Chapter Thirty-Three: Deception (Extended Chapter)

In the vast marshland, a wounded Yasha demon was fleeing desperately, glancing back in panic from time to time. Blood dripped from his wounds, mingling with the waters of the swamp. His webbed feet slapped the surface with astonishing speed, leaving trails of ripples behind. Yet, behind him, an even greater wave parted the marsh, closing in rapidly.

“Aaah!” The Yasha’s cries grew hopeless, his steps faltering. Suddenly, a vine stretched above the water, catching him and sending him tumbling, teetering on the brink of plunging into the lake.

At that moment, a colossal black fish leapt from the depths, jaws agape, and with a brutal snap, bit the Yasha in two. Both halves splashed into the water, blood instantly blooming and dyeing the swamp crimson.

Soon, a human head emerged from the water, rising steadily to the surface. In each hand, it held a piece of the Yasha’s corpse.

This black fish was called Gatecrusher, skilled with the blade, his demon power and weapon prowess well matched. His literacy lagged behind others, and he had ranked ninth in the last competition.

Panting heavily, Gatecrusher raised his knife and severed the Yasha’s head. Unintentionally aggravating his own wound, his ferocity was unleashed. Grabbing the half-corpse, he tore at the organs, gnawed them to pieces and swallowed them, appeasing his rage.

He hung the head at his waist and counted—twelve heads in total. Gatecrusher felt a small surge of pride. As a water demon, this vast marsh was his home ground. Even so, he was wounded; how many others could claim so many trophies?

He glanced at the sky—nearly ten hours had passed. Knowing it would take another hour to reach the mechanical beast Behemoth, Gatecrusher cursed under his breath. Certain that he would secure a place in the top ten, he ceased hunting, instead finding a grassy meadow to inspect his injuries.

His wounds were not too severe, yet neither were they light. In his fish form, he’d been struck by dozens of forks; transformed to human, it was as if dozens of chopsticks had stabbed his chest and abdomen, nearly piercing his organs. Not fatal, but far from comfortable.

After a brief rest, Gatecrusher transformed back into the black fish and plunged into the water, swimming toward his point of entry.

A quarter hour later, he reached a shallow part of the marsh, emerged in human form, and began to walk at a measured pace.

Gatecrusher was cautious. He knew that in his current state, confronting any minor demon from the team would likely end badly; even victory would slow him down disastrously. He’d resolved long ago: upon sighting any demon, he would retreat at once, avoiding all entanglements, aiming only to return.

Suddenly, he heard faint singing—a plaintive, lingering melody, seductive yet tinged with an imperceptible strangeness, drifting on the breeze…

“In wild fields, the vines entwine, dew drops gather and shine.
A beauty appears, graceful and fine.
Meeting by chance fulfills my desire…”

(from “Wild Vines” in the Book of Songs, Zheng Wind)

Gatecrusher froze. He thought of someone—someone no minor demon dared meet directly.

Then, a figure appeared in his vision: dressed in white robes, face painted with powder, humming the melody.

Slaughterer.

He had come here.

Gatecrusher wanted to run, but dared not, for he saw Slaughterer beckoning him with a delicate finger—a gesture beautiful, alluring, indescribably soft, yet chilling to the core.

Among the two great killers of the team, Cane and Slaughterer, over eighty percent of the minor demons perished at their hands. But if forced to choose, every demon would rather stay with Cane than Slaughterer.

For Slaughterer was a madman.

Cane killed decisively but followed certain rules, targeting only those who broke them or fell behind. Slaughterer was different—his killings were at whim, perhaps simply for lacking a corpse for explanation. His reason: he wasn’t happy.

If Slaughterer was happy, one might be spared. If not, death was certain.

So, since Slaughterer summoned him, Gatecrusher did not hesitate and hurried over, bowing in respect.

“Greetings, Instructor.”

This greeting had recently been taught by Corpsewalker as part of the Master’s etiquette, and every demon now offered it on meeting an instructor. Gatecrusher dared not offend Slaughterer here.

“Heehee, so it’s Gatecrusher! I thought it was Yuanqin,” Slaughterer covered his mouth, laughing until his eyes danced. “How many heads?”

“Reporting, Instructor. I killed twelve Yasha demons,” Gatecrusher respectfully displayed the heads at his waist.

“Not bad, much better than the previous ones,” Slaughterer smiled and nodded. “I’m happy.”

Hearing that he was happy, Gatecrusher felt greatly relieved. Whenever Slaughterer said this, he rarely killed, and sometimes even rewarded. Gatecrusher bowed deeply, “It is an honor to please the Instructor.”

“Gatecrusher, you’re a black fish?”

“Reporting, Instructor, yes.”

“In that case, show your true form and take me for a swim in the lake,” Slaughterer pursed his lips playfully. “I haven’t swum here before, and you’ve just arrived.”

Anyone else ordered to reveal their true form would bristle, but before Slaughterer, none dared protest. Gatecrusher obediently crouched in the water, transformed into his massive black fish form.

Secretly, Gatecrusher probed Slaughterer’s aura—identical to usual, not a minor demon’s disguise. Only then did he raise his fins to invite Slaughterer aboard.

“Obedient, very good,” Slaughterer praised, stepping gracefully onto the fish’s head, face alight with joy. “Let’s go, just wander.”

Gatecrusher, delighted, carried Slaughterer into the water. After only a few steps, he suddenly felt a heavy weight and, as he wondered, agony erupted from above, searing through his skull to the bone, his mind burning as if by fire, nearly fainting.

Slaughterer had fired a massive crossbow bolt into his head. Though the black fish’s skull was as strong as steel, the bolt pierced deep, pain overwhelming, his body convulsing uncontrollably.

In torment, Gatecrusher thrashed wildly, tail lashing; Slaughterer leaped nimbly, stepping on the bolt for extra lift, landing far away on the meadow, crossbow ready for a second shot.

With the power of the third tier, drawing the eight-ox crossbow by hand was no feat.

“You’re not Slaughterer, you’re not…” The black fish roared, rushing at Slaughterer, jaws wide, summoning the last of his strength to bite.

“You guessed right.” That was the last thing Gatecrusher heard. The second bolt fired into his mouth, pierced the palate, and entered his brain.

Blood and brain matter exploded outward; Gatecrusher’s body collapsed like a boneless worm, his head thudding to the ground, jaws trembling helplessly before closing in defeat.

“Hard to kill indeed.” The Slaughterer on the meadow murmured, not approaching, but loading another bolt and firing into Gatecrusher’s eye, driving it deep into the brain. Only when the fish lay still did he exhale and edge closer.

As he moved, Slaughterer’s form shrank rapidly, shifting and finally becoming a monkey less than three feet tall, with odd eyes, pointed ears, and a simian face—Six Ugly.

He collected the fish’s head and corpse, retrieved the bolts, erased traces of the battle, and then checked the tally in his gourd-world, quickly heading elsewhere.

Divine Form—Six Ugly’s innate demon art, never shown before others, quietly took the stage in this vast, empty marsh.

…

Six Ugly’s running was peculiar; as he ran, he gently shook his head, occasionally twisting, resembling a pendulum, comical and odd.

Six Ugly was unaware, and even if he knew, he wouldn’t care. This movement let him hear all surrounding sounds more acutely, far exceeding vision.

Thus, before any demon discovered him, he could predict their movements and make his choices.

Now, he suddenly stopped, for he heard heavy breathing—a sign of injury. He listened and turned quietly, standing still.

He then heard a second breath, lighter but also wounded.

Two injured minor demons.

There were now twenty-six heads in his gourd-world. Six Ugly believed this was enough for the top ten, but he had no qualms about killing more. Beyond the temptation of demon cores, he remembered well their identities as rivals.

One more dead meant one less in the top hundred.

Simple, easy arithmetic.

Six Ugly considered, calculated the direction of the breathing, then circled around, found a thicket on a low hill, and lay low, blending into the grass.

Soon, he saw two demons—both familiar.

Greenbrow and White Nightbane.

The two traveled together, steps unsteady, clearly suffering in the marsh. Greenbrow’s body was stained with blood, and Nightbane’s head bore a deep wound, half his face ruined.

Six Ugly stayed hidden, watching as they approached, heading toward Behemoth’s location.

Nine heads hung on their bodies—their limit.

Six Ugly abandoned the hunt. He recalled the scent of that cooked meat; sometimes, thinking of it brought a lingering aftertaste.

Suddenly!

Greenbrow let out a furious roar and lunged forward, while behind him, Nightbane raised a blood-soaked dagger, its blade still dripping.

Nightbane seized the moment as they passed through the meadow, exploiting the gap to strike Greenbrow in a sneak attack.

Greenbrow staggered back, clutching his wounded waist, voice icy, “Why?”

Nightbane coldly sheathed the dagger, shook his head, and began to reveal his serpent form, hissing, “Nine heads are too few for two.”

Greenbrow bared his teeth, “I thought just passing was enough.”

Nightbane, now fully a serpent, tongue flickering, hissed, “That’s you—forty-nine. I’m only one hundred fifty-nine. You’re enough, I’m not.”

“So you’ll kill me to get into the top ten?” Greenbrow sneered, mocking, “Nine heads, you’re so sure you’ll make it?”

Nightbane was silent for a moment, his body stretching, serpent head rising, coldly, “I have to try.”

“In that case, come!” Greenbrow still held his wound, but raised his sword with his other hand, “Let’s see if you succeed.”

Nightbane sprang forward, body twisting, attacking relentlessly—pounce, bite, coil, sweep, slash, thrust, crash, rolling in waves, never-ending. Greenbrow dodged, barely avoiding danger, steering the fight back toward their path.

Six Ugly remained unmoved. He was waiting—the memory of the meat’s flavor not enough to risk himself, yet not enough to act recklessly. He did not know what he wanted, so he could only wait.

To help or not to help, to save or not to save?

Black and white are simple; the challenge lies in the gray between.

The hearts of mortals are adrift, crossroads unclear.

Within the chest, a web of dust veils half the scene; brushed from the mirror’s surface, a single ray of light gleams.