The air in the carriage tasted of rusted iron and old sweat.
Qian Wu's eyes snapped open as a violent jolt sent his head slamming against the wooden slats of the cage. A flood of alien memories rushed in vivid, and terrifying.
The previous owner of this body, a young man with the same name, had literally died of a broken heart, as his spirit collapsed under the sheer terror of the "Blood Demon Sect" banner fluttering outside.
"Pathetic," Qian Wu thought, though his own heart hammered against his ribs.
As he tried to steady his breathing, he felt a strange, heavy warmth swirling in his veins. It didn't feel like liquid but more like molten silver. Whenever the carriage hit a bump, this "Mercury Blood" surged, instantly knitting together the bruises on his skin and the cracks in his spirit. It was an ocean of 'vitality', dense and seemingly inexhaustible.
He leaned his forehead against the cold iron bars, peering through the gaps of the tattered leather curtain to witness the world that had frightened his predecessor to death. Outside, the sky was a bruised purple, dominated by the jagged peaks of the sect's mountain range. These weren't natural mountains; they were obsidian spires that pierced the clouds like the fangs of a subterranean god.
Winding through the center of these peaks was a massive, pulsing gorge that served as the sect's main artery. From this height, the sight was haunting, a literal river of blood roared down the mountainside, as crimson torrent glowed with a sickly light. The sound felt like a heartbeat that vibrated through the carriage floor and into Qian Wu's very bones.
Qian Wu watched a spray of red mist rise from the river of blood, coating the vegetation in a layer of crimson frost. Instead of wilting, the plants thrived, their leaves jagged and sharp like serrated knives. The sheer density of the worldly energy here was suffocating, yet his mercury-like blood reacted with a predatory hum. While the other captives in the carriage began to cough, their lungs struggling with the metallic air, Qian Wu felt his senses sharpening, his silver essence swirling faster as if it had finally found its true home.
As the carriage lurched toward the final gate, Qian Wu closed his eyes, allowing the fragmented memories of the original "Qian Wu" to settle. It was a mosaic of horror, visions of a peaceful village being razed, the smell of burning thatch, and the cold, glare of the sect's recruiting disciples. The predecessor's mind had been a fragile thing, prone to shattering, but his memories served as a grim survival manual. He remembered tales of the "Blood Siphon Torture" and the "Marrow-Eating Beetles" used on those who betrayed the sect.
'You were right to be afraid,'
Qian Wu whispered internally, his modern soul bracing against the weight of the predecessor's trauma.
'But you died so I could live. I won't waste the life you couldn't keep.'
He felt the silver fluid in his veins grow cold, as if acknowledging his resolve. The mercury blood didn't just carry life, it carried a strange, stoic weight, a physical anchor that prevented the sect's oppressive aura from crushing his spirit.
Suddenly, the carriage came to a definitive halt. The heavy iron chains securing the doors rattled with a loud clang. A blast of chilled, copper scented air rushed in as the door was ripped open. Standing there was a man who looked more like a corpse than a living being, his skin was pulled tight over his skull like yellowed parchment, and his eyes were twin pits of smoldering red embers.
"Move, out!" the Steward barked, his voice sounding like sandpaper on stone.
One by one, the shackled captives stumbled out onto the blood stained mountain. When Qian Wu stepped down, his boots sank slightly into a soil that felt unnaturally warm and spongy. Above him, a giant sign was suspended with suffocating authority, the words [Blood Demon Sect] carved deep into it, each stroke bleeding endlessly into the sky. He kept his head bowed, mimicking the trembling gait of the others, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the colossal board hung like a divine scripture.
The Steward paced the line of trembling captives, his fingers twitching over a rack of rusted iron tokens. Each token was etched with a number that would become their only identity within the Blood Demon Sect. He stopped in front of Qian Wu, his red eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second as if sensing a flicker of resistance, before sneering and shoving a cold piece of metal into his palm.
"No. 423," the Steward hissed. "That is your cave, your workshop, and, if you are lazy, your tomb."
With a flick of his wrist, the Steward tossed a stack of weathered jade slips into the dirt at their feet.
"Pick them up. Those are the Blood Crystal Condensation manual and the Black Iron Marrow Tempering Art. These is an opportunity for all of you. The first allows you to manifest the blood crystals we require, the second ensures your miserable bodies don't fall apart before the first harvest. You have seven days to produce three crystals. If you come back empty handed, the plants outside always needs more sediment."
Qian Wu knelt, his fingers brushing the dirt as he retrieved the jade slip. As soon as his skin made contact with the jade, a faint thrum of dark energy tried to prick his soul, but the mercury blood in his veins surged like a defensive tide, swallowing the intrusion instantly. He looked up, watching as the other slaves were herded like sheep toward the dark apertures in the cliffside.
The "caves" were little more than jagged holes, stacked hundreds of feet high, accessible only by narrow, slippery stone ledges.
He found Cave No. 423 near the base of the Eastern Cliff. Inside, the only furniture was a flat stone slab stained with the failed efforts of the previous occupant.