Chapter 2: If No One Speaks, That Means Agreement

With the aid of the Six Desires Shadow Demon, Chen Yang could now borrow its strength to wield some magical power. Surveying the field littered with his ‘kin,’ he clasped his hands and gave a respectful bow.

“Your bodies, left here, would only rot and reek. Why not lend them to me, so I may avenge you? These fiends destroyed my flesh as well; our fates are intertwined. You need not worry that I’ll take your gifts and shirk my duty.”

After a moment of silence, with no response forthcoming, Chen Yang nodded in satisfaction. “Since none object, I take that as assent. Very good.”

A cold wind swept through, its moaning echoing in the air. Chen Yang pressed his palms together, and over a hundred black threads shot forth, piercing the foreheads of his ‘kin.’ The corpses began to shrivel; the black threads gradually turned crimson, exuding a bewitching fragrance.

It was the very essence of flesh and blood, now extracted by Chen Yang. With a low chant, the crimson threads recoiled, gathering into a red embroidered sphere.

He reached out and seized the nearby Shadow Demon, splitting it in two—half he flung into the sphere, the other half shrank to half its original height, cowering. Though resentment twisted the demon’s heart, its eyes shone with fear and obsequiousness.

Chen Yang paid it no heed. With a snap of his fingers, a wisp of demonic flame appeared, and he began to refine the sphere.

Under the demon fire’s heat, the sphere unfurled into a bundle of crimson silk, its color growing ever more vivid, its scent wafting for hundreds of feet.

“Pity the essence is lacking, and the demon’s quality is poor. It’s not enough to forge even the rudiment of the Heavenly Demon Slaying Immortal Sword,” he rued inwardly, hands weaving shifting seals, each one inscribing a restriction.

As the spells took form, the crimson silk entwined and fused into a blood-red blade’s shadow.

“Go.”

With a soft command, the blade flashed from his palm, streaking out in a red arc. Nothing could withstand its path.

The Shadow Demon beside him shrank further, bowing its head, not daring to look at the blade’s gleam.

...

Canglang Mountain had been stripped bare; anything of value was gone.

Relying on memory, Chen Yang drew water for a bath, donned a clean robe, and loosened his childish twin braids, retying his hair into a Daoist topknot. Only then did he leave the mountain.

Guided by the Shadow Demon’s senses, he journeyed over mountains and rivers for three days, arriving at a marketplace.

This was where the cultivators of this world gathered for trade.

The market was small, perhaps three or four miles across, but housed over a thousand cultivators.

On the outskirts, low-level wanderers milled about. Entry required no payment—spirit stones, the realm’s resource for cultivation and its accepted currency, weren’t needed.

Chen Yang, newly arrived, had long since been robbed of his predecessor’s possessions. He had not a single spirit stone to his name.

But he, Chen the Old Demon, was never one to pay others; how could he let himself be charged?

Secretly, he cast a demonic spell, stirring up the latent desires in the heart of the cultivator guarding the market’s entrance, plunging him into a nightmare illusion.

Chen Yang strode through, heading directly to the heart of the market.

When he reached a spacious courtyard bustling with guests and congratulations, he listened for a moment. It was the celebration for the steward’s son’s successful foundation establishment.

“Ah, this is the place.”

Chen Yang was a man of his word and never forgot a grudge. Having vowed vengeance for his ‘kin,’ he would see it done—and swiftly, unless his foes were as mighty as Emei, in which case, patience was needed.

As the saying goes, true strength is knowing when to bend and when to stand tall.

And another: Even a century-old grudge is worth avenging.

“Who might you be, fellow Daoist?”

The gatekeeper, unfamiliar with Chen Yang, reached out to bar his way. Chen Yang shot him a look, his eyes as deep as a demonic abyss. The man, dazed, immediately withdrew his hand and bowed. “Please, this way.”

Chen Yang chuckled darkly. In a world where cultivators cared only for resources, their desires a hundredfold greater than ordinary folk, his demonic arts were simply unmatched.

He strode into the courtyard. More than ten tables filled the front yard, most already occupied. He glanced around, then walked straight through the crowd and into the rear hall.

Whenever someone blocked his way, a spell sufficed to make them instantly step aside and welcome him with utmost respect.

At the rear hall, where only a few tables were set, the most prominent figures of the market and nearby regions sat.

Chen Yang approached the main table, patted a fat man’s shoulder. The man turned, about to protest, but caught Chen Yang’s gaze.

“Move.”

“Please, have a seat.”

The fat man, entirely in a daze, rose and yielded his place, then stood respectfully behind Chen Yang.

The others, witnessing this, assumed Chen Yang must be the son of some great figure from the Four Seas Trading Company, and no one dared question him.

Chen Yang grinned, ignoring the rest, poured himself a cup of wine, and tasted it—it was mediocre at best.

After some time, a man in his fifties, dressed in resplendent silk, emerged from behind a screen with a young man in his late twenties. The elder poured a cup of wine and raised it in salute.

“Thank you all for coming to celebrate my son’s achievement. I am deeply grateful. Please, let us all drink.”

He was none other than the market’s steward, and a disciple of the Luo Yun Sect, one of the three great sects of Zhangze Commandery.

Everyone rose to return the toast—except Chen Yang, who remained seated, helping himself to a piece of some unknown demonic beast’s meat. To his surprise, it was rather tasty, with a satisfying chew.

A boy of eleven or twelve seated at the main table, attended by the Trading Company’s steward, made for a striking sight.

Now, as all rose and he alone remained seated, he stood out all the more.

The elder, shrewd and cunning, masked his reaction and continued to exchange pleasantries. The younger, however, could not hide his displeasure; his face grew dark, his hostility toward Chen Yang almost palpable.

Chen Yang grinned, his gaze full of mischief.

“You—!” The young man, freshly established in his foundation, was riding high. Such provocation enraged him.

But the elder was composed. He held back his son and turned to the fat man behind Chen Yang, bowing politely.

“Friend Xu, may I ask which house of the Four Seas Trading Company this young master hails from?”

Fat Xu, enchanted by Chen Yang’s spell, had lost his sense of self and now muttered incomprehensible demonic words.

“What did you say, friend?” asked the elder, puzzled.

Chen Yang laughed and translated, “He says, ‘This is the Lord Demon. Should you not kneel in his presence?’”

“Who are you, really?” Even a fool could sense something was amiss.

“You may call me Lord Chen, the one come to send you to your end.”

Chen Yang set down his chopsticks, stood, and swept his sleeve with a beaming smile.

“Chen? You must be a remnant of the Chen clan?” Having just slaughtered every last member of that house, the name was still fresh—and sensitive—in their minds.