Chapter Forty-Seven: The Wager

Six thousand kilometers north of Nanhai City lies a sprawling range of great snowy mountains. Over the years, it has borne many beautiful names and given rise to countless wondrous legends, yet people have always preferred to call it simply—the Great Snowy Mountain.

Mention its name, and everyone instantly knows which mountain you mean.

Here, snow covers the land year-round, and few souls venture close. Only hunters and herbalists linger in these desolate reaches; even tourism cannot take root, thwarted by the unforgiving weather and treacherous roads.

Yet the world is unaware that, hidden within, lies a natural prison.

The Great Snowy Mountain Prison of the Special Environmental Affairs Bureau of the Heavenly Capital is a primeval structure, refashioned from an inverted, pyramid-like underground cavern. For three thousand years, it has served as the holding place for the most vicious and depraved criminals.

At the very bottom of this prison, a hundred meters deep, lies a magnificent abyss wrought of ice and snow. In its center, a crystal coffin trembles, emitting a series of unsettling cracks.

More than thirty heavy-caliber anti-materiel rifles and eighteen rocket launchers are trained upon the icy sarcophagus. Around it stand battle-hardened soldiers, their faces solemn, yet their trembling fingers on the triggers betray their inner turmoil.

The ancient sealing array, present since the prison’s inception, had just ceased to function.

This could mean only one thing: the most terrifying of prisoners was about to awaken.

At last, a lightning-like white fissure split the crystalline coffin.

One, then two, then three—fractures multiplied, turning the casket into a web of white cracks.

The air grew still. Dust bounced upon the ground as if all creation was holding its breath, bracing for what was to come.

Unable to bear the oppressive silence any longer, the commander shouted, “Fire!”

Bullets, by the kilogram, rained down. Rockets roared toward the abyssal depths without hesitation.

Such firepower could have reduced even a living dragon to shreds.

Yet, with a thunderous crash, shards of ice exploded outward. The ancient, iron-hard ice—frozen for thirty years—resisted for only a fleeting moment before it was utterly overwhelmed by the onslaught.

When the first barrage ended, the abyss had been expanded by decades’ worth of destruction. Smoke and steam billowed, and the ice coffin had vanished without a trace.

The commander was just about to sigh in relief when a sigh sounded beside his ear: “Thirty years lost to a dream, shattered in an instant—how dull.”

“You—!”

With a sickening crack, the commander’s head burst open like a watermelon, his bulletproof helmet splitting into three.

A seemingly ordinary, naked man, expressionless, declared, “My name is Zhang Liaoyuan. Thirty years ago, I was King of the Vein-wielders. Thirty years later, I shall be Lord of the Heavenly Capital.”

His skin was like flawless white jade, shimmering faintly with golden light. The sculpted contours of his muscles would have put Michelangelo’s David to shame.

Yet, for all his overwhelming presence, his face left no impression—for no one dared look upon it.

With their leader dead, the remaining soldiers, their eyes red with desperation, opened fire.

But the naked man moved silently through the hail of bullets, placing a single finger on each soldier’s helmet. One by one, they collapsed, blood streaming gruesomely from every orifice.

Sparks danced across the man’s body, but the whistling bullets could not harm him—they simply bounced away, powerless.

A sharp, slicing hand strike was intercepted by Zhang Liaoyuan, who shook his head. “That’s not how you use the Severing Gold Hand.”

With a casual wave, his immaculate palm moved neither swiftly nor slowly, yet with a crisp efficiency, it cleaved the fully armed Vein-wielder before him cleanly in two. Scalding blood and viscera froze the instant they struck the ground.

The dead Vein-wielder lost all luster, as if every last trace of vitality and essence had been drained away, leaving only the husk of a decayed leaf.

“Leech Veins… Zhang Liaoyuan, you dare practice such a demonic art!”

“Oh? Someone still recognizes the Leech Veins.” Zhang Liaoyuan flicked the blood from his hand, returning it to spotless purity. “I am King of the Vein-wielders. It is only right that I reclaim your vital energy.”

The thirteen hidden Vein-wielders among the soldiers could conceal themselves no longer. They leapt forth, joining forces in a desperate attack.

A minute later, all the Vein-wielders lay dead.

“Aaah!” a despairing soldier screamed, firing a rocket at Zhang Liaoyuan as he surged forward. The explosion consumed them both, leaving not a scrap of the soldier behind.

Yet Zhang Liaoyuan strode forth from the flames, his body only slightly blackened by the fire.

He paused suddenly, as if puzzled, and began to search himself. With a dawning realization, he plucked nine blood-red nails from key energy points at his collarbone, chest, and limbs—the Ninefold Soul-Chasing Nails, forged with blood and secret arts.

Having absorbed the vital energies of fourteen Vein-wielders, Zhang Liaoyuan was fully restored from his long sleep. The seals of the previous generation’s three Elders had lost all effect.

Brushing off the dust, Zhang Liaoyuan laughed and shook his head. “You never learn, do you?”

The remaining soldiers gritted their teeth and pressed the attack. Not one retreated; this was their duty, their honor.

Moments later, every soldier in the cavern lay slaughtered by a single man. The weapons they carried, worth millions, had proven utterly useless.

Neither tranquilizers, grenades, nor acid could so much as trouble the mighty man.

He walked over the quickly-freezing blood, now merging with the snow beneath his feet, and left the cave.

At that moment, the entire Great Snowy Mountain Prison began to shake violently. The remaining guards, unable to stop Zhang Liaoyuan, were preparing to detonate the place—hoping to bury him beneath a million tons of ice and snow.

The wails and howls of countless prisoners echoed through the catacombs.

“Let me out! Let me out!”

“Martial Arts Association, may you all rot in hell!”

“Amitabha—”

Zhang Liaoyuan burst into laughter. “Just a trifling snowy mountain—what can’t I withstand?”

In an instant, he vanished, and a trail of shattered ice craters appeared in a straight line—the mark of Zhang Liaoyuan moving at a speed beyond human sight.

One by one, the locks of the prison snapped open.

Zhang Liaoyuan ascended the abyss, circling the towering chasm, shattering every lock along the way. Thick iron chains broke like noodles at his touch.

Cheering prisoners poured out, scrambling toward the surface.

They moved in ways unimaginable for ordinary humans—scaling walls, leaping between ledges, as if gravity held no sway.

They were all Vein-wielders—mad ones, known as the Martial Void, warriors so empty they had lost all sense of self.

Even as they fled, the Martial Void turned upon one another, fighting through the cramped passages, turning this realm of ice and snow into a mill of blood and flesh.

Yet, not even the most agile dared to overtake the man at the front.

Zhang Liaoyuan’s mere stride sent tremors through the icy corridors, leaving the entire mountain teetering on the brink of collapse.