Chapter Five: A Perilous Move

The sudden shout startled Shen Chang’an, making him pause and put down his bowl and chopsticks. Not far away, he saw an elderly Taoist priest in robes staggering toward him, swaying as if he might collapse at any moment. In stark contrast to the steady, resolute stride of the flag officer, the priest’s steps were feeble, and after only a few paces, his face was already flushed, his breath labored, and he coughed repeatedly, struggling to clear a lump of phlegm from his throat.

The old Taoist finally reached Shen Chang’an, gasping for breath. “Don’t... don’t... don’t... eat...”

Shen Chang’an thought to himself that it was fortunate the priest said “don’t eat.” Had he said “must not eat,” the bowl of noodles might already have been in his stomach. He tried to find humor in his dire situation, grasping at anything to distract himself from the desperation threatening to overwhelm him.

But the next moment, all mirth vanished. The old priest snatched off the lid of the large pot, revealing its contents to Shen Chang’an. He could not make out everything simmering within, but floating on the surface was unmistakably a human skull.

He dared not look any deeper. A wave of nausea twisted in his gut, draining the blood from his face. He realized, with sickening horror, how close he’d been—perilously close—to eating this grotesque concoction.

“Ugh—” He couldn’t contain it. He retched violently, but having eaten nothing for days, only sour bile came up. After two more dry heaves, he realized he was still clutching the bowl of noodles. In terror, he flung it away and doubled over, retching again.

The old Taoist had uncovered the pot, and the aroma of meat still lingered in the air, mingling with the sounds of Shen Chang’an’s retching. The stench filled him with revulsion—not only for the pot’s contents, but for himself. He had actually thought that stew smelled delicious.

Seeing Shen Chang’an still vomiting, the priest hurried to his side, drew a bowl from his robe, filled it with water, and slipped a talisman into it. “Drink this, child.”

Even before the bowl touched his lips, the scent seemed to ease his nausea. Without hesitation, he drank it all. Instantly, he felt lighter, as if a cool breeze had swept through his body, washing away his sickness.

“Thank you, Master Taoist.”

The priest shook his head, about to speak, when suddenly his body jerked and he was flung backward. Shen Chang’an looked up in shock; the flag officer was holding a lasso, which he’d looped around the old priest’s neck, yanking him violently to the ground.

The officer dragged the priest to his feet and stomped on his chest, his expression vicious and cold. “You old ox-nose, how dare you meddle in my affairs?”

The Taoist was strangled, his face reddening, his voice trembling as he choked out, “Sir... I am a priest of Azure Reed Temple... recognized by the Great Qian... I have my credentials...”

A sneer curled the officer’s handsome features. Pressing down harder, his gaze grew colder. “Trying to use the authorities against me, are you? I’m a flag officer of the Demon Purge Division. If I say you’re colluding with the White Lotus cultists, who do you think they’ll believe—me or you?”

The priest’s face blanched, his features withering as his voice failed. He stared, stunned by the officer’s brutality.

The officer had lured Shen Chang’an into eating human flesh to brand him a demon. If Shen Chang’an had eaten, the officer would have killed him, claimed he was a White Lotus cultist, and collected the bounty.

The Demon Purge Division offered hefty rewards for the heads of White Lotus rebels—nearly an ounce of silver per head. For someone like Shen Chang’an, who possessed genuine spiritual power, the price was even higher—three to five ounces, at least.

But Shen Chang’an bore not the slightest taint of bloodlust; the officers of the division were not fools and had many means of verifying such things. If they discovered the officer had killed an innocent, his own life would be forfeit.

However, if Shen Chang’an had eaten human flesh, the soul of the devoured would forever haunt him, and that lingering resentment would suffice for a conviction, even without any aura of bloodshed.

Shen Chang’an had been on the verge of eating when the old priest intervened, ruining the officer’s plan. Enraged, the officer realized he could no longer trick Shen Chang’an and resolved to kill them both, burn the bodies, and erase all evidence.

Handsome though he was, the officer’s heart was more venomous than a scorpion’s. A supposed defender of the realm, he engaged in the foulest deeds.

His boot pressed harder into the Taoist’s chest, crushing the air from his lungs, splintering his ribs, nearly suffocating him.

Just then, a rush of wind sounded from behind. The officer’s expression darkened; without looking, he knew Shen Chang’an was attacking and swung his fist back in defense.

But his punch met a cast-iron pot.

Shen Chang’an, fueled by the energy gained from breath fasting, hurled the red-hot pot, broth and all, at the officer. Arrogant and off his guard, the officer turned to meet the attack head-on, never expecting the seemingly gentle Shen Chang’an to strike so ruthlessly.

His fist shattered the pot; scalding broth splashed over his face, down his neck, chest, and stomach, narrowly missing his groin.

He was about to retaliate when a sharp pain shot through him. Shen Chang’an, unnoticed, had crawled behind and, without hesitation, seized and crushed the officer’s most vulnerable place.

Shen Chang’an knew no martial arts, no fancy techniques—his only goal was to kill.

He might seem mild-mannered, but in his school days, he’d never been a model student. In his peaceful former life, he might have hesitated; but in this cannibalistic world, nothing held him back.

His enemy wanted his life—why should he fight fair?

He had to strike quickly and decisively. Against a seasoned demon-hunter, he stood no chance in a straight fight. Only the dirtiest, most underhanded tactics would give him a hope of victory.

The officer’s armor rendered most weak points useless. The White Lotus cultists had battered him in vain; his counterattacks were deadly.

But today, for convenience, the officer had removed his helmet, giving Shen Chang’an an opening. With the helmet, only one weak spot existed; without it, there were two.

Shen Chang’an was sure there was no armor below the waist—otherwise, the officer would have worn out the protection himself. Thus, he had two targets. Whichever he attacked, the officer would have to defend. With a feint and a strike, he could bring him down.

Even so, Shen Chang’an estimated his chance of success at barely thirty percent. But with no escape, he’d gamble even on ten.

He hadn’t expected the officer’s arrogance to be so absolute. Facing an unknown attack, he’d responded with a punch—leaving himself open to the scalding broth, blind for three precious seconds.

Seizing the moment, Shen Chang’an struck, his hand infused with energy, and tore away the officer’s manhood.

A scream of agony erupted as the officer collapsed, writhing on the ground, howling curses. Shen Chang’an ignored him, snatched up the officer’s steel saber, drew it from its scabbard, and brandished the cold, shining blade.

With each swing, he vented his terror and fury, striking again and again as the officer begged or threatened, not hearing a word.

“Die... die... die...” he roared, eyes bloodshot, mind consumed by rage and fear.

When at last he stopped, the officer’s head was unrecognizable, battered beyond all shape.

Shen Chang’an flung the saber aside and slumped to the ground, gasping for breath, arms trembling with exhaustion.

Only then did it occur to him—there was still someone else.

He scrambled to the Taoist’s side, checking his breath; he was barely alive, more out than in.

“Master Taoist, can you hear me?”

The priest’s eyes were unfocused, his mind adrift. He’d been pinned too long; his lungs were damaged, ribs likely fractured—a grave injury even in modern times, more so here.

But the priest recognized Shen Chang’an and gasped, “Medicine... blue bottle...”

Shen Chang’an understood at once, rummaging through the priest’s cloth pouch and finding several small bottles. He took out the blue one, poured a few bean-sized pills into his hand, and fed the priest one. Seeing no reaction to a second, he returned the rest and tucked the bottle away.

While the priest rested, Shen Chang’an, imitating the officer, searched the corpses, collecting anything that might be useful. When the priest awoke, he’d ask what was worth keeping; the rest he’d burn.

He then searched the officer, finding several notes resembling silver drafts and a book. He stripped off the officer’s talismanic armor and took the saber, but left the heavy armor behind—it was too conspicuous and unwieldy. Without the talisman, he doubted he could even walk in it.

The talisman, though still usable, was faded—likely good for only two or three more uses before it failed.

Finished, Shen Chang’an checked the priest again, deciding that if he didn’t wake soon, he’d have to leave. Who knew if the officer had comrades nearby? If they came looking, Shen Chang’an doubted he’d survive another encounter with a Demon Purge Division expert.

Fortunately, just then, the old priest stirred.

“Oh, oh, merciful Heavens, I nearly died under that brute’s foot!” he groaned, struggling to rise.

Shen Chang’an hurried over to help him up. “Master Taoist, are you all right?”

“All right? I nearly lost my life!” The priest was about to complain when he caught sight of the officer’s corpse and blanched. “You killed him?”

Shen Chang’an nodded.

“Heavens above! Quickly, we must go!”

The priest offered no further explanation, and Shen Chang’an knew this was no time for questions. Gathering their things, he kicked over the cooking stands, and as flames sprang up, he supported the priest and followed his directions, swiftly leaving the marketplace behind.