Who Says That If There Is an Upper and a Middle, There Must Be a Lower?

North of the Yellow River, in a vast and wild expanse, a lone figure walked with hands clasped behind his back. He was tall and powerfully built, his hands strong, his face hidden behind a bronze mask—the Copper Priest. In this wilderness, there were grasses, cattle, wolves, and birds, but human traces were rare. Packs of wolves roamed like ominous, predatory clouds sweeping across the plains. Here, civilization was absent; it was survival of the fittest, raw and bloody.

Crunch—Copper Priest stepped on a rib, snapping it in half. The bone was still fresh, reeking of blood, but the marrow at the break was dry and gray, as if weathered for years. Bones like these littered the roadside, one after another, hidden among the green grass, stretching far into the distance and sending chills down the spine.

Across the entire wasteland, there was something that barely qualified as a road—no paving, just ruts left by wagon wheels. The grooves were deep in the mud, and judging by their width, these were the kind of vehicles used for transporting captives and people.

In the distance, the thin whinny of horses echoed. Three or five riders galloped at full speed, shouting and panicked—the pack of wild wolves had set their sights on them as prey. The riders fought fiercely, swinging sabers at their waists, battling with all their might, but there was no way to stand against hundreds of wolves. Spotting Copper Priest from afar, they charged toward him as if he'd descended from the heavens to save them.

But Copper Priest didn't budge. He neither helped nor moved a muscle, simply watched in silence.

He watched the wolves close in.

He watched the warhorses fall.

He watched the riders struggle and cry out for help.

He watched as the riders were brought down by the wolves, their throats torn, bellies ripped open, and their bodies devoured.

He said nothing, simply watched in silence, his presence as calm and cold as a winter sky.

"Truly heartless," came a mocking voice in his ear. There wasn't another soul within miles, yet the voice was clear and smooth—obviously backed by extraordinary internal power. "As Copper Priest of the Eternal Sky Cult, you turn a blind eye to your suffering people. You really are the perfect priest, aren't you—"

Copper Priest remained unmoved, continuing to walk as if he'd only stopped to take in the scenery. To him, those too weak to reach his side weren't worth saving.

The wolves bared their teeth at him, trying to intimidate, but some primal fear made them scatter like a tide, clearing his path. He crossed the ground in great strides—slow yet somehow fast—and soon rounded a mountain bend, arriving at a palace-like temple. He ignored the guards and needed no introduction; hands behind his back, Copper Priest strode straight into the main hall.

Inside, one man sat in the seat of honor, unsurprised by Copper Priest's arrival. He was thin and small, like a dried-up old man on his last legs, but his aura was anything but weak. He, too, wore a bronze mask—though of a slightly different style—and spoke with a mocking, half-laughing tone, his voice clearly the one from before: "How did you like the Seven Wounds Fist from the Kongtong Sect? One punch, seven injuries, all seven hurt. No wonder you’ve been hiding for so long—the Kongtong Grandmaster really went all out. Pity you didn’t die—Old Seven."

"Seven Wounds Fist—not bad. But the current Kongtong Grandmaster still falls short." Copper Seven strode to the head of the table, swept his robe, and sat down with calm authority, showing no sign of injury, chatting as if it were nothing: "Copper Six, there sure are a lot more wolves around here lately."

"More wolves, more meat. So many people sent here, so many dead, so many corpses dumped—naturally, more wolves come to feast." Copper Six didn’t care, then snickered with a weirdly sarcastic laugh: "But that old Daoist your men found is a real character. He’s got plenty of tricks—my warriors have learned a thing or two from him."

"Is that so?" Copper Seven replied noncommittally. "Looks like you want to help him rebuild Serenity Abbey."

"Hahaha, Serenity Abbey, that petty little place—if it’s gone, it’s gone. Why bother rebuilding? As long as my men are strong, I don’t care about the rest!" Copper Six suddenly cocked his head toward the back of the hall, chuckling. "Here they come."

Voices drifted from behind the hall. The language was foreign to Central Plains folk, but Copper Seven understood perfectly—they were discussing how to break people’s spirit as quickly as possible. The gist was all torture, some of it downright horrifying.

"Master Ruin always has a way. Yesterday, that stubborn woman—she kept going on about her indestructible spirit, but Master Ruin sorted her out in no time."

"Next time we catch one, we'll do it like Master Ruin—cut open her belly, pull out that ten-month flesh, seal her blood with acupressure, and let her live long enough to enjoy our handiwork."

"Then toss that ten-month flesh into a pot of oil, give it a nice hot bath—let's see if her spirit survives that!"

"Hot oil turns it to mush in seconds, no flavor. Better to use boiling water—let that ten-month flesh scream for us. When it's done, we’ll eat it right in front of her, maybe even force her to join in. Breaking her spirit? Easy as pie!"

"Haha, big bro’s got the brains—little bro can’t compete!"

With a raucous clamor, a group of men stormed into the hall. Wild-haired, bare-chested brutes, reeking of blood and ghostly chill even in broad daylight—no one wanted to get close. All wore iron masks shaped like savage beasts; the leader had a wolf-head mask and was the "big bro" from before.

These were Copper Six’s trusted Ironfang Sentinels.

Copper Six nodded with satisfaction, bragging, "So, how do they measure up to those Golden Horde Bloodguards? My Ironfang Sentinels are a cut above!"

The Golden Horde Bloodguards were the personal protectors of the Khan’s royal tent—now the elite guards of the Yuan Mongol empire, reserved for the best of the best. Comparing his own men to Kublai’s imperial guards, Copper Six was really talking big. Copper Seven didn’t even react, voice flat as ever: "How’s Master Ruin?"

This chapter isn’t over yet ^.^—click next page to keep reading!

"Hmph, what a pointless question." Copper Six grumbled. "You brought him here, you gave him the sheep, you built that mountain of heads out back. Now it’s crawling with ghosts—even the wolves won’t go near. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?"

He was right—the back hill radiated a strange, sinister aura. Even ordinary people, without seeing a thing, instinctively wanted to flee. Any martial arts master would sense it. It was an energy that clashed with all life; even a touch brought endless pain. The air was thick with the wailing of ten thousand souls, swelling and shrinking, like a monstrous ghost swallowing the darkest yin energy.

Faced with such an aura, anyone would be unnerved.

"Oh?" Copper Six exclaimed. "Looks like it worked!"

Suddenly, the aura contracted, collapsing from a swarm of ghosts into a single, shadowy point. Then it shot forward, faster than anyone could imagine.

At the temple gate, the wolves gathered—hungry beasts, making the guards nervous. They waited daily for corpses, but today none came, so they eyed the guards, wondering if they should risk a hunt. Suddenly, a shrill whistle cut the air as the shadowy aura swept over the temple and descended on the wolves.

Boom! A gust of wind rose, and a voice roared from midair like a ghost’s wail: "Dark Nether Palm!"

A dark green palm print crashed down on the wolves. Crack! A shockwave of dark green energy exploded in all directions. The guards shielded their faces, feeling the sting of flying debris. When the dust settled, the wolves lay dead.

At the center, a patch of ground was stamped bare by the palm, just a smear of bloody mud left behind. The other wolves, frozen in terror, were turned to dried husks in the blink of an eye. Suddenly, the corpses shattered, bursting into fragments that oozed eerie green mist.

The guards stared in shock—this was no human feat, but the work of ghosts and gods.

Whoosh—a shadow flickered, and Master Ruin appeared in the hall, hood pulled low. His skinless face loomed in the shadows, sending chills down spines. Wisps of dark green energy steamed off his body, his inner power now fully mutated into this sinister aura.

"Excellent! Excellent, excellent!" Copper Six stood up, clapping. "With the Eternal Sky Cult behind you, Master Ruin, you see the benefits, right? How about I sponsor you as a full member? Prove your loyalty, pass the test, and with your skills, you could knock someone off and become a priest yourself. Then you’ll have real power, way more than you do now."

When he said "someone," he didn’t bother hiding it—he looked right at Copper Seven. Clearly, the Copper Priests weren’t exactly friends.

Faced with the challenge, Copper Seven didn’t react, his voice as cold and steady as a winter sky: "Ruin, you’re still missing something."

"Indeed, something’s missing." Ruin spoke like a ghost’s breath. "Life and death, yin and yang, fate is mysterious. I was born with a reversed constitution—seeking yin through yang, gathering dead souls through the living, breaking the Heavenly Barrier by finding yin within yang. Now I have enough yin, but I lack the final step—reversing yin to yang. I need someone with pure, blazing internal energy, preferably a woman, but a man will do in a pinch."