Three months later. late Autumn.
Beijing, the heart of the nation. A city of power, history, and hidden dragons.
In a quiet, narrow Hutong (alleyway) near the antique market, a new shop had quietly opened its doors.
It had no signboard. Only a white paper lantern hung under the eaves, swaying in the chilling autumn wind. On it, a single character was written in calligraphy: [Stitch].
The neighbors whispered about it. Some said it was a tailor shop; others said it was for repairing antiques. But no one saw any customers entering during the day.
Only at night did the luxury cars arrive.
...
It was 6:00 AM. A thick fog blanketed the city.
A black Maybach rolled silently into the alley and stopped in front of the shop.
The car door opened, and a middle-aged man stumbled out, supported by two bodyguards. He was wrapped in a thick wool scarf and heavy sunglasses, despite the mild weather.
"Hurry... knock on the door..." the man wheezed, his voice filled with agony.
Bang! Bang!
The bodyguard pounded on the weathered wooden door.
Creak—
The door opened.
A towering figure blocked the entrance. He stood two meters tall, wearing a black Tang suit. His movements were stiff, and every step he took made a faint metallic clank.
This was Iron Leg. A survivor Jiang Daolin had picked up and "fixed" during his journey. His shattered legs were now replaced with high-strength alloy bones.
"Who?" Iron Leg asked, his voice like grinding stones.
"We are looking for Master Jiang!" The bodyguard said urgently, waving a check. "My boss is sick! We heard this place can cure 'strange diseases'. Here is one million as a consultation fee!"
Iron Leg didn't even look at the check. He pointed at a wooden sign by the door.
"No Money Accepted. Only Secrets or Lives."
"What kind of rule is that?" The bodyguard was furious. "Do you know who my boss is?!"
"Let him in."
A calm, lazy voice drifted from inside the shop.
Iron Leg stepped aside.
The middle-aged man pushed his bodyguards away and crawled into the shop as if he were entering a temple.
The interior was dimly lit, smelling of old tea and formalin.
In the center sat a young man in a pristine white traditional robe. He was sitting on a grand wooden armchair, playing with an old copper coin in his hand.
It was Jiang Daolin.
Compared to three months ago, he looked more refined, more dangerous. The sharp edge of the "Butcher Slayer" was now hidden inside a scabbard of elegance.
Behind a folding screen, a girl was brewing tea. It was Nine, now dressed in clean, modern clothes, looking like a quiet assistant.
"Master Jiang! Save me!"
The middle-aged man fell to his knees, banging his head on the floor. "I'm rotting! I'm rotting alive!"
"Take off the scarf," Jiang Daolin said without looking up.
With trembling hands, the man unraveled the scarf.
Hiss—
Even Iron Leg, who had seen hell, frowned slightly.
The man's lower jaw was melting. The skin was turning into a gray, wax-like substance. And from the open sores, tiny white hairs were growing out, wiggling like worms.
Corpse Hair.
"You bought the 'Longevity Serum' from the Zhao Family, didn't you?" Jiang Daolin finally looked at him, a mocking smile on his lips.
"It seems the expiration date has arrived."
The man froze. "How... how do you know about the Zhao Family?!"
The "Immortality Project" was a top secret in the elite circle. The Zhao Family claimed the serum was a new biotechnology.
"I know everything," Jiang Daolin stood up and walked to the man. He tapped the man's rotting cheek with a long silver needle.
"You didn't inject medicine. You injected the resentment of the dead."
"You borrowed someone else's life to extend yours. Now, the original owner wants it back."
"Ah!!" The man screamed as a black beetle suddenly crawled out of his rotting flesh. "Pain! It hurts! Please! I'll give you half my fortune! Just make it stop!"
"I don't want your money," Jiang Daolin turned back to his chair and took a sip of tea.
He threw a black pill onto the floor.
"Eat this. It will stop the pain and the rot for three days."
The man scrambled like a dog and swallowed the pill. Instantly, the excruciating pain vanished.
"Thank you! Thank you, Master Jiang!" The man cried tears of joy.
"Don't thank me yet," Jiang Daolin's eyes turned cold. "This is just a pause button. If you want a complete cure, you need to do one thing for me."
"Anything! Anything!"
Jiang Daolin leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"Three days from now, the Zhao Family is holding a charity banquet to celebrate Old Man Zhao's 70th birthday."
"I want an invitation."
"A V-VIP invitation that gets me to the main table."
The man hesitated. "The Zhao Family... they are the kings of Beijing. Why do you want to go there?"
Jiang Daolin looked out the window, toward the skyscrapers in the distance where the "kings" lived.
"I heard Old Man Zhao just transplanted a 'Seven-Orifice Mystical Heart' to cure his terminal illness."
Jiang Daolin crushed the copper coin in his hand into powder.
"I'm going to check his pulse." "And ask him... if that heart is heavy to carry."