Mad Shu cocked his head and stared at Gabe Quinn for a good while, then suddenly shook his head. "Gabe Quinn, why do you always wear that death mask? You scare the piss out of everyone. But I know you—you care about every one of your men. Others might not see it, but I do. After every battle, you’re gutted by the brothers we lose."
Gabe Quinn snorted. "Is that so? Maybe I just don’t want them dying too quick. Anyone who lands in my battalion is halfway in the ground already."
"Don’t feed me that crap. You can fool the others, but not me. Before you took over the Deathsworn Battalion, the casualty rate was ninety percent. Since you became captain, it’s dropped to under fifty. You act cold, but you’ve got a heart under all that armor. When Wolf Fang, Leopard, and Little Cat got transferred, they all came to thank me—they owe you, whether you admit it or not." Mad Shu grinned, cold as steel.
"Bullshit. Those turncoats—just when I finally got a few good hands, they ran faster than scared rabbits." Gabe Quinn snatched the oil-paper packet from Mad Shu, ripped it open, and found a roast chicken, golden and steaming. Mad Shu never lacked for good grub; everyone in camp sucked up to him.
Mad Shu let out a belly laugh. "You call me crazy, but you’re the real lunatic, Gabe. Don’t think I don’t know how Wolf Fang and the others got out—you went straight to the Grand Marshal and pulled strings. You didn’t want them dying in the Deathsworn Battalion. Don’t give me that look. I’m Mad Shu, the west frontier’s infamous sawbones. If I want to know something, I’ll dig it up. If I want something done, it gets done."
Gabe Quinn paused, shoved a drumstick in his mouth. "Oh yeah? You can do anything?"
Mad Shu was about to brag, but his face fell. "Except one thing—the fallout from that damned inner art you practice. I can’t fix it. Where’d you even dig up that technique? It’s fierce, it’s fast, but any real martial art needs balance—yin and yang, water and fire. This thing just goes full throttle. I’ve seen plenty, but never anything like this. It’s pure poison."
Gabe Quinn laughed. "Seeing you stumped makes my day."
Mad Shu got pissed, snatched the rest of the chicken from Gabe Quinn and tore into it. "Happy, huh? Gabe Quinn, listen up: you better quit now, while you still got a chance. If you keep going, I won’t be able to save you. Sooner or later, your inner fire will blow—know what happens then? You’ll burn alive, inside and out."
Gabe Quinn’s smile vanished. After a moment, he said, "If I disperse my power, I’ll die even faster. Mad Shu, you know what happens in the army when you lose your strength?"
"Gabe Quinn, there’s more than one road out there. Disperse your power, leave the army with me—we could live out our days. You’re the only friend I’ve got, Gabe. I don’t want to see you dead."
"Living like a nobody? I’d rather be dead." Gabe Quinn dropped his gaze. "Or maybe fate’ll throw me a bone and give me another way out."
Mad Shu sighed. "Gabe Quinn, I don’t know what you’re after, but you gotta remember—life’s the most precious thing. Lose it, and you’ve got nothing."
"Life and death are fate; fortune’s in the gods’ hands. If I disperse my power, I’m just a cripple—no shot at making it out. This next battle could blow up any day. Didn’t you say you cooked up another bottle of that medicine for me?" Gabe Quinn’s voice was low.
Mad Shu shook his head, fished a bottle from his coat. "Take it. Every pill you swallow brings you closer to death, but go ahead—eat up. Heaven’s never had eyes for bastards like us. If you’re counting on luck, you’re betting on the wrong horse."
"Thanks." Gabe Quinn snatched the bottle and stashed it in his coat.
"Thanks, my ass!" Mad Shu stormed out, slamming the tent flap behind him.
Left alone in the tent, Gabe Quinn’s smile faded. He knew damn well that every step deeper into the Primordial Overlord Art was another step toward the grave—but he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop.
The Primordial Overlord Art was a nightmare from the moment Gabe Quinn started training it. How could he have known it’d turn out like this?
The Primordial Overlord Art was once the most feared martial technique in the world. In a thousand years, only one man ever mastered it—Leander Lee, the founding monarch of the Grand Taran Empire. After Leander Lee’s death, the art vanished. A thousand years later, the Grand Taran Empire itself was torn apart. The usurper, Cao Wendin, seized power, and the imperial capital of Chang’an ran red with blood. The glorious palace went up in flames, and the art, hidden deep in the palace, disappeared without a trace.
After that upheaval, the Grand Taran Empire split into four nations: Western Qin, Kingdom of Chu, North Yue, and East Qi, ruled by the Cao clan, who took most of the old empire’s lands.
Now Gabe Quinn understood why, after Leander Lee, none of his descendants ever mastered the Primordial Overlord Art. Anyone who practiced it died. One or two deaths could be blamed on bad luck, but if everyone who tried it died, the art itself was the problem. Nobody knew why Leander Lee succeeded and everyone else failed—maybe he was just born different.
Gabe Quinn walked the same doomed road as countless others, but he figured it out too late.
The Primordial Overlord Art was ruthless, fast, and deadly. Gabe Quinn started training at ten, hit the third level by sixteen. But then things went wrong: his inner force burned like wildfire, only killing could quiet it. That’s why he joined the army, volunteered for the western frontier. The Kingdom of Chu and Western Qin had been at war for a century—never-ending slaughter, and only in the ranks was killing legal.
Gabe Quinn signed up for the Deathsworn Battalion. In six years, his killing and ferocity scared the hell out of the enemy—and his own men. The battalion cycled through generations; few old hands from Gabe’s first days were left, but his reputation was passed down, mouth to mouth.
Soon Gabe Quinn realized he was just drinking poison to quench thirst. Killing calmed his inner fire, but it made his progress in the Primordial Overlord Art even faster. Six years in the Deathsworn Battalion, and he broke through to the fourth level. It terrified him—he was trapped: stop killing, his inner force rebelled; keep fighting, it only got stronger.
Gabe Quinn knew: hit the fifth level in the Primordial Overlord Art, and his meridians would snap. He’d die like every other fool who tried it.
Then Mad Shu showed up out of nowhere, bought him some time. When he first arrived in the Deathsworn Battalion, Gabe thought he was a quack, but Mad Shu quickly earned everyone’s respect—nobody messes with a doc who can snatch souls from the jaws of death. Mad Shu came to the battalion because its reputation let him do whatever he wanted for his experiments. Gabe had seen him cut open living men to treat them; most died, but a few made it. Over time, Mad Shu could save three or four out of ten—hell of a feat.
If Gabe Quinn was the Deathsworn Battalion’s grim reaper, Mad Shu was its living Buddha. The mad surgeon soon smelled something off. After treating Gabe, he locked himself in his tent for days, then handed over the pills Gabe uses now.
"They’ll stretch your meridians and buy you time, but they’re poison too. When it all blows up, it’ll be worse than ever. Only cure is to disperse your power!" Mad Shu’s solution—one Gabe Quinn flat-out refused.
He chose the pills.
For three years, his inner force stayed quiet, but Gabe Quinn knew it was only because Mad Shu’s medicine stretched his meridians, let him hold more power. Otherwise, he’d have burned alive by now.
But there’s a limit to how much his meridians can stretch. Sooner or later, Gabe Quinn’ll burn to death—unless he finds another way. But if even Mad Shu can’t crack it, how could Gabe, with so little time left?