The badlands east of Blacksand Oasis were a jagged scar upon the face of the world. Unlike the rolling dunes of the Crimson Expanse, this was a chaotic maze of wind-carved mesas, treacherous ravines, and razor-sharp rock formations that tore at clothes and flesh with equal malice. It was a place where the unwary could get lost and die of thirst within sight of their destination, and it was the perfect breeding ground for vermin like the Black Fangs.
Shen Mo, now fully embracing his persona as Vermillion Ghost, moved through this hostile environment not as a traveler, but as a predator stalking its territory. The two-day journey was a period of intense focus and acclimation. The lingering weakness from the Berserker's Bloodsoul Pill was gone, replaced by a familiar, coiled strength. His cultivation, now fully stabilized at the sixth level of Foundation Establishment, circulated smoothly, his Dao Foundation feeling more solid and robust than ever before. The trial by fire had, in its own brutal way, tempered him.
During the day, he found high, shaded perches to rest and observe, his spiritual sense a constant, sweeping net. At night, under the cold light of the twin moons, he traveled. It was during these long, silent treks that he began to truly practice the [Misty Shadow Form]. He would channel his Qi according to the intricate pathways described in the scroll, focusing on the core principle of the art: not to become invisible, but to become insignificant.
He learned to soften the sharp edges of his aura, to make his potent life force feel less like a cultivator and more like a rock, a gust of wind, or a patch of shadow. It was a subtle, profound art that required immense control. At first, the effect was clumsy. He might mask his cultivation level, but his presence was still jarringly solid. But with each passing hour of practice, he grew more adept. He learned to sync his breathing with the whisper of the wind, to match the rhythm of his steps with the skittering of unseen desert creatures.
His progress was tested on the second night. As he navigated a narrow pass, his spiritual sense picked up a powerful presence ahead. It was a Rank 4 Spirit Beast, a Stonehide Wyrm, coiled and sleeping in a sandy basin. Its power was equivalent to a fourth-level Foundation Establishment cultivator, and its stone-like scales were notoriously difficult to pierce. As a mercenary, Shen Mo would have given it a wide berth, a confrontation being an unnecessary risk. As Vermillion Ghost, it was a training opportunity.
He didn't draw Glimmer. Instead, he activated the [Misty Shadow Form]. His aura, once a clear signal of his power, seemed to dissolve, bleeding into the surrounding rocks. He slowed his heartbeat, thinned his Qi, and moved forward. He passed within fifty feet of the sleeping beast, a distance at which its natural instincts should have screamed at it of his presence. The Stonehide Wyrm's massive head twitched, its serpentine nostrils tasting the air, but it detected nothing more than the scent of cold stone and dry sand. After a moment, it settled back into its slumber.
Shen Mo continued on, a faint, cold smile hidden by his shadow veil. The technique was a success. It was a key, one that would unlock doors that brute force never could.
He arrived at the coordinates for Serpent's Tooth Canyon late on the second night. The canyon was aptly named. Two massive, fang-like pillars of rock guarded its entrance, creating a natural chokepoint. From a high ridge a mile away, he looked down upon the Black Fangs' camp.
It was less a camp and more a crude fortress. The bandits had built their settlement at the canyon's widest point, using the sheer rock walls as natural defenses. A high, sharpened palisade of petrified wood sealed off the front, and watchtowers were manned by archers. A large, dirty bonfire roared in the center of the compound, illuminating a chaotic collection of tents and crude huts. The sounds of raucous laughter, drunken shouting, and the clang of weapons practice drifted up on the wind. It was a hive of scum, brimming with the violent, undisciplined energy of those who lived by taking from others.
Shen Mo settled into a hidden crevice in the rock face, a perfect vantage point. He would not act tonight. Haste was the enemy of perfection. His first task was to learn. For the next twenty-four hours, he became a silent, patient observer, his crimson eyes missing nothing.
He mapped the entire camp in his mind. He counted thirty-two bandits in total. Twenty were at the peak of Qi Condensation, little more than thugs. Ten were at the first or second level of Foundation Establishment, forming the core of the bandit's muscle. He noted their patrol routes, the guard changes on the watchtowers, and the times they were laziest—just before dawn, and during the midday heat when most of them were drunk or sleeping.
He identified the two lieutenants. They were easy to spot, clad in better armor and occupying a larger tent near the center of the camp. They were both fourth-level Foundation Establishment experts, just as the contract had stated. They rarely moved far from the main tent, a much larger, more fortified structure at the very back of the camp, pressed against the canyon wall. That was where Mad Dog Kang resided.
Kang himself only emerged twice during Shen Mo's observation. He was a mountain of a man with a wild, black beard and a cruel glint in his eyes. He carried a massive, serrated greatsword on his back and his aura was indeed at the peak of the sixth level, a chaotic and violent energy that spoke of a crude but powerful cultivation method. He was strong, but his strength was unrefined, like a bludgeon next to Shen Mo's scalpel.
The most crucial piece of information came after dusk on the third day. He watched as one of the lieutenants led a small group of bandits into a cave near the back of the camp. The cave was sealed by a heavy, iron-banded door, and its guards were the most alert in the entire compound. This had to be where the stolen ores were kept.
His plan began to form, a cold, precise sequence of events. He would not engage the entire camp. That was the work of an army, not an assassin. His goal was surgical. He would infiltrate, eliminate the three primary targets, retrieve the objective, and vanish. The rest of the bandits were irrelevant.
He identified the camp's primary weakness. While the front was heavily fortified, the rear was protected only by the sheer canyon wall, which rose several hundred feet. The bandits clearly believed it to be unscalable. For a cultivator of his level, it was a staircase.
He waited until the hour of the rat, three hours past midnight. The camp was at its quietest. The bonfire had burned down to glowing embers, and most of the bandits were asleep in their tents. The patrols were sluggish, their steps heavy with fatigue and wine. The twin moons were hidden behind a thick bank of clouds, granting him the gift of near-perfect darkness.
He descended from his perch and circled the canyon, his movements utterly silent. He reached the sheer cliff face directly behind Mad Dog Kang's tent. He began to climb. There were few handholds, but he didn't need them. He channeled a minute amount of Qi to his fingertips and the soles of his boots, creating a faint adhesive force that allowed him to move up the vertical rock face with the eerie, silent grace of a spider.
Halfway up, he paused, clinging to the rock, and activated the [Misty Shadow Form]. The already faint whisper of his aura dissolved completely, blending into the cold stone and the night air. He was a ghost ascending from the earth.
He reached the top of the canyon rim and peered down. Kang's tent was directly below him, a mere hundred feet away. The two lieutenants were in their own tent, fifty feet to the left. The ore cave was another hundred feet beyond that. Perfect.
He had brought a coil of thin, strong silk rope, an item from Scythe's storage pouch. He anchored it to a rock outcropping and began his descent, sliding down into the heart of the enemy camp like a drop of poison. He landed on the roof of a small, empty storage hut behind Kang's tent, his landing making less noise than a falling leaf.
He was inside. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies and spilled ale. He could hear the snores of sleeping bandits from the surrounding tents. His spiritual sense, now a fine, delicate instrument, spread out. He confirmed the positions of his targets. Kang was asleep in his tent. The two lieutenants were in theirs, though one was awake, quietly meditating. The four guards at the ore cave were alert, but their attention was focused outward, towards the camp, not inward towards the cliff face.
His first targets would be the lieutenants. Killing them first would prevent them from raising an alarm or aiding their leader. He slipped off the roof, his dark robes making him one with the shadows between the tents. He moved with a patience born from a hundred life-or-death battles. He timed his movements with the gusts of wind that whistled through the canyon, using the sound to cover the faint rustle of his robes.
He reached the lieutenants' tent. The flap was closed. He could feel the two auras within, one calm and rhythmic, the other still and deep in sleep. Taking out two awake opponents would be noisy. Taking out one, and then the other, was the professional's choice.
He didn't enter through the flap. Instead, he moved to the side of the tent. He drew Glimmer. The pale gray steel seemed to absorb the dim light of the dying embers. He placed the tip of the blade against the thick animal hide of the tent wall, directly in line with where his spiritual sense told him the sleeping lieutenant's head rested.
He channeled a small, sharp burst of Qi into the blade.
[Silent Fang Strike]
The technique was designed for silent, armor-piercing thrusts. Glimmer slid through the tent wall as if it were water, the enchanted fabric of his robes muffling the sound. The blade entered the sleeping man's temple, pierced his brain, and exited the other side. There was no sound, no struggle. The man's aura simply winked out of existence, his life extinguished in his sleep.
Inside the tent, the meditating lieutenant's aura spiked in alarm. He had felt the life force of his companion vanish. "Who's there?!" he shouted, leaping to his feet.
But Shen Mo was already in motion. The instant his blade had done its work, he used [Void Flash Step]. He didn't appear inside the tent. He flickered to the entrance flap, pulling it aside as the remaining lieutenant charged out, his saber drawn and his eyes wide with confusion and fear.
The man burst out into the darkness, expecting an enemy, but found only empty space. It was his last mistake. Shen Mo, standing just to the side of the entrance, was a phantom the man's panicked senses completely missed.
As the lieutenant charged past, Shen Mo's arm shot out. It wasn't a sword strike. It was a simple, brutal clothesline, his arm reinforced with Qi. The blow caught the bandit across the throat, crushing his windpipe and shattering his vertebrae. The man made a choked, gurgling sound and dropped to his knees, his saber clattering on the ground. Shen Mo finished it with a quick, silent thrust of Glimmer to the heart.
Two down. The entire exchange had taken less than three seconds. The only sounds had been a single shouted question and the clatter of a dropped sword, noises that were easily lost in the nightly sounds of the bandit camp.
He dragged the second body back into the tent and closed the flap. Now, only the main target remained. Mad Dog Kang.
He moved to the large tent at the rear of the camp. He could feel Kang's powerful, chaotic aura within. The man was still asleep, his snores like the rumbling of a distant rockslide. This would be the easiest part of the job.
He sliced a silent slit in the back of the tent and slipped inside. The interior was a mess of furs, discarded armor, and gnawed bones. The air was thick with the stench of stale wine and sweat. Kang was sprawled on a massive pile of furs, his greatsword lying beside him.
Shen Mo approached the sleeping bandit lord, Glimmer held in a reverse grip, ready for a downward thrust. He was a ghost in the man's own sanctum, the final nightmare. He raised his blade, aiming for the heart.
Just as he was about to strike, Kang's eyes snapped open. They weren't filled with sleep, but with a cunning, murderous light.
"Got you," the bandit lord snarled, and the entire tent exploded in a wave of violent, earthen Qi.