The rain did not stop as Shang Jue left the jade-paved streets of Galespring behind. The border city quickly gave way to the treacherous, untamed wilderness that served as the natural moat of the Central Plains the Shattered Peak Canyons.
It was a labyrinth of razor-sharp ravines, dense fog, and roaring rivers that carved through the stone like angry gods. It was a place where rogue cultivators vanished and demonic beasts roamed freely. To the elite executioners of the Heavenly Sword Pavilion, it was a tedious, miserable place to hunt. To Shang Jue, it was a perfect, chaotic shield.
He did not fly, nor did he walk on the main dirt roads. He moved like a predatory shadow, scaling the sheer, wet cliffs with his bare, metallic-sheened hands. His thousand-pound density, usually a burden to conceal, was an absolute advantage here. When he leaped across a seventy-foot gorge, the wind did not push him; the rain did not slow him. He was a cannonball of flesh and bone.
By dawn, he had ventured hundreds of miles deep into the canyons.
He found his sanctuary behind a roaring, muddy waterfall that concealed a deep, naturally formed limestone cavern. The air inside was thick with moisture and the smell of ancient, undisturbed moss. He cleared the cavern of a nest of low-level Rock-Scorpions with three sweeps of his heavy black broadsword, tossing their crushed bodies into the roaring river outside to leave no trace.
He sat cross-legged in the absolute darkness of the cave, the deafening roar of the waterfall masking any sound he might make.
He pulled the lead box from his spatial ring.
Shang Jue's obsessively analytical mind reviewed the chessboard. He had killed two Core Formation Elders in the Secret Realm, but he was not arrogant enough to believe he was invincible. The Elders had been heavily injured, their auras suppressed by the Desolate Antiquity pressure, and they had drastically underestimated his physical strength.
If I face a Core Formation Elder in the open skies of the Central Plains, Shang Jue calculated, his black eyes staring at the lead box, they will not fight me in melee combat. They will hover a thousand feet in the air and bombard me with orthodox arrays until I am reduced to ash. My physical strength is terrifying, but my reach is limited. I am a mortal carrying the weight of a mountain, but the heavens are still out of my grasp.
He needed to deepen his foundation. And he needed to change his face.
He opened the box. Resting inside were the three vials of concentrated Earth-Drake blood and the two slabs of Deep-Sea Iron Marrow. Because the dead broker had laced them with Ghost-Weaver sap a mortal paralytic they were considered tainted garbage to an orthodox cultivator.
Shang Jue picked up the first slab of Iron Marrow. It was the size of a brick, but weighed over two hundred pounds.
He unhinged his jaw slightly and forcefully bit into the metal.
CRUNCH.
His teeth, reinforced by the Primordial Earth Marrow he had consumed weeks ago, shattered the dense iron like brittle candy. He chewed the metal and swallowed.
It was an agonizing, brutal process. The Deep-Sea Iron Marrow hit his stomach, and the chaotic vortex in his Dantian immediately engaged. The Seed of Chaos beat furiously, acting as a grinding mill, breaking down the profound metallic essence and forcefully pushing it into his bloodstream.
He didn't stop. He consumed the second slab, then uncorked the vials of Earth-Drake blood. He drank the thick, boiling-hot blood in three large gulps. The Ghost-Weaver sap entered his system, attempting to paralyze his nervous system, but the chaotic, abyssal Qi simply devoured the mortal poison, turning it into raw, burning fuel.
BOOM.
A muffled explosion of Qi erupted within his own body. The heat of the drake blood clashed with the crushing, freezing density of the iron marrow.
Shang Jue closed his eyes, his physical body trembling violently. The metallic sheen on his skin deepened, turning into a dark, iron-gray hue. His muscles tore and immediately re-knit themselves, becoming denser, thicker, and impossibly resilient.
Third Stage of Qi Condensation: The Forging of the Vessel.
He did not stop at the breakthrough. He seized the explosive surge of new Qi and forcefully drove it upward, directly into his spiritual sea.
The crimson sword-mark—the Blood-Soul Severing curse—blazed brightly, trying to broadcast its location.
"Silence," Shang Jue commanded his own soul.
He used the massive influx of heavy, iron-infused Qi to reinforce the black static generated by the Seed of Chaos. He didn't just muffle the mark; he compressed the static around it, forming a dense, impenetrable sphere of Desolate Qi that completely encased the crimson sword.
The signal was entirely severed. To the scryers in the Heavenly Sword Pavilion, the blurry smudge on their maps would simply vanish, as if the boy had ceased to exist.
Shang Jue exhaled a long breath of scorching, gray steam. He opened his eyes. The agonizing process was complete. His physical density had increased once more, and his internal Qi was a raging, chaotic lake.
He looked down at his own reflection in a puddle of water near the cave entrance.
The ash and mud had washed away. He was still small, but his presence was terrifying. He looked at the heavy bundle of direwolf fur resting against the cave wall, hiding his black iron broadsword.
The Sword Pavilion is looking for a twelve-year-old boy with dead eyes and a massive black sword, Shang Jue thought. *If I enter the Central Plains as Shang Jue, I will be hunted every hour of the day. A predator does not announce his presence to the forest until his fangs are at the prey's throat.*
He needed an identity that would allow him to move freely, gather intelligence, and plunder resources without drawing the ire of the supreme orthodox sects. He could not hide his terrifying physical strength forever, nor could he hide the brutal, heavy nature of his black blade.
Instead of hiding his brutality, he would weaponize it into a disguise. Orthodox cultivators despised raw, unrefined combat. They viewed those who relied on physical strength and heavy weapons as uncivilized barbarians, unworthy of true respect.
I will not be a calculating demon in their eyes, Shang Jue decided, his abyssal eyes narrowing with profound, sociopathic intelligence. I will be a madman. A brute who swings a heavy iron slab with no technique, driven only by battle-lust. They will see a rabid dog, and they will underestimate the mind holding the leash.
He stood up in the damp cavern. The foundation was set. The mask was conceptually forged.
The next step was to leave the Shattered Peak Canyons and step into the sprawling, civilized domains of the Central Plains, not as Shang Jue the scavenger, but as a nameless, wandering lunatic.
While Shang Jue had suppressed the Blood-Soul mark using his internal Dantian, maintaining that suppression required constant, active focus. If he were forced into a desperate battle, his concentration would inevitably split. The moment his chaotic Qi wavered, the static would drop, and the crimson mark would instantly broadcast his exact coordinates to any Heavenly Sword Pavilion executioner within a thousand miles.
He needed a permanent, physical fail-safe. He needed to forge the face of the Mad Swordsman.
The roaring waterfall outside the cavern masked the violent, grinding sounds echoing from within.
Shang Jue sat in the damp dark, his dark eyes fixed on the remaining slab of Deep-Sea Iron Marrow. His internal Qi was stabilizing at the Third Stage of Qi Condensation, keeping the crimson tracker in his mind suppressed beneath a thick layer of Desolate static. But his obsessively analytical mind recognized the fatal flaw.
A dam built of water will eventually break, he calculated.
If I am forced to draw upon the Seed of Chaos in combat, the static will thin. The executioners are sweeping the borders. I need a physical lock to permanently seal the frequency, an anchor to hold the static in place even if my mind is elsewhere.
He reached into the spatial ring he had plundered from the Pavilion Elders. He withdrew the jade slips containing the orthodox array manuals. He had previously dismissed them as useless to his Path of the Origin, but the orthodox sects were the undisputed masters of seals and barriers.
He pressed the jade slip to his forehead, rapidly absorbing the complex, geometric knowledge of the Heavenly Binding Formations.
He did not intend to learn them to become an array master. He intended to reverse-engineer them. He needed a suppression array designed to lock Qi inside a vessel, rather than keep it out.
He tossed the jade slip aside and picked up the heavy slab of Iron Marrow.
He had no forge, no anvil, and no hammer. He did not need them.
Shang Jue channeled the boiling, hyper-condensed heat of the Earth-Drake blood that now flowed through his veins directly into his right hand. His metallic-sheened skin hissed as the temperature skyrocketed. He pressed his burning palm against the Iron Marrow.
The metal did not melt into liquid, but under the terrifying heat and his thousand-pound physical pressure, it began to soften into a dense, malleable clay.
Using his bare fingers, Shang Jue violently molded the metal. He flattened it, curved it, and drove his thumbs into the iron to gouge out two narrow eye-slits. He did not aim for elegance. He crafted a crude, brutal half-mask that would cover the upper portion of his face, from his forehead down to the bridge of his nose, leaving only his jaw exposed.
While the iron was still searing hot, he drew the heavy black broadsword. Using the impossibly sharp, direwolf-bone infused tip of the blade, he began to carve violently into the *inside* of the mask.
He etched a bastardized, heretical version of an orthodox Soul-Locking Array.
But an array needs a power source to function. Pure spirit stones would emit an orthodox aura, defeating the purpose of the disguise. Shang Jue raised the sharp edge of the broadsword to his own palm and sliced it open.
He smeared his chaotic, abyssal blood directly into the freshly carved grooves of the array.
The iron mask hissed violently. The array activated, glowing with a dark, sickly crimson light as it drank his Desolate Qi.
Shang Jue did not wait for the metal to cool.
He raised the searing hot, blood-fueled iron mask and pressed it directly onto the upper half of his face.
The pain was unimaginable. The hot iron seared his flesh, permanently branding the skin beneath it. But Shang Jue did not make a sound. The blood-array on the inside of the mask resonated perfectly with the Seed of Chaos in his Dantian. It acted as a physical clamp, violently locking down the spiritual sea around the Blood-Soul Severing Mark.
The crimson sword-insignia in his mind shrieked as the physical array snapped shut over it. The frequency was completely, unconditionally severed. Even if a Core Formation executioner stood two feet in front of him with a Blood-Resonance Mirror, they would read nothing but the cold, dead iron of the mask.
Shang Jue lowered his hands.
The iron mask was fused perfectly to the contours of his face, hardened into a matte, pitch-black carapace. Through the narrow eye-slits, his dead, abyssal eyes looked out at the dark cavern.
The physical disguise was absolute.
Next came the silhouette. A twelve-year-old boy, no matter how terrifying his aura, would always draw suspicion. He took the heavy, stripped direwolf pelt and wrapped it thickly around his shoulders and neck, securing it with the frayed hemp rope. He strapped the massive, fur-wrapped bundle of his broadsword diagonally across his back.
The sheer bulk of the heavy furs and the massive weapon completely obscured his small frame. In the dim light, hunched under the "weight" of the blade, he no longer looked like a starving child. He looked like a hulking, misshapen brute. A nameless, wandering beast of the frontier.
He picked up a rusted iron chain he had found in the Ouroboros Exchange and wrapped it tightly around his right forearm, letting it dangle loosely—a crude, violent accessory to complete the illusion of a madman who relied on raw, unrefined brutality.
"The heavens are blind," Shang Jue whispered to the roaring waterfall, his voice slightly muffled and distorted by the heavy iron mask pressing against his cheekbones.
He stepped out of the cavern and into the freezing rain of the Shattered Peak Canyons.
He was no longer Shang Jue, the boy from the Azure Cloud Province. He was a nameless aberration, a rabid dog of the Great Dao.
For three days, the "Mad Swordsman" navigated the treacherous canyons, moving steadily south. He deliberately left a trail of brutalized demonic beasts in his wake—low-level creatures smashed into pulp by blunt-force trauma, a chaotic signature completely devoid of elegant Sword Intent. If the Pavilion scouts found the corpses, they would dismiss them as the work of a rogue, brain-damaged barbarian.
Finally, the dense, jagged cliffs gave way to rolling hills covered in vibrant, spiritual bamboo. The freezing rain stopped, replaced by a warm, fragrant breeze.
He had officially crossed the border. He stood on the absolute fringe of the Central Plains.
In the valley below, a wide, jade-paved merchant road cut through the bamboo forest, leading toward a sprawling, fortified settlement buzzing with activity. Large carriages pulled by tamed spirit-beasts and escorted by well-dressed mercenary cultivators moved steadily toward the massive wooden gates.
This was not a frontier slum like Blackridge Hold. This was **Ironwood City**, a major resource hub heavily influenced by the outer sects of the Central Plains. It was a place of strict hierarchy, immense wealth, and cutthroat orthodox politics.
Shang Jue hunched his shoulders, letting his arms hang loosely by his sides, his right hand tracing the rusted iron chain wrapped around his wrist. Through the dark slits of his iron mask, he observed the prosperous, arrogant world below.
The Mad Swordsman began his descent toward the city gates, ready to inject a heavy dose of chaos into the pristine order of the heavens.
The jade-paved road leading into Ironwood City was choked with the vibrant, arrogant life of the Central Plains. Exquisitely crafted carriages drawn by scaled spirit-horses rolled past, carrying young masters who fanned themselves with inscribed jade fans. Mercenary escorts in polished armor marched alongside them, their auras perfectly restrained and disciplined.
Amongst the silk and the polished steel, Shang Jue was a walking nightmare.
He shuffled forward, his shoulders severely hunched beneath the massive, fur-wrapped bulk of his "sword." He let his arms hang loosely, the rusted iron chain wrapped around his right forearm clinking softly against his side. Through the narrow slits of his searing-hot iron mask, his dead eyes processed the world in calculating, microscopic detail, even as his physical body mimicked the heavy, uncoordinated gait of a brain-damaged brute.
He artificially leaked a fraction of his chaotic, Third Stage Qi Condensation aura. He did not let it flow smoothly; he forced it to sputter and flare erratically, giving off the unmistakable scent of a rogue cultivator whose meridians had been severely damaged by consuming unrefined, toxic beast cores.
As he approached the towering wooden gates of the city, the crowd instinctively parted. Merchants pulled their silk robes away in disgust, and mothers shielded their children's eyes. They did not fear his cultivation base—Third Stage Qi Condensation was commonplace here. They feared the sheer, unpredictable savagery he projected.
Four city guards stood at the gate, wearing the emblem of the local ruling sect: a green ironwood leaf. They were all at the Late Stage of Qi Condensation, their foundations built on steady salaries and orthodox pills.
The lead guard, a tall man with a neatly trimmed beard, stepped into Shang Jue's path, holding up a polished halberd.
"Halt, vagrant," the guard sneered, his nose wrinkling at the smell of dried earth and direwolf fur clinging to Shang Jue. "Ironwood City is not a charity house for frontier trash. The entry toll is three Low-Grade Spirit Stones. Pay, or turn around and rot in the bamboo forest."
Shang Jue stopped. He did not stand up straight. He slowly tilted his masked head, staring at the guard through the dark slits.
He played his part perfectly. He did not speak. A madman does not negotiate.
He reached into the folds of his dirty fur cloak. He bypassed the hundreds of pristine Pavilion spirit stones in his spatial ring. Instead, he pulled out a freshly harvested, low-level Rock-Scorpion core from his time in the canyons. It was dripping with viscous green fluid and radiated a foul, acidic Qi.
He tossed the core onto the pristine jade pavement at the guard's feet. It landed with a wet splat.
The guard's face flushed with profound insult.
"You dare throw beast offal at my feet?" the guard barked, his orthodox pride flaring. He raised the butt of his halberd, intending to strike the hunched brute in the shoulder to teach him respect. "Pick it up, you brainless—"
Thud.
The heavy, iron-wood shaft of the halberd struck Shang Jue's fur-draped shoulder.
To the guard's absolute shock, the halberd did not budge the brute an inch. It felt as though he had struck a solid mountain of star-iron. The kinetic recoil vibrated violently up the shaft, numbing the guard's hands and causing him to stumble backward.
Shang Jue slowly turned his masked face toward the guard. He let a low, guttural growl rumble in his chest, vibrating the heavy iron mask. He took a single, heavy step forward. He let a fraction of his thousand-pound density hit the pavement.
Crack.
The pristine jade stone beneath his bare foot fractured.
The four guards instantly drew their weapons, their auras flaring defensively. But there was a flicker of genuine apprehension in their eyes. The brute was only at the Third Stage, but his physical body was deeply unnatural. A fight here would mean broken bones and ruined jade pavement, neither of which the guards wanted to explain to their superiors.
"Stand down, you idiots."
A new voice cut through the tension. Walking out from the guardhouse was a man in dark leather armor, possessing the deep, stabilized aura of a Foundation Establishment expert. He was the Captain of the Gate.
The Captain looked at the shattered jade tile, then at the massive, iron-masked brute. He had served in the frontier wars; he recognized a rabid dog when he saw one.
"The core covers the toll," the Captain said calmly, gesturing for his men to lower their halberds. He looked at Shang Jue. "Pick up your trash, beast-hunter, and get inside. Cause a disturbance in my city, and I will have my archers turn you into a pincushion. Am I understood?"
Shang Jue did not nod. He simply let out another low grunt. He reached down, picked up the acidic beast core, and tossed it to the bearded guard, who caught it with a look of utter disgust.
Dragging his feet, the Mad Swordsman shuffled past the checkpoint and into the heart of Ironwood City.
The interior of the city was a sprawling maze of commerce and cultivation. Multi-story pavilions advertised exotic pills, array formations, and spirit-beast tamers. The air was thick with the hum of thousands of cultivators conducting business.
Shang Jue walked aimlessly, letting his abyssal eyes absorb the layout.
He stopped near a crowded public square. At the center of the square stood a massive bulletin board made of black stone, glowing with dozens of projected spiritual bounties and sect announcements.
Standing amidst the crowd of mercenaries reading the board, Shang Jue's gaze locked onto the largest, brightest projection in the center.
It was a bounty issued directly by the Heavenly Sword Pavilion.
The projection displayed a remarkably accurate rendering of Shang Jue as he had appeared in the Secret Realm: a twelve-year-old boy, bare-faced, wearing a white, silver-streaked Alpha direwolf pelt, holding a rusted-looking black iron sword.
Below the image, the text glowed in blood-red script:
WANTED FOR BLASPHEMY AND THE MURDER OF SECT ELDERS.
Target: Unknown Boy.
Estimated Age: 10-13.
Cultivation: Low Qi Condensation, but possesses heretical physical strength.
Bounty: Ten Thousand Mid-Grade Spirit Stones, and direct entry into the Heavenly Sword Pavilion's Inner Sect.
The crowd around the board was buzzing with feverish excitement.
"Ten thousand Mid-Grade stones?!" a scarred mercenary whistled, his eyes wide with greed. "That's enough to buy a small city! And inner sect status? The Pavilion must be desperate."
"They say the kid slaughtered an entire vanguard in the Azure Cloud Province," another rogue whispered fearfully. "What kind of twelve-year-old monster does that? I bet it's an old demon who possessed a child's body."
"Who cares?" a third laughed, tapping the hilt of his saber. "A kid is a kid. If he shows his face in the Central Plains, every bounty hunter from here to the capital will be carving him up for that reward."
Shang Jue stood in the crowd, listening to the men fantasize about severing his head. He looked at the glowing bounty, then down at his own dirty, ash-stained hands, the rusted chain wrapped around his arm, and the pitch-black iron mask fused to his face.
The Heavenly Sword Pavilion had cast a net across the entire continent to catch a boy.
But the boy was dead. Only the Mad Swordsman remained.
A cold, imperceptible smile touched Shang Jue's lips beneath the iron. He turned his back on the bounty board and shuffled away into the crowded streets. The hunt for resources in the Central Plains would require violence, and in a city full of arrogant mercenaries looking for a fight, a brain-damaged brute would not have to look far to find one.