Chapter Fifty-One: Collusion

Within the mountain valley, a metal furnace spanning several meters belched searing flames. Amid the clangor of metal, a burly man nearly three meters tall, bound tightly in chains and shackles, was being dragged toward the furnace by two warriors of the Kaja tribe. The giant struggled madly; whenever he stomped his feet against the ground, the earth trembled violently.

Each time he fought back, a blinding arc of electricity flashed along the chains wound around his body. With a crackling sound, surges of current made his hair stand on end and sent his body into violent spasms. The man roared in fury, his voice hoarse and desperate: “Demons! You fiends! Face me like men, one on one, to the death! Do you dare? Do you dare?”

“I like this one!” A Kaja warrior, nearly four meters tall, strode over. Clad in heavy armor as formidable as a fortress, he moved in utter silence. Wielding a massive axe with bull-horned blades, he brought it down in one swift motion onto the big man's head, knocking him out cold.

“Look at that strength, that size—ha, he’s as vigorous as a crazed bull. He’ll fetch a handsome price!” The Kaja warrior swung his axe with ease, boasting to his companions.

In the vast valley, nearly a thousand Kaja warriors had gathered, crouched or standing atop boulders, the four pupils in their eyes glinting with cold, ruthless light. Hearing their comrade’s boast, they burst into hearty laughter.

The two Kaja warriors dragged the unconscious man beside the furnace. There, a man barely five feet tall, with a sharp, monkey-like face, skin of a strange pale green mottled with red spots, cackled menacingly. From the furnace, he drew a branding iron and pressed it hard against the man’s brow.

A rune on the iron flashed; the man, jolted awake by pain, screamed in agony and struggled fiercely. But the branding iron seemed rooted to his skin, unmoving, until at last it was pulled away. On his forehead remained a palm-sized, crimson mark: atop a sky-piercing tower, a blood-red vertical eye hovered.

With a sizzle, countless bloody threads radiated from the mark, penetrating the man's organs and limbs. He trembled violently, cold sweat pouring from him like liquor. The scarlet threads burrowed deeper, even into his skull, until, having wrested control of his body, the sinister filaments faded away. Spent from pain, the man was dragged off by two Kaja warriors and tossed aside like garbage.

Another brawny man, struggling and roaring, was brought forth. Amid the cackling, the red-hot branding iron was pressed fiercely to his brow. Sizzling sounds filled the air as one after another, warriors of the Southern Wilderness were branded with the mark of shame, reduced to slaves devoid of will.

With a long, lilting cry, a majestic Bi Fang—its wings spanning over twenty meters—descended gracefully from the heavens, alighting with a solitary claw on a towering rock. Folding its wings with elegant motion, it lowered itself for its rider.

Jiang Yao stepped down from the Bi Fang’s back. Two imposing Kaja women, clad in heavy armor, strode over, regarding the much shorter Jiang Yao with haughty disdain. One muttered in a deep voice, “Follow us. The chieftain has been waiting a long time.”

They walked deeper into the valley, where beneath a sheer cliff stood a resplendent tent. A dozen men in fine robes, each with a glowing vertical eye on his brow and the elements of wind, frost, lightning, and thunder flickering in their irises, lounged lazily outside, chatting and laughing in low voices.

Upon seeing Jiang Yao approach, the men straightened, their expressions sharpening, eyes roving hungrily over her fiery figure. A few of them swallowed audibly, unable to hide their greed.

Jiang Yao looked down on these three-eyed men with contempt, like a queen surveying her subjects, and strode into the tent.

From outside, the tent appeared no more than nine meters across, yet within, the space was vast enough to host a grand banquet for thousands. Thick white carpets covered the floor, and the walls were adorned with exquisitely wrought swords, shields, and other arms. In the corners stood ornate suits of armor, gilded and inlaid with jewels.

Dilo, who had lost an eye and, in a recent nighttime skirmish, an arm to Ji Xia’s blade, stood sullenly within the tent. Reclining in a pure gold chair at his side was a middle-aged man who resembled him greatly, save for a large scar across his face.

“Dishan, you have not fulfilled our agreement!” Jiang Yao entered, fixing the man with a cold smile. “Had I known you were so useless, I’d have abandoned you and partnered with your rivals instead.”

Dishan waved a hand lazily, drawling, “Esteemed Witch Priestess, spare me the pointless chatter. In the Southern Wilderness, our Bloodfang Company is not only the most powerful force, but also boasts the strongest backers.”

He shrugged indifferently. “You have no other options. If you want the best returns, you and your backers can only work with us.”

The vertical eye on his brow suddenly opened, releasing a murky darkness that swept from his gaze. The hundreds of tallow candles in the tent dimmed at once, and a sinister force pressed down like a mountain, suffocating the space.

“This failure is not our fault. Your intelligence was off—the enemy was much stronger than you claimed. That little brat’s contract with the giant fire crow, that woman Qing Fu’s terrifying witchcraft, and the sudden appearance of that absurdly powerful old man… Too many unpredictable variables. Look at my poor brother—what has become of him?”

Dishan theatrically pressed his hand to his face, forcing a few notes of sorrow into his sigh. “Look at my brother, dear Dilo. He isn’t even married yet! Losing a hand is one thing, but an eye—oh, the tragedy! In our Yu nobility, without an eye, he’ll never find a woman to bear him heirs!”

Jiang Yao drew a deep breath and produced from her sleeve a black jade mortar. Within was a pool of clear liquid, about the size of a fist, exuding a strange scent—an odd blend of blood, the freshness of myriad herbs, and the musky tang of venomous insects, filling the entire tent.

“This is the ‘Wuxian Secret Elixir’—of course, not the legendary original, but a concoction brewed by one of the greatest witch doctors from the secret recipe,” Jiang Yao said coolly, tossing the mortar to Dishan. “Drink it, and any injury will heal.”

“Now, to the real matter, Dishan.” Jiang Yao’s tone turned cold as she fixed him with a steely gaze. “It’s still the same thing—putting aside the distractions, when will you deliver Ji Xia and his son’s essence blood to me?”