After the horrific massacre within the execution pits concluded, Sunny returned to his pavilion on the Blood Plains. He was currently attempting to eat a bowl of boiled terror-rice when his communication jade slip vibrated with an urgent, crimson glow.
The signature runes belonged to the Abyssal Vanguard's Bounty Board.
He channeled a sliver of dark Qi into the slip. "Supreme One, your anonymous commission on the Blood-Bounty Board numbered 001348721 has been fulfilled. Please inspect the tribute at the Vanguard Quartermaster's tent before authorizing the transfer of Corrupted Spirit Stones." A mechanical, magically synthesized voice echoed from the jade, repeated the message three times, and then the connection severed automatically.
Finally, some suicidal mercenaries had managed to secure the Blood-Lotus Roots. Sunny felt a profound wave of relief wash over him. If the commission had remained unfulfilled, he would have had to risk fusing the Shadow-Ghoul Ape with inferior, incompatible materials, which could have resulted in the beast exploding in his face.
The bounty system within the Heavenly Demon Sect was entirely transactional and utterly ruthless. The reward, in the form of raw spirit stones, was placed in a warded escrow by the client. Then, after a mercenary band survived the acquisition of the required dark materials, they would deliver the goods directly to the Quartermaster. Only after the client verified the quality would the wards release the stones to the surviving mercenaries.
During this cutthroat process, the Quartermaster acted as a heavily guarded neutral party to prevent assassinations over payment disputes.
Before Sunny left his pavilion, he glanced at the Shadow-Ghoul Ape huddled in its iron cage. The creature stood perfectly still in front of the empty lead chest where its rations were usually kept. It clumsily pried the heavy lid open with its skeletal fingers, staring into the empty void. When it realized there was no dark essence inside, it let the lid slam shut. Waiting for a few agonizing seconds, it pried the lid open again...
As if by doing so, highly toxic spirit-cores would magically materialize. What a terrifyingly stupid abomination, Sunny thought, adjusting his silver-trimmed robes.
Sunny walked out into the ash-choked air and headed directly toward the Quartermaster's compound to claim his heavily anticipated fusion materials.
He didn't notice that five hundred yards away, hidden within the shadow of a destroyed siege tower, three scarred cultivators were observing every high-ranking disciple walking out of the Quartermaster's tent. Among them lurked a massive, mutated Corpse-Hound, which narrowed its milky-white eyes, sniffing the air with unnatural precision.
The youngest disciple in the ambush team asked, his voice trembling violently, "Brother... if the Enforcers catch us hunting another disciple in the camp, will they feed us to the Marrow Mines?"
A flicker of genuine terror crossed the eldest cultivator's scarred face. But he immediately crushed the weakness, gripping the hilt of his bone-sword tightly. "The sect's Soul-Mending Elixir is the only thing that can cure our master's rotting meridians. If we remain mere frontline fodder, how many moons will it take to earn enough merit points? Do you wish to see our master dissolve into a puddle of dark sludge?"
By their side, a green-haired cultist with a missing ear sneered, "Do not soil your robes with fear. The Demonic Path dictates that the strong devour the weak. As long as we leave no witnesses and dissolve the body in acid, we will face no judgment. Little brother, your aura reeks of cowardice."
"I desire our master's recovery above all! But, brother, you know the truth! Only the Elite Pavilions or the Grand Elders can afford to hoard bulk quantities of Blood-Lotus Roots. How are we supposed to assassinate a supreme talent without triggering their soul-wards?" The youngest disciple rubbed his sweating hands together, his eyes darting around the chaotic camp.
"You fool. We don't strike them in the open market. We track their scent back to their cultivation cave. If the wards are too strong, we simply slit their throats while they meditate," the green-haired cultist whispered, staring intently as heavily warded disciples moved in and out of the Quartermaster's compound. He was sweating profusely beneath his armor. Even though he had survived the outer sect's meat grinder, assassinating a high-value target was infinitely more dangerous than battlefield slaughter.
"Silence. The Corpse-Hound has the scent." The massive, rotting hound had been lying perfectly still in the shadows, but it suddenly stood up, its empty eye sockets fixing onto a specific figure leaving the compound. It let out a low, guttural growl.
The eldest cultivator immediately kicked the hound in the ribs to silence it, crouching low to the obsidian ground.
He activated a minor shadow-veil array, ordering the Corpse-Hound to track the residual stench of the Blood-Lotus Roots, and the three assassins tailed their target silently through the camp.
They followed Sunny all the way back to the isolated, heavily warded sector of the Vanguard commanders. Seeing the relatively plain, unassuming command pavilion that Sunny utilized, the three assassins were stunned. Such an unimpressive, temporary tent...
was no better than the barracks of a standard mercenary captain!
A supreme talent who possessed enough Corrupted Spirit Stones to casually buy out the entire black market's supply of Blood-Lotus Roots lived in a standard field tent? They felt a deep sense of disbelief, as if they had just tracked a legendary dragon to a muddy pigsty.
The only reason Blood-Lotus Roots were hoarded was that they were the supreme catalyst for ascending Poison-attribute fiends to the Commander tier. Therefore, any cultivator purchasing hundreds of pounds of the toxic roots was either an established Flesh-Crafter or a wealthy scion preparing for a massive breakthrough.
"Brother?" The green-haired cultist whispered to the eldest, his hand resting on a poisoned dagger. He was clearly asking if they should initiate the slaughter immediately.
The eldest cultivator stared at the seemingly unguarded pavilion, his mind racing with suspicion. He raised a scarred hand. "Hold your bloodlust. We wait until the witching hour, when the camp's ambient dark Qi is at its thickest."
"Brother... are we truly going to..." The youngest disciple was hyperventilating, his eyes wide with terror. It was his first time attempting to murder a superior. There was no doubt he was on the verge of a panic attack.
"This arrogant fool likely stumbled upon a dead Elder's spatial ring. Control your aura." The eldest tried to force his face into a mask of absolute malice, though his own heart pounded against his ribs.
"Steel your spine. Are you going to weep like a mortal now? Do not disgrace our pavilion." The green-haired cultist roughly grabbed his youngest brother by the throat, shaking him slightly.
At the darkest hour of the night, when the blood-moon was hidden behind ash clouds, the three assassins and their Corpse-Hound began to creep toward the entrance flap of the warded pavilion.
The dark, imposing silhouette of the tent looked like a crouching behemoth in the gloom, its entrance flap hanging still, as if waiting to swallow them whole.
"Silence your breathing," the eldest cultivator whispered. He produced two jagged, rune-carved lockpicks forged from resentful-bone, slipping them toward the glowing ward-seal on the tent flap.
Inside the pitch-black pavilion, the Phantom Ash Scorpion was suddenly awakened from a state of torpor, its dual, venomous stingers rising high into the air.
The Shadow-Ghoul Ape had been sitting motionless in its iron cage, but now the necrotic flames in its eye sockets flared brilliantly, completely silent. It slowly turned its skull toward the entrance...
Click. The sharp, metallic sound of a ward-seal snapping echoed loudly in the dead silence of the Vanguard sector.
"A flawless breach, brother! The rumors of your ward-breaking skills are true," the green-haired cultist hissed in dark praise.
The eldest brother froze completely. Cold sweat poured down his scarred face. "I... I haven't even touched the seal yet."
Then what had broken the ward?
"You scavengers. Why do you loiter outside my domain at the hour of the dead?"
A voice as cold as the grave drifted from the darkness directly behind them.
Captain Kael, clad in his heavy, blood-stained armor, stepped out from the shadows of an adjacent tent. His hand rested casually on the haft of his massive halberd.
What? How did an Enforcer get behind us?! The youngest disciple was utterly paralyzed, his mind blank with sheer, unadulterated terror.
A murderous, desperate light flashed across the green-haired cultist's eyes. He secretly slipped his hand beneath his cloak, gripping the hilt of a highly toxic, serrated dagger.
The eldest cultivator slowly lowered his hands, desperately trying to swallow his panic, and replied with a forced, trembling laugh. "Forgive our intrusion, Captain. We... we became disoriented in the ash-fog and strayed from our patrol route."
"I see. A simple navigational error," Captain Kael nodded slowly, his face devoid of any emotion, and took a step toward them.
Suddenly, a massive, muscular arm clad in green-scaled armor shot out from the gloom, blocking the Captain's path.
A horrific realization dawned on the eldest cultivator's face. He asked in a low, trembling voice, "Captain... we are parched from the ash. Might we seek shelter and water within your tent?"
"Enter," Captain Kael said softly. He looked deeply at the three sweating assassins, gesturing toward the interior of his own, heavily warded command tent.
The green-haired cultist was the last to step inside. He immediately pulled the heavy tent flap shut and engaged the internal silencing wards.
"Scavenger, why do you seal the exits?" Captain Kael asked, his tone implying he already knew the answer.
"Heh." The green-haired cultist bared his teeth in a desperate, feral grin. "We wouldn't want the sounds of our 'navigation' to disturb the Young Master next door."
"Indeed. That would be a fatal mistake. The walls of my tent are woven with sound-dampening shadow-silk. You could scream until your throat bled, and no one would hear." Captain Kael finally allowed a cruel, predatory smile to touch his scarred lips.
"Is that so?" The green-haired cultist's face twisted into a mask of pure, suicidal ferocity, drawing his dagger. "Perfect."
The eldest brother sensed the suffocating, overwhelming killing intent flooding the tent. He opened his mouth to scream a surrender, but it was far too late.
A massive, skeletal maw materialized from the shadows above them and snapped shut. The mutated Corpse-Hound was violently bitten in half before it could even whimper.