scrap of his remaining strength for precise, fatal thrusts. A vulture dived, its Qi-infused talons sharp as steel, and Shen Mo met it with an upward stab, plunging Glimmer through its chest. He ripped the blade free as another attacked from his blind spot, forcing him to roll and take a deep gash on his shoulder. The fight was a desperate, bloody affair. He killed three before the remaining two, unnerved by this wounded prey that fought like a demon, finally scattered into the sky. He collapsed after the fight, his new wounds bleeding freely, and spent half a day just staunching the flow and recovering enough strength to move again.
By the fourth day, the fiery pain in his meridians had subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. His Qi was slowly beginning to circulate again, albeit sluggishly. He was still weak, operating at perhaps a third of his normal capacity, but he was no longer on the verge of death. It was then that he finally saw it on the horizon: a smudge of black against the endless sea of red and orange sand. A city.
It was known as Blacksand Oasis, a name that was only half true. There was an oasis, a large one, but the city that had grown around it was a festering sore in the heart of the desert. It was a haven for all things illicit, a neutral ground where demonic cultivators, wanted criminals, disgraced sect disciples, and mercenaries like Shen Mo could conduct their business without fear of the righteous sects or the great empires. It was a place of shadows, secrets, and blood-soaked spirit stones. It was the perfect place to disappear. And, he suspected, the perfect place to find a door that his new Ferryman's Toll could unlock.
Entering the city was a simple affair. There were no gleaming gates or uniformed guards, only a crumbling, sand-blasted wall and a few bored-looking cultivators in mismatched armor who collected a nominal entry fee of a single low-grade spirit stone. Shen Mo, his white hair caked with dust and his clothes torn and bloodstained, didn't attract a second glance. Men in worse shape stumbled through the gates every hour.
The city was a chaotic maze of sandstone buildings, open-air markets, and shadowy alleys. The air was thick with the smell of exotic spices, roasting meat, cheap wine, and unwashed bodies. The noise was a constant cacophony of haggling merchants, drunken arguments, and the clang of a blacksmith's hammer. Shen Mo navigated the throng with the practiced ease of a predator, his crimson eyes taking in everything. He saw a man with a demonic-looking scorpion tattoo get into a staring contest with a disciple from a minor righteous sect; he saw a stall selling forbidden poisons and cursed artifacts in plain sight; he saw deals being made in hushed tones that could topple small kingdoms.
He didn't head for an inn. Inns had registers and talkative staff. Instead, he found a rundown boarding house in the city's grimiest district, a place that asked no questions as long as the spirit stones were paid upfront. He secured a small, windowless room and spent the next two days in seclusion, focusing solely on his recovery. He used the spirit stones he had looted to form a small Qi-gathering array, accelerating his healing. The ache in his meridians slowly faded, and his Qi began to flow more smoothly. By the end of the second day, he had recovered to about seventy percent of his peak condition. It was enough.
It was time to inquire about the Ferrymen.
This was the most dangerous part. Walking up to an information broker and asking about the world's most secretive assassination organization was a good way to end up dead in an alley. He needed a more subtle approach. His years as a mercenary had taught him where to listen. Not in the loud, boisterous taverns, but in the quiet, unassuming teahouses where old men played games of strategy and whispered information was the real currency.
He found such a place on his third evening in Blacksand Oasis. It was called the "Silent Leaf Teahouse," a small, two-story building tucked away on a side street. Inside, the air was calm, filled with the gentle aroma of brewing tea. A few patrons were scattered about, speaking in low voices or concentrating on the game boards before them. Shen Mo took a seat in a secluded corner, ordered a pot of the cheapest tea, and simply listened.
For hours, he heard nothing but idle gossip and business dealings. Then, two men sat down at a table not far from his. They were both cultivators, their auras carefully controlled, but Shen Mo's instincts told him they were dangerous.
"...the contract on the Crimson Expanse was a failure," one of them murmured, his voice barely audible. "The entire squad, even 'Scythe,' was wiped out."
The other man grunted. "Impossible. Scythe was peak seventh level. What could have taken them all out? A Core Formation expert?"
"That's the strange part. The Lin Clan's investigators found signs of a massive explosion, likely from the cargo itself. They're saying it was a demonic beast, but the tracks are all wrong. They found only one survivor's trail leading away from the site, and it was faint."
Shen Mo's heart hammered in his chest, but his face remained a mask of calm indifference. He continued to sip his tea, his gaze fixed on the street outside.
The first man sighed. "The Ferrymen don't take failure well. They say the Stygian Elder himself is paying attention."
The second man shivered. "Let's hope whoever finds that Toll knows what they're doing."
"Indeed. Only the one at the 'River's End' will accept it."
The two men finished their tea and left, oblivious to the white-haired man in the corner whose world had just been given a new, terrifying focus.
River's End. It wasn't a place, but a code. Shen Mo had heard the term before in the mercenary underworld. There was a tavern in Blacksand Oasis called the Drowned Rat, situated at the very end of a murky, foul-smelling canal that snaked through the city's poorest district. The locals called the canal the "River of Slime," and its terminus was colloquially known as the "River's End."
He waited another hour, finishing his tea before leaving the teahouse. He moved through the darkening streets, his senses on high alert. The Drowned Rat was even worse than its name suggested. It was a dilapidated shack leaning precariously over the stagnant water, the air thick with the stench of rot and cheap liquor.
Inside, it was dark and smoky. A few patrons were slumped over tables, either drunk or dead to the world. The only person who seemed alert was the bartender, a massive, bald man with a heavily scarred face and a dead look in his eyes. His cultivation was hidden, but Shen Mo could feel a dormant power in him that was far greater than his own.
Shen Mo walked to the bar, his steps silent. He didn't order a drink. He simply placed the black iron coin, the Ferryman's Toll, on the stained wooden surface. He made sure the skull-faced side was up.
The bartender's eyes, which had been half-closed in boredom, slowly opened. He stared at the coin for a long, silent moment. The oppressive atmosphere in the tavern seemed to grow ten times heavier. The man's gaze lifted from the coin and met Shen Mo's. It was a look that could freeze a man's soul, a look that had seen countless deaths and delivered just as many.
He didn't speak. He simply reached under the counter and placed a single, empty, unadorned wooden cup on the bar, right beside the coin. He then turned his back and began wiping down a glass, as if Shen Mo was no longer there.
It was another test. A riddle. Shen Mo looked at the coin, then at the cup. The Paid Ferrymen. They ferried souls across the river of death. The coin was the payment, the Toll. The cup... a cup was for drinking. What did one drink before a final journey?
His mind raced through old legends and myths. He thought of the mythical River Styx, the Yellow Springs of the underworld. He understood.
He reached out, picked up the coin, and dropped it into the empty cup.
Clink.
The sound was small, yet it echoed in the silent tavern like a thunderclap.
The bartender stopped wiping the glass. He turned around slowly, his dead eyes showing the faintest flicker of something—not approval, but acknowledgement. He picked up the cup with the coin inside, and without a word, jerked his head towards a dark, beaded curtain behind the bar.
Shen Mo gave a slight nod. He walked around the bar and pushed through the curtain, leaving the Drowned Rat and the world he knew behind. He found himself in a short, dark corridor. At the end was a single, heavy door made of black iron, identical to the material of the Toll. There was no handle, no lock.
As he approached, a low grinding sound echoed from within. The door slowly swung inward, revealing a flight of stone steps leading down into absolute, impenetrable darkness. A cold, musty wind, carrying the scent of old stone and something else, something metallic and chillingly familiar—the scent of old blood—wafted up to greet him.
He took a deep breath, his hand resting on the hilt of Glimmer. His path as a mercenary had ended in a crater of fire and betrayal. His new path was beginning here, in the dark. He took the first step down.