Lin Yi’s hand had just reached the edge of the cellar vent when a bone-chilling cold pierced his fingertips. It wasn’t the wind. It was something else. He shoved Su Wanqing—who had already half-emerged—back down and retreated himself. They squeezed together in the damp brick passage, their breaths condensing into white mist in the darkness. Su Wanqing’s shoulder blades pressed against his chest, and he could feel her instantly tense and stiffen. “What…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Lin Yi didn’t speak. He tapped the stone wall twice with his fingertip, lightly but with a certain rhythm. It was a signal Mo Chen had taught him—a warning of imminent danger. Then he tilted his head, pressing his ear against the cold brick seam. There was sound outside. Not the chirping of insects, not the wind. It was the faint rustling of cloth rubbing against tiles, so soft it was almost inaudible, but there was too much of it. From all directions. And the subtle sounds of metal against leather, the groan of fibers tightening as bowstrings were slowly drawn. The wheel had begun to turn. He closed his eyes, reconstructing the layout of the dye-works’ backyard in his mind: to the left were piles of discarded dye vats, to the right were wooden racks for drying cloth, directly ahead was the narrow gate leading to the alleyway, and behind them… behind them was the cellar opening they had just crawled out of. There was sound from every direction. Every direction. “Southeast corner,” he murmured, his lips barely moving, the breath brushing past Su Wanqing’s ear. “That broken hole. I’ll clear the way. You run.” Su Wanqing’s fingers clenched the front of his robe, then loosened. She nodded. Lin Yi took a deep breath, compressing the last remnants of his spiritual power into his left arm. The skin beneath his sleeve began to grow hot, dark golden patterns spreading upward from his wrist like living things writhing beneath his skin. A searing pain. A familiar searing pain. He gritted his teeth, pressed his forehead against the cold brick, letting the pain burn away the last trace of hesitation. Then he pushed open the wooden cover of the vent. *** The darkness before dawn was the thickest. The dye-works’ backyard seemed soaked in ink, only a sickly pale gray smudge on the distant horizon. The air was filled with the pungent smell of moldy cloth and residual dye, a sweet, metallic stench mixed with sour decay. Lin Yi hunched over and slipped out, landing without a sound. He rolled into the shadow of the nearest dye vat, his back pressing against the rough pottery wall. The cold touch made him shiver. Su Wanqing followed behind him, her movements even lighter, like a leaf drifting down. He raised his eyes to scan. The rooftops. The tops of the walls. The alleyway entrance. Every high point was crouched with shadowy figures, their outlines blurred, but the faint metallic glint of the crossbows in their hands shone like needle points in the dark. Not just that. There were also talismans—the edges of yellow paper trembled slightly in the night wind, the cinnabar-drawn runes upon them slowly brightening, like dormant beasts opening their eyes. At least twenty people. Maybe thirty. The encirclement was seamless. Lin Yi’s fingertips unconsciously tapped the surface of the dye vat, once, twice. He was calculating: the nearest cover was the cloth-drying rack, seven paces away. The rack was hung with soaked coarse cloth, which could block sight, but not talisman-fire. There was indeed a broken hole in the southeast wall, but the opening was too narrow, only allowing one person through at a time. On the path to reach it, at least five crossbows had it in their line of fire. Not enough time. He needed three breaths. Su Wanqing needed five. “Stay close,” he said, his voice so low it was almost just lip movements. “Don’t look back.” Su Wanqing’s hand rested on the small of his back, her fingertips icy. Just as he was about to push off the ground with force— A sound came from the rooftop. Not a shout, not a rebuke. The voice was calm, resonant, solemn, like a temple’s morning bell echoing in an empty hall. Each word carried an undeniable weight, directly smashing into their eardrums: “Fiend, indeed here.” Every muscle in Lin Yi’s body instantly locked. “Xuan Yin of the Department of Balance and Law,” the voice continued, its tone even bordering on leisurely. “Has been awaiting you for some time.” The moment the words fell, all the shadowy figures on the surrounding walls "Lin Ziyuan," Xuan Yin Zhenren's voice rang out again, this time tinged with a hint of regret, like a teacher admonishing a student who had gone astray. "You were born with a heaven-bestowed spiritual root, sheltered by the sect, supported by your clan. Yet you willingly descended into depravity, colluded with evil spirits, spied on the secrets of heaven, violating clauses thirty-seven, fifty-nine, and one hundred four of the 'Heavenly Dao Covenant.' Your capture today is the decree of fate." He paused, his tone turning cold: "If you surrender without a fight, you may still be granted an intact corpse, and the innocent will not be implicated." His gaze swept over Su Wanqing behind Lin Yi, his eyes looking at her as if she were a piece of filth-stained equipment. "As for this woman," he said indifferently, "consorting with a rebel against fate warrants the execution of nine generations of her family, according to the law. However, her parents are already dead, so she alone shall be executed." Su Wanqing's breath hitched for half a beat. Lin Yi felt her hand, resting on the small of his back, tremble. Not from fear. From anger. He reached back and pressed his hand over hers, giving it a firm squeeze. Then he raised his head, meeting Xuan Yin Zhenren's gaze. "Finished?" he asked. His voice was not loud, but in the deathly quiet of the backyard, it was piercingly clear. His speech was slow, each word seeming to be squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying a deliberate, almost provocative calmness. Xuan Yin Zhenren narrowed his eyes slightly. "Stubborn and unyielding," he shook his head. His hand inside his sleeve finally lifted—just an inch, his index and middle fingers pressed together, making a faint pointing gesture in the air. "Then... kill on sight." The moment the last word fell, the backyard exploded. Not an explosion. It was the simultaneous, ear-rending shriek of dozens of projectiles tearing through the air. Crossbow bolts left their strings, talismans activated—flames, ice spikes, wind blades, lightning bolts—all attacks poured down from all directions like a giant net woven of death, fiercely enveloping the shadows around the dye vat. Lin Yi moved. He did not retreat. He did not dodge. He charged headlong into the rain of arrows and talisman-fire, his left foot pushing off the ground, his entire body shooting toward the southeast corner like a cannonball. The dark golden patterns on his left arm fully ignited at this moment, as if molten lava flowed beneath his skin, casting his entire arm in an eerie gold-red glow. The searing pain escalated into burning agony. He smelled the acrid scent of his own scorching flesh. But he didn't stop. The first crossbow bolt grazed past his ear, embedding itself into the dye vat behind him with a dull *thud*, spiderweb cracks spreading across the pottery. The second bolt aimed for his chest; he twisted aside, the arrowhead tearing through the fabric at his shoulder, sending a spray of blood. Warm. Coppery sweet. The third talisman-fire rushed toward his face, orange-red flames swelling to the size of a washbasin, the heat wave singeing the hair on his forehead. Lin Yi let out a low roar and swung his left fist. Not to block. To smash. The dark golden fist plunged into the center of the talisman-fire. The flames scattered with a shriek as if alive, sparks flying everywhere. But the fist's momentum did not diminish, slamming ferociously into the brick wall at the southeast corner. "BOOM—!" The deafening roar of shattering bricks and stone drowned out all other sounds. A visible shockwave of air exploded from the point of impact, dust and rubble spraying out radially. The wall, like an eggshell struck by a giant hammer, cracked, dented from the center outward, and then was completely breached. A hole large enough for a person to pass through appeared starkly, revealing deeper darkness and a narrow alleyway beyond. The price was the agony from his left arm, nearly making him black out. Bones groaned. The dark golden patterns beneath his skin writhed like living venomous snakes, frantically crawling upward, crossing his elbow joint, climbing toward his shoulder. Each pulse brought a deeper burning sensation, as if his entire arm were being thrown into a furnace for forging. Lin Yi's vision darkened. He bit the tip of his tongue; the taste of blood and the sharp pain barely kept him conscious. He turned his head, reaching back with his hand. Su Wanqing was already at his side, her face smudged with dust and spattered blood. Her hand seized his wrist, cold, but gripping tightly. "Go!" Lin Yi roared, his voice distorted Footsteps were dense behind them. Not just one group. At least three squads were crisscrossing and encircling through the alleyways, their footfalls echoing in the narrow space, impossible to tell which direction they came from. There was also the sharp whistle of crossbow bolts cutting through the air—the moment they rounded a corner, three iron arrows thudded into the wall where they had just been, the shafts vibrating with a low hum. "Turn left!" Su Wanqing suddenly shouted. Lin Yi didn't ask why. He abruptly veered left into an even narrower side path, so narrow only one person could pass sideways. Su Wanqing squeezed in behind him, her back pressed tightly against his; he could feel her frantic heartbeat and rapid panting. The side path ended in a dead end. A brick wall twice a man's height blocked the way, its top piled with broken tiles and withered grass. Lin Yi halted, his eyes sweeping rapidly—no door, no window, no drainage opening. A dead end. The footsteps behind grew closer; the flickering light of torches was already visible at the alley's mouth. Lin Yi turned, shielding Su Wanqing behind him. He raised his still-functional right hand, fingertips gathering the last dregs of his spiritual power. A faint white light danced at his fingertips, like a candle flame in the wind. It was time to fight. Just as he prepared to face the pursuers— From the shadows at the base of the left wall, a withered hand suddenly reached out. The hand was swift as a ghost, grabbing Lin Yi's ankle and yanking hard. Lin Yi lost his balance, toppling forward, dragging Su Wanqing with him into the shadows. They did not collide with a wall. Within the shadows was actually a half-man-high dog hole, loosely concealed by a pile of broken baskets. The moment Lin Yi tumbled in, the hand had already let go, while a gentle push of force sent him further inside. He rolled twice, stopping when he hit the inner wall of the hole. He looked up. Mo Chen was crouched on the other side of the dog hole. The old man still wore that faded grey robe, the wrinkles on his face carved deep as knife marks. He didn't look at Lin Yi; his gaze was fixed on the torchlight drawing ever nearer at the alley's mouth, his eyes terrifyingly calm. His withered right hand hung at his side, faint, dusk-tinged grey spiritual power flowing around his fingertips. He raised his left hand, tracing a shape in the air. Not a talisman. A simple gesture—index finger pointing east, then a forceful sweep. Meaning: flee east. Then he withdrew his hand, slowly stood up, and turned to face the alley's entrance. His back was like a withered log about to burn out, yet it stood straight. Lin Yi's pupils contracted. He wanted to say something, to grab the hem of the old man's robe. But Su Wanqing's hand covered his mouth from behind. She shook her head, tears silently rolling down, mixing with the blood and grime on her face, glimmering faintly in the dark. At the alley's entrance, the first torchlight probed inward. The flickering firelight illuminated Xuan Yin Zhenren's expressionless face. He stood at the mouth of the alley, behind him a dense mass of black-clad figures. His gaze passed over Mo Chen, settling on the direction of the dog hole, the corner of his mouth lifting in a cold arc. "Elder Mo Chen," he spoke, his tone feigning respect, "Are you... shielding your own?" Mo Chen did not answer. He merely raised his right hand, palm facing upward. Pale grey spiritual power surged from his palm, spreading like mist, rapidly filling the entire alley. Wherever the mist passed, light twisted, sounds blurred, even the air grew viscous. A simple barrier. But enough to buy time. The smile vanished from Xuan Yin Zhenren's face. "Stubborn and unyielding," he repeated his earlier words, but this time his voice held no regret, only killing intent. "Then... die together." He raised his hand. Behind him, all the black-clad figures simultaneously raised their crossbows; talismans lit up once more. Mo Chen turned his head, giving Lin Yi one last look. That gaze was complex. There was resolve, release, a long-buried guilt of many years, and a trace of... near-kindly expectation. Then he turned back, facing the onslaught of death about to rain down. His right hand clenched fiercely. The pale grey mist exploded outward, pushing toward the alley's entrance like a wall. Lin Yi's back slammed against the damp, cold brick wall, the taste of iron rising in his throat. He gasped for breath, his lungs wheezing like a broken bellows. Su Wanqing was half-shel A hoarse, rasping breath rattled in the old man’s throat—not words, but something older, more laborious. True qi condensed before him into several translucent ancient characters, hanging in the air for a moment before dispersing into motes of light. The words read: “The ember must be preserved.” Lin Yi’s eyes instantly reddened. “Bullshit!” he roared, his voice echoing through the narrow alley. “What ember, what kindling?! If we die, we die together!” He tried to charge forward. Su Wanqing’s icy hand seized his arm, her nails nearly digging into his flesh. “Lin Yi…” She shook her head, tears mingling with the blood on her face, her voice broken by pain. “Don’t… Elder Mo Chen… he…” Clear footsteps sounded from outside the alley. Not chaotic running, but orderly, heavy, approaching with the grating of metal armor. And the faint, taut creak of bowstrings being drawn. Master Xuan Yin’s voice pierced through the walls, cold as a winter spring: “Cornered beasts still fight. Kill on sight.” Mo Chen finally turned his face slightly. The morning light illuminated half of his gaunt features, his wrinkles deep as if carved by a knife. His lips did not move, but true qi condensed into characters once more, this time faster, more hurried, like a final, desperate scrawl: “Zi Yuan, you are not alone. Wanqing knows the way. This old man’s broken body shall be the kindling.” “Cause and effect were long set.” Lin Yi clenched his fist. The dark golden patterns on his left arm burned beneath his skin, spreading all the way to his shoulder, bringing a tearing pain and a sense of… unfamiliar, nearly violent power. He wanted to smash this wall, smash this damned alley, smash Mo Chen’s calm acceptance of fate. “Why?” His voice was pressed low, each word squeezed from between his teeth. “Let’s fight our way out together! Three people are better than one—” Mo Chen shook his head. Slowly. Resolutely. He traced out a few more characters: “The rules have locked my soul. If we flee, all three die.” Su Wanqing suddenly coughed, flecks of blood spattering Lin Yi’s sleeve. Her body went limp. Lin Yi quickly caught her, feeling her body temperature rapidly dropping. Her lips moved, her breath faint as a thread: “Elder Mo Chen… is using a forbidden art… to hold them back… You must hurry…” The gray barrier at the alley entrance suddenly rippled violently. A blazing white bolt of lightning struck the barrier from outside, exploding into blinding light spots. A spiderweb of cracks appeared on the barrier’s surface. Master Xuan Yin’s voice drew closer, carrying a ceremonial solemnity: “Lin Yi, defier of fate, the contract mark is revealed. Heaven’s law is clear; there is nowhere to hide.” Mo Chen turned, his back completely to them. His withered hands formed a complex, ancient seal before his chest. Pale gray spiritual power seeped from every pore of his body, like burning embers, swirling and condensing in the air, gradually sketching the vague outline of a massive, indistinct, closed-eyed beastly phantom. The phantom emanated an aura of desolation, decay, and yet a weight as heavy as a mountain. The old man glanced back one last time. No words, no sound. Just a deep look at Lin Yi—a gaze filled with too many things: remorse, resolve, entrustment, and a trace of… something almost like relieved acceptance. Then he thrust the seal forward with force. The beastly phantom opened its eyes. Two clusters of gray-white flame ignited within its empty sockets. “Go!” Mo Chen finally roared out, his voice aged, broken, yet thundering through the alley like a sudden clap. “East! Thirty li! Returnless Cliff!” The barrier shattered completely. Blazing white lightning, the shrieks of crossbow bolts, the roars of black-robed cultivators charging, mixed with the low, heavy roar of the beastly phantom—all surged into the narrow alleyway in a single chaotic flood. Shockwaves sent stones and filthy water flying from the ground; dust crumbled from the walls. Su Wanqing used her last ounce of strength to shove Lin Yi. “Go now!” she screamed, tears and blood streaming down. “Don’t let the elder’s sacrifice be in vain!” Lin Yi did not move. He watched Mo Chen’s gaunt back charge toward that torrent of light and sound and death. He watched the gray-white beastly phantom open its maw and swallow the first bolt of lightning. He watched the old man’s daoist robes flutter violently in the shockwave, like a tattered flag. A chasm cracked open beneath his feet. Not The sound lasted for three breaths. Then it stopped abruptly. A suppressed, beast-like growl escaped Lin Yi’s throat. His eye sockets burned, but there were no tears. He clenched his teeth, the sharp lines of his jawbone taut. Su Wanqing’s breathing on his back was as faint as a candle flame in the wind; every rise and fall of her chest pulled at the arrow wound beneath his ribs, sending sharp, piercing pain through him. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. The roof ridge beneath his feet extended to its end. Ahead lay another, lower and denser sprawl of shanties in the slums. The darkness before dawn was fading. On the streets, the occasional early-rising vendor began to appear, pushing creaking carts, cooking smoke rising into the air. Lin Yi leaped down from the roof, landing in a narrow alley piled with rotting vegetable leaves and filthy water. The stench of decay hit him in the face. He staggered two steps, his left knee plunging into the sewage, splashing up dirty water. Su Wanqing groaned faintly against his back. He pushed himself up and kept running. The alley ended at a slightly broader street. A few elderly men who had risen early to empty nightsoil buckets stared blankly as he, covered in blood and carrying a person, burst out. They dropped their wooden buckets in fright, filth spilling across the ground. Lin Yi didn’t look at them. He turned east, sprinting along the shadows of the street. Su Wanqing’s head hung limply against his neck, her faint breath brushing his skin, cold as late autumn frost. He thought of Mo Chen’s final glance. He thought of the ancient character the old man’s withered finger had traced in the air. He thought of that hunched figure, always silent, always communicating with slate and gestures, who had pushed open the secret cellar door at his moment of deepest despair. His stomach felt like it had plummeted into a bottomless abyss. But he kept running. His steps grew heavier, his breathing more ragged. The strange markings on his left arm burned until they were numb. The houses on either side of the street flew past him. Dawn light gradually illuminated this dirty, chaotic, but still living city. And he, carrying his only remaining companion, fled the darkness that had just swallowed another ally. Heading toward that unknown place thirty *li* away, called "No Return Cliff." The wheel had begun to turn. It could never be stopped now. Lin Yi carried Su Wanqing, drifting in the thick darkness of the drainage channel for who knew how long. The water flow was sluggish, carrying a mixed stench of rotting corpses and industrial waste. The channel walls were slimy; when he dug his fingers in, his nail beds immediately filled with dark green moss and unidentifiable filth. He didn’t dare use much force, afraid of alerting the occasional sound of boots treading on stone slabs above. True Master Xuanyin was not far away yet. Lin Yi could sense that kind of pursuit—not by sight, but by something colder, more fundamental. Like an invisible spiderweb clinging to his skin; no matter where he fled, the threads on the other end were connected to that patient spider. Was it a mark in his bloodline, or the lingering echo of a pact? He had no strength to ponder it. His left arm was completely numb. The dark golden patterns had crawled over his collarbone, spreading eerie designs across his chest. Beneath his skin, the burning pain was gone, replaced by a heavy, sluggish feeling, as if molten lead were flowing in his veins. With every heartbeat, those patterns were tugged, bringing a subtle, bone-deep ache and numbness. Su Wanqing lay slumped on his back, her breathing as faint as a candle flame about to be extinguished by the wind. He had to get out. The drainage channel curved ahead, the water flow becoming slightly faster. By the extremely faint light filtering down from a broken grate above the bend, Lin Yi saw a crack in one side of the channel wall. The crack was narrow, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through sideways. Inside was pitch black, its destination unknown. There was no better choice. Lin Yi paddled through the water, moving to the edge of the crack. He first pushed Su Wanqing in, then forced himself through with great effort. The inner walls of the fissure were rough; sharp stone edges scraped through his clothes, leaving stinging abrasions on his skin. Gritting his teeth, he inched his way inward. Darkness. Absolute darkness. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Only the gurgling of water behind him and his own terrifyingly ragged panting broke the silence. The air grew even more foul, carrying the smell of earth and mildew. Lin Yi groped his way forward, Lin Yi tore off his other sleeve that was still relatively clean, dipped it into the rainwater collected at the cave entrance—water that was comparatively clean—and clumsily washed the wound on Su Wanqing’s back. The flesh was torn open, the edges charred black, deep enough to see bone. As he washed it, Su Wanqing’s body convulsed in her unconsciousness, and a faint, pained whimper escaped her throat. Lin Yi’s hands trembled violently. He forced himself to steady them, reached into his robe, and pulled out a small cloth bundle—inside was the most basic hemostatic powder Su Wanqing had prepared earlier. Sprinkling the powder on, the bleeding slowed somewhat, but the wound was too deep; this amount of powder was just a drop in the bucket. “Hold on…” he whispered, his voice hoarse beyond recognition, “We’re almost there… Wugui Cliff… we’re almost there…” Su Wanqing gave no response. Lin Yi re-bandaged the wound and hoisted her onto his back. This time, he tore off the only remaining intact hem of his outer robe, twisted it into a cloth rope, and secured her tightly to his back. The rope bit into the flesh of his shoulders, bringing a sharp pain that kept him alert. He oriented himself. North. Su Wanqing had said Wugui Cliff was deep in the mountains north of the city. He looked up toward the distant, undulating silhouette of dark green mountains. They were far away, separated by stretches of wasteland, farmland, and scattered villages. He couldn’t take the main road. Lin Yi followed the riverbank and ducked into a reed marsh. The reeds were taller than a man, their withered yellow leaves sharp-edged, slicing across his cheeks and arms, leaving fine trails of blood. He trudged forward, each step sinking half a foot into the soft, muddy silt. The weight on his back grew heavier and heavier. It wasn’t that her weight had changed; it was that his strength was rapidly draining. The numbness in his left arm began to spread to the right side of his body, and the dark golden patterns on his chest grew slightly warm, as if countless tiny insects were wriggling beneath his skin. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take each step. Emerging from the reed marsh, he entered a sparse woodland. Lin Yi leaned against a tree trunk to catch his breath. Sweat mixed with blood and grime streamed from his forehead into his eyes, stinging sharply. He wiped it away with his hand, his vision blurring. The woods were quiet, only the rustle of wind through the treetops and the faint, distant barking of dogs. Too quiet. Something was wrong. Lin Yi tensed abruptly. Almost simultaneously, a faint golden chain shot silently from the side and rear, swift as a beam of light. He instinctively threw himself to the left; the chain grazed his right shoulder, pierced through a tree trunk, and exploded wood splinters everywhere. Master Xuanyin emerged from the shadows of the trees. His Daoist robes were still immaculate, not even a speck of dust on the hem. He looked at the disheveled Lin Yi, his eyes holding no anger, no urgency, only a cold, scrutinizing calm. “To resist to this extent is somewhat surprising to this humble Daoist,” Master Xuanyin spoke, his voice not loud but clearly penetrating the woods. “A pity. The Way of Heaven is clear and manifest—how can it allow you fate-defying wretches to linger on?” Lin Yi said nothing. Bracing against the tree trunk, he slowly stood up, pulling Su Wanqing tighter against his back. His right hand moved to his waist—there, tucked there, was a rusty skinning knife he’d grabbed from the dye workshop. The knife was short, its edge so dull it couldn’t even cut thick cloth. Master Xuanyin seemed to find this somewhat laughable. He shook his head slightly and raised his right hand. This time, it wasn’t a chain, but his palm open, facing upward. A point of golden light gathered in his palm, rapidly expanding into a slowly rotating wheel of light composed of countless tiny talismanic scripts. The pressure emanating from the light wheel made Lin Yi’s breath catch. *Run.* Lin Yi turned and charged into the depths of the woods with all his strength. Underfoot were tangled tree roots and thick layers of fallen leaves, each step staggering. Behind him, the humming sound of the rotating light wheel drew nearer and nearer, carrying a wave of scorching heat. He burst through a thicket of shrubs. Ahead was a cliff. Not Wugui Cliff. Just a dirt cliff about a dozen *zhang* high, with a rocky streambed below. No retreat. Lin Yi skidded to a halt and turned around. His stomach plummeted into an endless abyss. Fear. Cold, viscous fear rose from the soles of his feet, drowning his limbs and every fiber of his being. He wanted to tremble, to collapse, to kneel and beg for mercy—maybe begging would work? Maybe Xuan Yin Zhenren would show mercy for... for what? No. Lin Yi tightened his grip on the short knife in his right hand. The rusted hilt dug into his palm, bringing a rough, tangible sensation. He took a deep breath, inhaling the damp, earthy air of the forest. Then he laughed. A faint laugh, forced from his throat, hoarse, broken, yet carrying something bordering on madness. Xuan Yin Zhenren’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. “Heaven’s Law?” Lin Yi... He closed his eyes, reconstructing the layout of the dye workshop’s backyard in his mind: to the left were piles of discarded dye vats, to the right were wooden racks for drying cloth, straight ahead was the narrow gate leading to the alley, behind them— “Southeast corner, that broken hole. I’ll clear the way, you run!” Lin Yi’s voice was pressed extremely low, each word like gravel squeezed from between his teeth. The skin beneath the sleeve of his left arm had completely turned a dark golden color, the patterns creeping up his forearm like living things, transmitting a bone-searing agony. Su Wanqing was behind him, breathing rapidly, her fingers clutching tightly to the hem of his clothes. On the roof, Xuan Yin Zhenren’s voice fell once more, cold, steady, like pronouncing a sentence: “Wretched creature, futile resistance only adds to your sins.” Before the words fully faded, the sound of crossbow bolts tearing through the air erupted! Over a dozen black lines shot from different angles, embedding themselves into the dye vats where they were hiding. The earthenware vats shattered, splattering foul-smelling indigo dye everywhere, mixing with the sour stench of mildew and drenching half of Lin Yi’s body. He yanked Su Wanqing and rolled hard to the right, knocking over a row of cloth-drying racks. Soaked coarse cloth fell like curtains, temporarily blocking their view. “Go!” Lin Yi roared, clenching his left fist. The dark golden patterns instantly surged, his entire arm swelling a full size larger, the bulging veins beneath his skin like red-hot iron wire. Ignoring the excruciating pain, he aimed a fierce punch at the green brick wall to the side. The moment his fist made contact with the brick surface, time seemed to freeze. Then— *Boom!* The brick wall exploded outward from the center as if struck by a battering ram, creating an irregular, gaping hole. Crushed bricks and dust gushed forth, stirring up a cloud of grayish-yellow smoke in the morning mist. The recoil shot up his arm; Lin Yi heard his own shoulder blade emit a groan of strain, and a sweet, metallic taste rose in his throat. But he didn’t stop. He grabbed Su Wanqing’s wrist and plunged headlong into the smoke. Gravel scraped his cheek, warm blood mixing with dust flowed into the corner of his mouth, the salty, coppery taste and the earthy smell exploding at the base of his tongue. Behind them came the even denser sounds of crossbow bolts, a few grazing the back of his neck before thudding into the wooden door opposite, their fletchings still quivering. Bursting out of the smoke, they faced the alley behind the dye workshop. Narrow, damp, the walls on both sides covered in slippery moss. The alley’s end was blocked by debris—a dead end. Lin Yi’s heart sank. Footsteps approached from the alley entrance, unhurried, like hunters closing in on prey. He looked back and saw Xuan Yin Zhenren had already leapt down from the roof, landing at the mouth of the alley. The old Daoist’s apricot-yellow robe was spotless. In his left hand, he held a palm-sized bronze compass, its needle pointing unerringly at Lin Yi. “Bloodline mark,” Xuan Yin Zhenren said calmly, a trace of barely perceptible satisfaction in his voice. “The backlash of the contract follows you like a shadow. Lin Yi, you cannot escape.” He raised his right hand. His five fingers curled loosely in the air. Dozens of gray-white chain phantoms materialized, each link inscribed with dense runes, exuding a suffocating aura of “rules.” The chains slowly rotated, sealing off all maneuvering space in the alley. Heaven’s Law Chains. Lin Yi had heard of these—the signature method of the Department of Balance and Law for suppressing “Fate-Rejectors.” Once entangled by these chains, spiritual power A hand stretched out from the darkness—withered, covered in age spots—urgently beckoning to Lin Yi. It was Mo Chen. Lin Yi’s pupils contracted. How could he be here? When had he laid this hidden passage? There was no time to think. Master Xuanyin had clearly sensed the anomaly as well; the gray-white chains abruptly accelerated, lunging toward Lin Yi and Su Wanqing like venomous snakes! Before the chains even reached them, the pressure that froze spiritual power already made Lin Yi’s breath catch. “Go!” With his last ounce of strength, Lin Yi pushed Su Wanqing into the gap. She stumbled and fell into the darkness. He himself squeezed in sideways, and the moment his back cleared the opening, the brick wall slammed shut with a boom. The chains crashed against the wall, emitting a piercing metallic shriek as they scraped against stone. Darkness. Absolute darkness, carrying the smell of earth and mold. Lin Yi could see nothing, only hear his own ragged panting and Su Wanqing’s stifled coughs. A withered hand seized his wrist—strong, dragging him forward. “Senior…” Lin Yi rasped. The hand squeezed him hard, signaling silence. They stumbled along in the dark. Underfoot was an uneven dirt path, occasionally stepping on broken bones or pottery shards that crunched crisply. The air grew increasingly stale, carrying the unique chill and dampness of the underground. Lin Yi’s left arm still burned with pain, the dark golden patterns emitting a faint fluorescent glow in the darkness, illuminating a small patch ahead—the hunched back of Mo Chen. After walking for about the time it takes half an incense stick to burn, a faint light appeared ahead. It was an exit, opened at the base of a wall in another alley, half-concealed by a pile of discarded bamboo baskets. Mo Chen went out first, cautiously looking left and right, then beckoned. Lin Yi helped Su Wanqing climb out. The sky was already turning gray with dawn. This alley was even narrower, flanked by the low rear walls of commoners’ houses, the base of the walls piled high with garbage and chamber pots, emitting a nauseating stench of rot. Faint noise from the morning market drifted from the distance, but the alley itself was empty. For now, safe. Lin Yi leaned against the wall and sat down, his chest heaving violently. Each breath tugged at the wound below his ribs, the pain making his vision darken. Su Wanqing slid to the ground, her face frighteningly pale. She covered her mouth, blood seeping between her fingers again. Mo Chen crouched down, his withered fingers swiftly tracing in the dust on the ground. Characters appeared: “Three li east, at the execution ground. Blend into the morning market crowd, can temporarily avoid pursuit.” Lin Yi stared at the line of characters, then looked up at Mo Chen. The old man’s face showed little expression, but his eyes were heavy—heavy as stones at the bottom of a pool. “We go together,” Lin Yi said, his voice hoarse. “Once out of the city, we split up.” Mo Chen shook his head. He wrote again: “I stay to cover the rear. Xuanyin’s chains need someone to restrain them, otherwise you won’t make it three streets.” “No!” Lin Yi abruptly grabbed Mo Chen’s wrist, his grip so tight the old man frowned. “If anyone stays, it should be me! You take Wanqing and go!” Mo Chen looked at him, his gaze complex. There was pity in it, resolve, and a kind of tranquility Lin Yi couldn’t comprehend—almost like that of a martyr. The old man slowly withdrew his hand and continued writing: “Ziyuan, you are the kindling.” The characters were forceful, cutting through the dust. “The kindling must survive. This old man’s failing body can serve as fuel.” Lin Yi’s eyes instantly reddened. “Bullshit!” he growled, his voice trembling with agitation. “What kindling, what fuel! If we die, we die together! You’ve saved me so many times, and now you want me to abandon you and flee? I can’t do it!” Mo Chen looked at him silently. Then, the old man raised his hand—not to write, but to point at Su Wanqing, then at Lin Yi’s left arm. Finally, he pointed east—the direction of No Return Cliff. The meaning was clear: Su Wanqing was severely injured and needed treatment; Lin Yi’s left arm was mutating and needed answers; and No Return Cliff might be the only hope. All of these were more important than the life of an old man on his last legs. “But…” Lin Yi still wanted to argue. Suddenly, hurried footsteps came from the mouth of the alley! More than one person, He stared at Mochen’s back, that figure that looked especially frail in the morning light, yet stood like a mountain blocking the path of their pursuers. A massive tide of guilt and helplessness drowned him. Something hot and painful lodged in his throat, choking him, almost making him retch. A hand grabbed his arm. It was Su Wanqing. She had stood up at some point, her face as pale as paper, a trace of blood still at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes were frighteningly bright. She gripped Lin Yi desperately, her nails almost digging into his flesh, her voice hoarse yet clear: “Go! Don’t let Elder… waste his effort!”