Chapter 67: Who’s Holding a Blade…

The prisoner transport carriage of the Demonic Cult was a masterpiece crafted by the Inner Hall’s Armory Division.

Reinforced with steel grids, it balanced durability and weight while featuring modular components for easy maintenance. Its design also allowed for light control, disorienting prisoners’ sense of time. Additionally, the carriage had two furnaces underneath, capable of releasing various toxic fumes into the compartment. And, of course, it offered a surprisingly smooth ride—not for the sake of prisoner comfort but to ensure that those drugged into unconsciousness didn’t wake up prematurely.

So when the rhythmic thunk thunk of someone banging on the walls echoed through the carriage, the assassin from the Outer Hall’s Shadow Division, who had been fanning Qi Dispersion Poison Incense into the furnace, froze in shock.

How are they already awake?

Had they miscalculated the dosage? They’d used three times the usual amount!

The soundproofing was excellent; only the dull banging reached their ears. The assassin slid open a panel on one side of the wall and asked, “What’s going on?”

A cheerful voice responded, “Oh hey! Can you hear me? I’m bored. Bring me a snack.”

The tone was so casual it sounded like they’d left snacks in safekeeping with their captors. The assassin blinked in disbelief, momentarily at a loss for words.

“Hurry up! I’m starving over here! Snacks! Now!”

“Hey, do you even realize your situation—”

“I don’t care about that. Snacks are more important. You kidnapped me; you’re responsible for feeding me. Isn’t providing snacks basic etiquette?”

“What in the world…”

The assassin was dumbfounded but eventually snapped out of it. They reached for a pouch at their waist and dumped its contents into the furnace—a refined powder version of Dream Soul Medicine. Fanning with increased fervor, they sent thick clouds of smoke billowing into the carriage.

The effect was immediate.

The girl’s voice rose an octave. “HEY! WHO ASKED FOR MORE INCENSE?! I SAID SNACKS! SNACKS!”

“Alright, alright! Hold on a moment.”

“Hmph. Should’ve done that from the start.”

The assassin hurried to the lead carriage to report to Ji Seungju.

“Leader Ji, Ximen Qing is demanding snacks. What should we do?”

Ji Seungju stared at them blankly. “Didn’t she ingest a hefty dose of Dream Soul Medicine?”

“She seems immune to its effects.”

It wasn’t unheard of for someone to resist Dream Soul Medicine; its toxicity wasn’t particularly strong.

“Should we use something stronger?”

Stronger drugs could damage her mind—and if her mind broke, she wouldn’t be able to perform.

Ji Seungju pondered briefly before shaking his head. “For now, just humor her. Give her what she wants—or better yet, I’ll go myself.”

Ji Seungju had a plan in mind: People tend to unconsciously trust those who are present during moments of unease or vulnerability. It was similar to how hostages sometimes develop feelings for their captors. While he wasn’t aiming for admiration, reducing psychological distance could pave the way for smoother cooperation later.

My legs are killing me.

As soon as the effects of paralysis began to fade, Qing’s legs started acting up again.

Leg cramps were pure evil—an insidious pain that gnawed at her nerves without pause. It wasn’t sharp enough to scream about but persistent enough to drive her mad.

If only I could walk around… But no matter how spacious this carriage was, it wasn’t large enough for pacing.

“Hey! What did you do to my legs?”

“The Supreme Leader personally ensured your condition. Once we arrive at our destination, it will be undone.”

Ahh… so that bastard did something. Her lower body felt like her qi flow was clogged—her acupoints blocked one by one.

That son of a—he’s dead meat.

“Can’t you just undo it now? I promise I won’t run away; I just can’t stand this numbness.”

“The Supreme Leader has already departed ahead of us. He despises delays.”

Qing’s eyes sparkled with interest. Oh? That jerk left already?

Her master had extensive knowledge of acupuncture and medicine. If she could escape now and regroup later…

“Don’t get any ideas,” came the assassin’s warning. “There are two transcendent masters here guarding you—and let’s not forget your legs aren’t exactly functional.”

Ugh… way to ruin my mood.

Qing pouted in frustration. What kind of transcendent masters have nothing better to do than babysit one Peak Realm cultivator?

“If you’re truly bored,” the assassin continued, “why not learn some martial arts?”

“What kind?”

“The kind orthodox sects call demonic arts.”

Qing snorted in disbelief. “You’re telling me to learn demonic arts? After kidnapping me?”

She wasn’t just anyone; she was already proficient in one of the Eleven Forbidden Demonic Arts—the White Hand Demonic Arts.

“You’ll have to learn eventually,” said the assassin matter-of-factly.

“And why would I do that?”

“To be blunt: we need leverage over you. Once this is all over, we want assurance that you won’t turn against us when we let you go.”

“So you’ll spread rumors about me practicing demonic arts if I don’t cooperate?”

“Exactly—but wouldn’t it be better to learn now than later under direct instruction from the Supreme Leader himself?”

In other words: Learn willingly or get beaten into submission.

Fair enough, Qing thought with a shrug. She’d already mastered one demonic art—what difference would another make? Besides, she’d learned countermeasures against these techniques anyway.

“Alright,” she said brightly. “Teach me.”

“…Are you serious?” The assassin sounded skeptical.

“Why not? You said I’d have to learn anyway. Might as well kill time training.”

“Very well.” The assassin began reciting an incantation: “Dark sun above shadowed lands…”

Qing listened briefly before cutting him off with a yell: “HEY! Are you messing with me?!”

Her internal martial arts system remained silent—no registration of any new technique.

For martial arts manuals or techniques to register in her system’s database, they needed to be complete and intact. If nothing appeared, it meant something was missing or wrong with what she’d been taught.

“You’re trying to scam me?!”

“…Why would you think that?”

“If you’re going to teach me something, do it properly! Martial arts aren’t a joke!”

Silence fell outside before a quiet mutter slipped through: “…Damn it.”

Qing blinked in disbelief. Did he just curse? At me?!

“…I misspoke,” came the assassin’s hurried reply after realizing his slip-up. “There seems to have been an error in my recitation—I’ll verify and return shortly.”

The owner of the most fearsome demonic art, the Essence Absorption Demonic Arts, was known as the “Killer Among Killers.” A figure so dangerous that even the orthodox and unorthodox factions would join forces to take them down.

For those who mastered one of the Ten Great Demonic Arts, nicknames came free of charge. However, these nicknames were subjective—your allies and enemies rarely agreed on what to call you. To enemies, she was the White Hand Witch; to allies, she was the Divine Maiden. Occasionally, she was even referred to as the White Hand Demonic Queen.

In fact, those who practiced demonic arts often wore their titles like badges of honor. The word "demonic" in their moniker was a point of pride for many within the unorthodox and demonic factions. Meanwhile, the orthodox sects foamed at the mouth over the mere existence of the Ten Great Demonic Arts. The unorthodox practitioners? They envied it—or outright coveted it.

Take Godang Sang, for example. His title alone revealed his mastery: Black Slaying Demonic Palm. A horrifying technique that didn’t just bruise its victims but caused necrosis, rotting their flesh away entirely. The hallmark of those who practiced this art was their pitch-black hands, imbued with a sinister energy that decayed living tissue upon contact.

At that moment, Godang Sang paused mid-motion as his blackened hand tore through a chunk of flesh. He frowned.

“She figured out something was wrong with just hearing the incantation?”

“Yes, Warlord.”

“The Secret Pavilion Leader must be joking. What kind of prodigy can tell an incantation is flawed just by hearing it?”

Godang Sang’s tone turned sharp with irritation. Ji Seungju carefully responded, “It’s possible. She’s already at Late Stage Peak Realm.”

This wasn’t an uncommon sentiment in Jianghu when it came to Ximen Qing. Her reputation as a scam artist was so well-known that no one even needed to nominate her for the title of “World’s Greatest Con Artist.”

“So what now? You’re suggesting we teach her the complete incantation?”

Godang Sang’s displeasure deepened. Even under orders from their Supreme Leader, sharing an unaltered incantation was already a massive breach of martial world norms.

And now they were expected to pass on a complete version?

“Think about it differently,” Ji Seungju suggested diplomatically. “Once she’s tainted by the Black Slaying Demonic Palm, she won’t be able to return to the orthodox sects anyway.”

This was precisely why they’d chosen this technique. The practitioner’s appearance alone—those blackened hands—would instantly mark them as a demonic cultivator.

“What’s wrong with his hands?”

“He’s a demonic cultivator! Kill him!”

It would be that simple.

“So what? You’re proposing we take her in as a disciple?”

“Yes,” Ji Seungju replied with forced politeness. “What do you think?”

Godang Sang barely held back a scoff. A demonic warlord taking disciples? What nonsense.

In the Demonic Cult, “disciple” often meant little more than servant or lackey—disposable tools to be discarded if they became too much of a threat. After all, disciples had an annoying habit of overthrowing their masters when given the chance.

This was the law of survival among martial artists: Only strength matters.

And this was why Godang Sang hesitated. What if this prodigy absorbed everything he taught her and then turned around to challenge his position?

“Hm… I’ll think about it.”

“Of course,” Ji Seungju said smoothly. “But I humbly ask you to consider this for the greater good of our cult.”

Annoying old man, Ji Seungju thought privately.

Not that he could say such things aloud—not when these were orders from their Supreme Leader himself.

The Supreme Leader’s authority within the Demonic Cult was absolute. His martial prowess was officially at Late Stage Unrestrained Realm—but in truth, he had long surpassed that level.

By sealing his own qi pathways, he had intentionally delayed his ascension to higher realms in pursuit of perfecting his demonic arts and reaching an unparalleled state known as Demonic Descent Realm.

If he wanted to ascend to Heavenly Realm or higher, he could likely do so at any moment.

So when Ji Seungju told Qing earlier that their Supreme Leader could personally teach her… it wasn’t an empty threat.

Still, Ji Seungju couldn’t exactly pressure Godang Sang by saying, “The Supreme Leader ordered it.” That would only humiliate both parties involved—and for martial artists like them, pride ranked just below life and martial skills in importance.

Thus, Ji Seungju had no choice but to feign politeness and frame his request as a plea for the cult’s greater good—a move that would allow Godang Sang to save face while complying with their leader’s orders.