Night fell gracefully. Oil lamps glimmered behind crimson silk curtains. The scent of costly liquor mingled with the sweet smoke of incense, filling the air of the most luxurious brothel in Long Ya City. The soft pluck of a zither blended with the light laughter of the entertainers, their smiles practiced and sweet.
In a large private room, a round table overflowed with wine jugs and plates of smoked meat. Mo Feng, the eldest son of the Mo family, occupied the honored seat. He sat broad-shouldered, hair tousled, his face flushed from drink, yet his arrogant smile remained intact. Two beautiful women in diaphanous gowns lounged in his lap, each draping an arm around his neck.
"Hahaha! Drink to your heart's content tonight!" Mo Feng roared, raising a golden cup. "I'll pay for everything! Tonight we celebrate our graduation from Long Ya Academy!"
"Splendid, Brother Feng!" one companion cried, downing wine until it spilled down his chin.
Their table erupted in jokes and laughter—glasses clinking, meat seized by eager hands, the women swaying and tossing fragrant sleeves like flowers.
Yet amid the revelry, a young man with a scar on his cheek jabbed, "Hey, remember… that one guy who failed to graduate with us?"
Heads turned. The name slipped out with derision: "Mo Long."
Laughter broke like a wave. "Hahaha, right! That kid was in our year but quit in his third year because he had no qi! How could anyone from Long Ya be that pathetic?"
"Remember," another chortled, wiping tears from laughing too hard, "he even daringly took the Swordsman Qualification Test! Hahaha! He nearly died if not for the healers rescuing him at the last moment!"
Their laughter echoed off the carved wooden walls—dragons frozen in lacquered wood. Mo Feng merely drained his cup, sneering. "Shameful. He stains our family name. If I'd been there, I'd have maimed him then and there."
A drunken companion leaned forward, face flushed. "So, Feng… what will you do if you meet your little brother at next week's qualification test?"
Silence fell briefly. Mo Feng slammed his cup down on the table. A cruel smile spread across his face. "I'll make sure he never walks straight again. Better he live crippled than keep embarrassing our family name."
Laughter burst out again. A few of the entertainers giggled, though some paled at the cruelty in his words.
In a corner of the room, a man in a black kimono—who had been eyeing Mo Feng's table from the start—stood. He stepped forward, flanked by two burly men whose arms were etched with old scars. His face was hard, his gaze razor-sharp like a starving hawk.
"Mo Feng," his voice cut cold through the noisy party. "You owe me a long-standing debt. Tonight I haven't come to drink—I've come to collect."
Several of Mo Feng's companions stopped laughing. Their eyes darted nervously between one another, the drunken haze dissipating as the air turned tense.
Mo Feng, however, simply leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lazily against the table. His smirk didn't fade.
"Debt?" he scoffed with a short laugh. "Oh, so you came for that?"
The man in the black kimono lowered his head slightly, his voice pressing down like a blade. "Pay up. Or you—and your family—will bear the consequences."
Without hesitation, Mo Feng rose to his feet.
In an instant, dense Shadow Qi erupted from his body, black smoke coiling upward like living serpents. The temperature in the room dropped. The oppressive aura sent shivers through the crowd.
Several of the courtesans collapsed to their knees, pale and trembling, hands covering their mouths as cold sweat drenched their faces. Even Mo Feng's own companions felt dizzy, their vision wavering from the suffocating pressure.
The man in the kimono barked at his two bodyguards, panic slipping through his composure.
"Attack him, you fools!"
Scarlet Qi flared around the two guards. One of them charged forward, fist blazing with crimson energy.
"Ashen Shadow Fist!"
His punch struck Mo Feng's chest squarely—only for the body to shatter into dust.
Black smoke and ash burst outward, scattering like a storm of ink. Then, out of the drifting shadows, dozens of dark silhouettes emerged—each a phantom reflection of Mo Feng, each moving like a ghost under the lantern light.
They darted in and out of sight, circling their prey. Blades slashed at nothing. The three men stumbled and spun, unable to tell illusion from flesh.
Then, suddenly, the shadows converged.
The smoke reformed into Mo Feng's body. He raised his arm slowly, dark energy spiraling upward from his shoulder. The coiling image of a black dragon wrapped around his fist.
"Now… perish!" His voice dripped with sadistic delight. "Shadow Dragon Strike!"
A deafening roar tore through the air—like a dragon screaming from the abyss.
From his fist, a massive black dragon surged forth, its serpentine body twisting as it flew. It crashed into the three men at once.
BOOM!
The explosion shook the entire brothel. Tables splintered, lanterns fell, and walls trembled as blood sprayed across the wooden floor.
The three attackers were hurled back into the wall, their chests crushed, blood pouring from their mouths. They screamed—briefly—before collapsing in convulsions and falling unconscious in a heap.
Mo Feng lowered his arm slowly. The spectral dragon dissipated into mist.
A cruel smile stretched across his face; his eyes glowed faintly red like a demon born of fury and wine.
"The debt," he said with chilling calm, "has been paid in blood."
Then, throwing back his head, he burst into manic laughter.
"Hahaha! Anyone else here wants to collect their debts?!"
No one answered.
The scent of spilled wine filled the air. The table lay overturned. The sound of the zither had long fallen silent.
Only Mo Feng's deranged laughter remained—echoing through the brothel walls and into the moonlit streets—a laughter that mingled with the faint screams of those fleeing into the night.
***
Elsewhere, far from the blood-soaked revelry, a very different scene unfolded. Deep within the Patriarch's pavilion, Mo Long and Mo Han's footsteps echoed along the secret stone corridor. Torches along the walls sputtered to life, casting a dim, wavering light.
"Lucky for you, your brother is talented," Mo Han said without turning, his voice cold as it reverberated down the passage. "But I will give you a chance."
The corridor opened into a wide circular chamber. The moment Mo Long crossed the threshold, a suffocating pressure greeted him, weighing on his chest.
Carved black dragon statues encircled the walls, their tails coiling until they met the dragon heads at the far ends. The jaws of those sculptures gaped open; two upper fangs were fashioned from curved, black blades that seemed forged from the darkness itself. From one gaping mouth floated a human-sized black orb, exuding a thick, nauseating energy as if it could devour the soul of anyone who stared too long.
On either side of the room stood towering shelves lined with black-bound tomes. The smell of old paper mingled with a faint iron tang, like dried blood clinging to the air. In the center stood a solid black marble table, and atop it sat a small chest secured with a heavy lock—an obvious repository for the Shadow Dragon Clan's most guarded secrets.
Mo Han halted before the table and turned to his son. "Tell me, Mo Long. Do you truly wish to become a qi swordsman?"
Without hesitation, Mo Long nodded. "Yes, Father."
Mo Han narrowed his eyes and stepped closer. "Then will you attempt the Qualification Trial a fourth time?"
"Yes," Mo Long answered firmly. "And this time I guarantee I will not fail."
Mo Han's expression grew more serious. "If so… after the trial, do you intend to enroll in the Academy of the Heavenly Demon Cult?"
The question gave Mo Long pause. His mind raced. 'The Cult Academy is a shortcut to power. I don't merely want to execute those who betrayed me—I want to annihilate the Orthodox Faction from root to crown. To do that I will need the Cult's power as a springboard.'
His gaze hardened. "Yes. I will enter the Academy of the Heavenly Demon Cult."
Mo Han studied him intently. "If your life is the price, will you still be willing?"
"Yes." Mo Long's voice was resolute, as steady and cold as tempered steel.
A thin, unreadable smile touched Mo Han's lips. "Very well. Know this: our Shadow Dragon Clan once stood with Chun Ma, the Heavenly Demon, to found the Heavenly Demon Cult. My singular aim is to restore that former glory." He turned to regard the carved dragon that coiled the chamber. "Now, only Mo Feng appears to be our hope. But after tonight… your tenacity cannot be ignored. I will treat you fairly."
Mo Han snapped his fingers. Click. The heavy lock released, and the lid of the small chest on the marble table rose slowly. Inside, a vial of black, shimmering elixir pulsed as if alive.
Mo Han lifted his right hand and, with a lazy flick of his middle and index fingers, summoned two thick, black-bound tomes from the left rack. They flew and landed squarely on the table.
He closed the chest, then fixed his son with a steady stare. "Do you know the Elixir Blast technique?" he asked.
Mo Long's brows rose, then knitted in concentration. 'Elixir Blast—the method of stimulating a weak dantian by detonating a potent elixir's qi. So this is all for that…' He nodded briskly. "I know it, Father."
Mo Han's expression softened, and he pushed the elixir and the two volumes toward Mo Long.
"This is the Hei Long Elixir and our clan's basic and intermediate manuals. Use them well."
Mo Long looked at the items, his eyes gleaming. A faint smile touched his lips. "I will not disappoint you, Patriarch."
"Three days," Mo Han said. "Within five days, return to me with your dantian restored. I will send you to take the Qualification Trial—and I will enroll you in the Academy of the Heavenly Demon Cult."
"Of course, Father. I will—"
"But if you fail to recover your Shadow Qi," Mo Han interrupted, voice cold as stone, "you will die. If you survive by chance, then leave the clan."
Mo Long froze; his thoughts raced. 'This is a high-stakes gamble... but a life without power is worse than death.' A second later, he smiled and nodded, sure and steady. "I will not fail."
"Good. I like your conviction." Mo Han's smile was thin, unreadable.
He tipped his chin toward the black orb clenched in the dragon's maw. "If one day you master the clan's Peak Technique—the Shadow Dragon Qi Manifestation that has long been lost—then you will be worthy of the Hei Long Essence. And the heirloom curved fang blade you saw. Even…" Mo Han's hand landed heavily on Mo Long's shoulder. "You could become Head of the Clan."
Mo Long's breath quickened. His eyes were fixed on the black orb; the oppressive energy made his body tremble—not with fear, but with appetite. Still, a question nagged at the edge of his mind.
"The Hei Long Essence… is it only half—remaining?" he asked.
Mo Han nodded slowly. "Mo Gui, our first progenitor, absorbed half of it. Since then no Patriarch has been able to take the rest. All have tried and failed. Myself included."
Mo Long eyed the floating orb, his pupils narrowing to slits. 'Hei Long Essence… the legendary spirit beast that once ravaged the Orthodox Faction. If I could absorb it…'
A cold smile broke across his face. 'The world will not withstand the rise of the True Demon.'