Broken Blade Ridge — a buffer zone situated at the border between the Great Wei Dynasty and the Northern Desolate Barbarians — was a place where the air was perpetually thick with the lingering stench of rust and putrefaction. Several days prior, the "Scarlet Iron Army" of Great Wei and the "Wolf Riders" of the Northern Desolates had engaged in a tragic and fierce encounter here. At this moment, the sounds of slaughter had long since dissipated with the wind, leaving behind only a landscape of devastation and corpses strewn across the ground.
Fine rain fell densely, silently seeping into the dark red soil.
Shen Xuan tightened his patch-covered gray hemp robe, his iron hook skillfully overturning a corpse that had long since stiffened. He was a "Scavenger" of the Scarlet Iron Army's external logistics battalion — or, to put it more crudely, a legalized battlefield pickpocket. His duty was to recover weapons, armor, and any materials of potential value to submit to the armory in exchange for the meager rations required to barely sustain his life.
Muddy water seeped through the gaps in his straw sandals, piercingly cold. Shen Xuan did not complain; his face, covered in mud and grime, was as calm as a pool of stagnant water. In this chaotic era where human life was worth no more than grass, having a task that provided a meal without requiring one to charge into battle was a blessing countless refugees dreamed of.
The iron hook in his hand suddenly paused.
The corpse before him was no ordinary soldier. Judging by the style of the armor, this man had been a "Centurion" of the Northern Desolates. The heavy beast-hide armor had been sliced open by a sharp blade, revealing a shocking, bloody hole in the chest. Shen Xuan's gaze did not linger on the fatal wound for long; instead, he rapidly scanned his surroundings.
In the gray curtain of rain, several hunched figures moved in the distance — other scavengers. Further away, atop the watchtowers, the overseers of the Scarlet Iron Army were observing this field of death with hawk-like eyes. These overseers were no ordinary men; they were martial artists who had cultivated a trace of "Qi Sense." Their vision was astonishing, and the slightest abnormal movement could invite fatal disaster.
Shen Xuan lowered his head slightly, using the motion of turning the corpse to block the overseers' line of sight.
His fingers brushed over a hidden pocket at the Centurion's waist with extreme speed. The texture was hard and cold. It was a black bone fragment, roughly the size of a fingernail.
In this world, while mortal gold and silver were desirable, they could not purchase true power. Only items related to "Spiritual Qi" and "Cultivation Methods" were the keys to changing one's destiny. A faint, obscure luster flowed across the surface of this bone fragment; it was absolutely no ordinary object.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs, yet Shen Xuan's hands remained as steady as a rock. He did not stuff the bone fragment into his robes — that was the location most frequently searched. Nor did he hide it in the soles of his shoes — the mud would make the sensation of a foreign object obvious, thereby affecting his gait.
He made a move that was both extremely audacious and repulsive.
Shen Xuan grabbed a handful of mud mixed with bloody water, encased the bone fragment within it, and then, seemingly casually, smeared it over a festering wound on his calf that had already scabbed over. The slurry and pus blended perfectly; the bone fragment pressed against his skin, bringing a sting of pain, yet it was seamless.
Completing this action took merely the time of two breaths.
"Are you finished with this corpse?"
A cold, gloomy voice pierced through the rain curtain, sounding behind him without warning.
Shen Xuan's spine instantly tensed, yet his body betrayed no trembling of panic. He slowly straightened his waist and turned around, his face wearing an expression of humility and numbness that was measured to perfection.
Standing behind him was the steward of the logistics battalion, Zhao Xiao.
Zhao Xiao was a man of suspicious nature and ruthless means. It was said he had once been a scout for the Scarlet Iron Army, retiring to the rear lines due to injury. Though his cultivation had stalled at the "Third Layer of Body Refining," before these mortal laborers, he remained an unshakable mountain.
"Replying to Steward Zhao, I have just finished searching." Shen Xuan's voice was hoarse as he raised the scimitar and several pieces of broken silver he had untied from the corpse with both hands. "This barbarian was a pauper. Aside from a good blade, there is little profit on him."
Zhao Xiao did not take the items. His inverted triangular eyes roamed over Shen Xuan like a venomous snake flicking its tongue. Rainwater dripped from the brim of Zhao Xiao's bamboo hat, the atmosphere oppressive enough to be suffocating.
"Shen Xuan, you have been in the battalion for nearly half a year now, haven't you?" Zhao Xiao spoke suddenly, his tone so flat that neither anger nor joy could be discerned.
"Yes, in ten days, it will be a full six months," Shen Xuan answered with his head bowed, his gaze focused on Zhao Xiao's mud-splattered boots, not daring to meet his eyes.
"Six months... There are few scavengers who can survive half a year on Broken Blade Ridge." Zhao Xiao extended a finger, lightly lifting the hem of Shen Xuan's stain-covered long robe, as if searching for something. "You are very clever, and you follow the rules. But I always feel that, compared to the others, you are a bit too 'quiet'."
This remark was heart-piercing.
In a world full of schemes, being too quiet often implied one was hiding one's light under a bushel, or harboring sinister designs.
Shen Xuan felt a chill in his heart. He knew Zhao Xiao was testing him. Perhaps his movement a moment ago had not been seen clearly, but that subtle pause might have triggered the old scout's intuitive vigilance.
"This lowly one is simply afraid of death." Shen Xuan's voice carried a trace of trembling — a genuine, unfeigned fear of mortality. "Speaking too much invites disaster; doing more work allows one to live."
Zhao Xiao stared at him for a long time, seemingly trying to find even a single flaw in the thin young man's face. But all he saw was a visage smoothed of all edges by life, written over with hardship and timidity.
"Being afraid of death is a good thing." Zhao Xiao finally retracted his hand, the corner of his mouth hooking into a mocking arc. "Take the items to the registry. Tonight, there is a batch of 'Waste Pill Residue' shipped from the capital that needs processing. You go and help."
"Yes." Shen Xuan bowed as if he had been granted a great amnesty.
Only when Zhao Xiao turned and vanished into the depths of the rain curtain did Shen Xuan feel that his back was soaked with cold sweat. Processing waste pill residue was a bitter task; the pill toxicity damaged the body, and no one was willing to do it. However, this was also Zhao Xiao's "grace," implying he had temporarily dismissed any specific suspicion, merely wishing to take the opportunity to beat him down and wear him out.
Night fell, and scattered firelight lit up the camp at Broken Blade Ridge.
Shen Xuan dragged his exhausted body back to his own hovel. It was a cramped space constructed of rotten planks and thatch, leaking wind from all sides and reeking of mold.
He did not immediately check the bone fragment. Instead, he went to the communal water trough and washed his hands and feet in front of everyone, even deliberately scrubbing the wound on his calf with force, grimacing in pain and cursing under his breath. During this process, under the cover of a towel, the bone fragment was silently transferred to his mouth, pressed beneath the base of his tongue.
Only after returning to the hovel and confirming no one was prying did he spit the bone fragment out in the darkness.
By the faint moonlight filtering through the cracks in the door, Shen Xuan carefully examined the object he had risked his life to obtain. The bone fragment was pitch-black with irregular edges, engraved with strange characters smaller than grains of rice.
These were not the characters of Great Wei, nor the barbarian script of the North.
Years ago, before his family had fallen into ruin, Shen Xuan had read a few miscellaneous books. He vaguely recognized that this seemed to be "Spirit Script" passed down from antiquity. Straining to identify them, and relying on his limited reserves of knowledge, he barely pieced together a few key terms.
"Devour Spirit... Reincarnation... Nurturing Balefulness..."
This was not an orthodox cultivation technique.
Orthodox techniques emphasized gradual progress, drawing the Spiritual Qi of heaven and earth into the body. What was recorded on this bone fragment, however, seemed to be an extremely domineering, perhaps even wicked, secret art — forcibly blasting open the body's meridians by devouring the "Death Qi" and residual "Essence" of the newly deceased.
Such a technique was known in Great Wei as the "Demonic Path." Once discovered, one would be executed without fail.
But its allure was fatal. For a bottom-tier ant like Shen Xuan — without background, with mediocre aptitude, and unable to touch even a single spirit stone — the door to orthodox cultivation had long been closed.
This might be his only chance.
However, the risks were equally immense.
First, Zhao Xiao's probing was not over. When processing waste pill residue, the body would be tainted with the aura of pill toxicity. If he practiced a demonic technique at such a time and his aura became disordered, it would be extremely easy for a veteran like Zhao Xiao to notice the anomaly.
Second, the bone fragment was incomplete. It recorded only the first half of the method. If he practiced it and could not control the baleful energy within his body, the best outcome would be madness, and the worst would be his body exploding and perishing.
Third, Zhao Xiao was not the only clever person in the camp. Sharing the large sleeping quarters were several slippery old hands. One fellow named "The Rat" had a nose sharper than a dog's and loved to stare at others' harvests to curry favor with the stewards.
Shen Xuan's fingers tightened slightly around the bone fragment.
In the distance came the heavy footsteps of the patrol squads and the neighing of warhorses. The clouds of war had never dispersed; perhaps tomorrow would bring a new round of slaughter. If he continued to be a scavenger, his luck would eventually run out — he would die either beneath a stray arrow or from wind-chill and plague.
He did not want to die. He wanted to control his own fate.
A trace of ruthlessness flashed through Shen Xuan's eyes, only to be immediately replaced by a profound calmness. He had to make a choice, and he had to make it fast.