Chapter 170: Tian Capital

Five days had passed since the Crimson Sun Monk’s death.

At that moment, in Tian Capital within the Central Plains.

Beneath the place known as Fireworks Alley lay a sprawling network of underground sewers.

The surface was a dazzling, eye-popping world of luxury; underground was its dark, silent, hidden counterpart.

A man clad in a black robe slowly walked through the sewers, holding a torch. Darkness enveloped everything. High-pitched shrieks sometimes pierced the quiet, along with rustling sounds that sent shivers down the spine.

Suddenly, whistling sounds split the darkness. Several large men holding swords moved with ghost-like speed, surrounding the black-robed figure.

“Was it you who just took action in Fireworks Alley?”

“Buddy, do you think you can show off anywhere with the Emperor watching? Especially under Tianzi?”

“You’d really risk your life over some prostitute.”

The black-robed man acted as if he hadn’t seen the group of men at all and walked onward. Furious at being ignored, one man swung his blade straight at the man’s body.

But as his knife descended, the attacker froze unnaturally just before the blade could touch its target.

The next instant, the attacker’s body exploded like it had been slashed by innumerable blades. He fell apart into countless pieces, scattering across the ground.

The other large men yelled and attacked the black-robed man. But the man seemed encased in an invisible shield; none of the strikes affected him. Instead, unseen blades sliced each attacker to pieces.

By the last man, the sight of countless bloody fragments drove him insane. He dropped his sword, screamed, and fled wildly.

Not once throughout this did the black-robed man speak. He didn’t even alter his steady pace. It was as if those who approached weren’t murderers, but mere gusts of wind, utterly unworthy of his notice.

He walked slowly, without a hint of fear. As he went deeper, the darkness around him seemed to thicken. The light from his torch shrank until only a one-meter radius around him remained visible.

Then came strange footsteps—dense and eerie—as if countless things were closing in on him in the dark.

The black-robed man finally stopped. Under his hood, the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile.

He raised a finger. A beam of light burst from its tip instantly shredding the surrounding darkness. Along the sewer walls, countless Dwarf Spirits had appeared, completely encircling him.

The Dwarf Spirits gaped wide, teeth bared, glaring at the man. When the light flashed, they flinched back. They chattered loudly, as if making threatening gestures.

The man spoke softly, “Is this how the Lord of the South Saint Sect welcomes his guests?”

“You weren’t invited,” replied a voice from deep within the corridor.

Instantly, darkness surged within the sewers. It wasn’t just shadow, but a living entity twisting and churning around the man like a black tide.

No matter how brightly he shone his light, nothing beyond a one-meter radius could be seen. It felt like drowning in an abyss.

The black-robed man frowned. Amidst the sweeping darkness, he’d lost all his senses. Be it sight, hearing, smell, or even Spiritual Energy Vision—the darkness blocked everything.

Then, abruptly, the gloom vanished. The surroundings had completely transformed.

The sewer was gone. In its place stood a ridiculously luxurious palace. Velvety carpets covered the floor—woven from some exotic beast’s fur, stitched with mountains, rivers, sun, moon, and shifting constellations. It screamed extravagance.

Ivory, jewels, and jade decorated the walls, tables, and chairs. The black-robed man felt like he’d stepped into a royal palace.

His senses came rushing back. He could feel powerful life forces lurking within the blackness of the room’s high ceiling.

But his expression shifted to one of shock—or even fear—as his eyes settled on a man sitting atop a throne at the palace’s far end.

Shirtless, the man rested his chin on one hand. His muscular frame rippled with clear, chiseled lines; even the dullest commoner could sense the tsunami-like power coiled beneath that flesh.

Clearly, Shen Zong’s body was no longer as frail as when he first left the Ancient Tomb—it had grown tremendously.

Now, from his throne, Shen Zong studied his visitor with curiosity. Like invisible lightning, the man’s tension crackled through the air. Shen Zong could feel it.

Tapping the throne lightly, Shen Zong spoke casually, “Months ago, I met someone… vaguely similar to you.”

“Yes. And you killed him.” The black-robed man removed his hood, revealing a strange face: brown hair and eyes of different colors—one black, one white.

“He was named Jiugong. You may call me Wuyi.” As he said this, Wuyi’s every muscle tensed. His enemy’s strength was far beyond what he’d imagined. That scene change—Wuyi still couldn’t decode how it had been done.

“Ah, the same group?” Shen Zong gave a faintly amused smile. “To avenge him?”

“He was not a friend. I have no desire for revenge.” The man with mismatched eyes chuckled. Slowly, he drew a wide, ancient bronze Jian over a meter long from his hip. “Before we continue our discussion… could you please restrain your Spiritual Power?”

Shen Zong tilted his head. “I am releasing Spiritual Power?”

“Let me put it this way… I feel like an insect trapped in amber. Almost crushed to death.” The strange-eyed man answered. Drawing the sword seemed to lessen the pressure suffocating him. For a moment, a strange aura flickered from the blade—one that surprised Shen Zong on his throne.

‘Just leaking Spiritual Power could create this effect. If such monsters actively lived beneath the Imperial City… the nation likely couldn’t last long.’ He thought dryly. The strange-eyed man continued. “Your strength is clear to me now. I came to invite you to join my organization.”

Shen Zong laughed. “If you want to bow to me… I might consider it.”

“The organization is not hierarchical. It’s a network of allies. Killing a member opens their spot for you. Here, you can gain things you desire… and information people crave.”

“For instance?”

“Someone’s location… and our friendship.” With that, Wuyi tossed a letter towards Shen Zong.

Shen Zong opened the envelope. He skimmed its contents—and his expression instantly shifted.

Half an hour later, the strange-eyed man stood once more in Fireworks Alley.

Meanwhile, half-slouched on his throne, Shen Zong murmured, “Number One.”

A figure dropped from the shadows above the ceiling: a man with ice-cold eyes and a green-tinged face. His features were unmistakably those of Du Tianyu, the naval officer who’d previously confronted Shen Zong at sea.

Now, pale green and radiating cold hatred, Du Tianyu seemed barely human. Beneath his lips and chin, dried blood still lingered.

“Go to Xinlu Port on the New Continent. Find a man called Zuo Zhicheng…”

“…and bring him to me.”