Old Mo pointed toward the cobweb-covered wooden stairs in the corner of the room. "Up there is a room that hasn't been touched in ten years. And beneath this tavern... there is an underground wine cellar that has long since run dry. If you seek silence from the bustle of men, that place is quieter than a grave."

  Zhi Xuan nodded slowly. "I will take the cellar."

  "But Senior," A-Lang interrupted hesitantly. "That place is dark and cold; even the rats refuse to live there."

  "It does not matter," Zhi Xuan replied flatly. He placed his still-full cup of wine on the table. "Old Mo, prepare the place. Do not let anyone enter, or you will find your gold pieces turning into pieces of death."

  Old Mo swallowed hard and immediately gestured for A-Lang to take a rusted old key from the drawer. "A-Lang, take the Senior downstairs. And keep your mouth tightly shut if you still wish to see the sun tomorrow."

  "Yes, Uncle," A-Lang whispered. He lit a small oil lantern that cast a dim, flickering light, then signaled for Zhi Xuan to follow him. "This way, Senior. Please be careful; the steps are very fragile."

  Zhi Xuan followed the thin youth, descending the stairs into the stifling darkness. Each step seemed to carry a deeper gloom into the belly of Qinghe City's earth.

  Behind the counter, Old Mo stared at the gold piece in his hand. Suddenly, another old man with a hunched back entered through the front door, carrying a bundle of firewood.

  "Mo, who was that tall man? I saw him enter earlier; his aura... it made my skin crawl," the wood-carrier asked with a trembling voice.

  "None of your business, Old Lu," Old Mo replied, tucking the gold into the deepest fold of his clothes. "He is merely a cold wind passing through. Give me your wood and leave before you see something you aren't meant to."

  "You're strange today, Mo," Old Lu grumbled as he set down the wood. "But whatever. This city has gone mad since the news of the Devil Gu Fengyan spread. Everyone feels like they're walking on eggshells."

  Beneath the rickety tavern, the air turned cold and smelled of damp earth. The lantern in A-Lang's hand swayed gently, reflecting their distorted, elongated shadows against the mossy stone walls. As they descended deeper, the mortal noise above—the scraping of chairs, the hoarse laughter of drunks, and the street dust—faded until replaced by a deafening silence.

  "Here it is, Senior," A-Lang whispered, opening a rotting black teak door at the end of the stairs.

  The room was vast yet chilling. Rows of wooden racks that once held wine barrels now remained only as fragile skeletons shrouded in an inch of dust. There were no air vents, no outside light; only an eternal darkness that seemed designed to hide great secrets.

  Zhi Xuan stepped inside, letting his robe sweep the dust on the stone floor. He flicked his finger, and a pulse of spiritual essence shot out, abruptly extinguishing the lantern in A-Lang's hand.

  "S-Senior?" A-Lang shrieked softly in the pitch blackness.

  "Leave," Zhi Xuan commanded, his voice echoing in the cellar like a voice from an ancient well. "You are resilient enough for a mortal youth."

  Zhi Xuan flicked a gold coin into A-Lang's hand with a subtle wave. The clink sounded like a bell in the deep night, making A-Lang tremble further as Zhi Xuan's tall shadow seemed to swallow him.

  "Y-yes, Senior. I understand," A-Lang said with a shaky voice, clutching the coin tightly. He fumbled his way out in the dark, his footsteps hurried as he climbed the wooden stairs until the thud of the door closing above was heard.

  Zhi Xuan now stood alone in the darkness. However, to his Divine Eyes, this darkness was not blind. He could see every fiber of the decaying wood and every speck of floating dust. He removed his Ghost Hood, letting his dark purple hair hang free while the slaughter pillar pattern on his temple glowed faintly.

  "Finally, pure silence," Zhi Xuan murmured. His voice was no longer restrained by the mask of humanity; instead, it carried the weight of a Soul Transformation realm cultivation capable of shaking the foundation of the building above if he did not carefully suppress his aura.

  Zhi Xuan raised his hand into the air. With a single mental jolt, he triggered an isolation formation. His fingers danced in the void, painting glowing golden runes that merged with the mossy stone walls. In an instant, the cellar was completely severed from the outside world; no sound could enter, and not the slightest ripple of energy could leak out to alert the practitioners in Qinghe City.

  Zhi Xuan dropped into a cross-legged position. He waved his hand, and the Ruthless Heavenly Banner reappeared. The gray silk banner hovered before him, emitting a powerful yet controlled demonic aura. He reached out to summon the Heavenly Trifold Reincarnation Cauldron, immediately spinning it with a low hum.

  Dozens of corpses belonging to former Soul Transformation and Five Element cultivators emerged from the humming cauldron, lining up before him like a row of soldiers floating in the air. Once the last body was out, Zhi Xuan waved his hand, and the cauldron flew back into his Sea of Consciousness.

  Zhi Xuan stared at the row of bodies frozen in death. Though their lives were gone, the remnants of spiritual essence absorbed into their bone marrow still emitted a troubling, thin glow.

  "Nirvana Ancient Puppet Technique," Zhi Xuan whispered, his voice carrying a cold resonance that seemed to freeze the cellar air. "No soul, no essence; merely mortal husks destined to become a calamity."

  Thin smoke from an invisible incense began to fill the cellar, but it was not a divine fragrance; it was the briny scent of gathered Yin Essence. Zhi Xuan closed his eyes, allowing his consciousness to merge with the resonance of the Nirvana Ancient Puppet scrolls.

  "In emptiness, there is existence. In death, there is a silent awakening," Zhi Xuan whispered, repeating the first verse of the forbidden technique.

  He moved his right hand, forming the Soul-Severing Claw seal. Instantly, the Ruthless Heavenly Banner shook violently. The thousands of souls imprisoned within shrieked silently, creating dense black ripples in the air. Shadowy figures began to manifest on the fabric—thousands of warriors with shattered armor, faceless swordsmen, and entities consisting only of pure killing intent.

  Zhi Xuan ignored the internal screams; he dissected the mass of souls, searching for the purest essence of will—not blind hatred, but the remnants of combat instincts still clinging to the soul fragments of ancient warriors.

  "Come forth!" Zhi Xuan roared.

  A clump of dark gray light shot out from the banner, circling like a crow seeking prey before being forced into the body of a Soul Transformation expert floating at the center of the formation. The body convulsed violently, its joints letting out a sickening crack as the Nirvana essence began to seep into the cold bone marrow.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Use the Night-Petal Root Fruit," Ruo Xianxue commanded, her voice now containing a rare hint of interest. "The liquid from that root will serve as artificial blood, connecting the soul's will to the dead body's meridians."

  Zhi Xuan immediately reached into his storage space. Upon opening it, a heart-shaped, blackish-purple fruit pulsing like a dying heart was revealed. This was the Night-Petal Root Fruit, a rare item he had obtained at the risk of his life.

  With a surge of spiritual energy, Zhi Xuan crushed the root into a thick, dark emerald liquid. He waved his hand, and the liquid seeped into the pores of the primary puppet, filling dry veins and reviving meridian paths long since dead.

  "Nirvana... Give this body a name that death shall not forget," Zhi Xuan hissed, biting his fingertip. He dripped a drop of his own pure blood—the Ancient Heavens Blood—directly onto the forehead of the primary body.

  Instantly, the body opened its eyes. The pupils were adorned with the slow-spinning glow of Nirvana runes. Its once pale skin turned as hard as black steel, covered in ancient carvings that emitted an oppressive aura of death. A red line formed on the body's forehead.

  "I name you... Northern Yama," Zhi Xuan spoke, his voice vibrating with authority. "You are the Puppet King."

  The cellar now shook, not from an earthquake, but from the resonance of two forbidden powers forced to unite. The emerald light from the Night-Petal Root Fruit glowing within Northern Yama grew brighter, creating a gruesome contrast with the black mist spewed by the Ruthless Heavenly Banner.

  "Zhunnath... Xi'wàngmang... Rhun'veth... Naum'worr..." Zhi Xuan chanted ancient mantras learned from the fragments of the Ancient Devil Monument.

  Zhi Xuan clasped his hands, forming a Taiji mudra glowing in a black and white circle. With a cold hiss, he launched the mudra as a seal, placing it upon Northern Yama, who immediately rippled subtly before its eyes closed again.

  Thin emerald and pitch-black smoke curled against the cellar ceiling, held back by Zhi Xuan's isolation formation. Amidst the silent horror, the body of Northern Yama slowly descended, setting its feet upon the stone floor. The soft thud as its feet touched the ground felt like a heartbeat of death echoing throughout Old Mo's tavern.

  Zhi Xuan stared at his creation with unblinking sapphire eyes. The Soul Transformation expert's body, now a puppet, radiated an aura far more oppressive than when it was alive. Not because of spiritual energy, but because of the pure void it emitted—a black hole in the laws of nature that rejected the existence of a soul.

  "A body without a soul, living as a will," Zhi Xuan said coldly; he did not rise. "Not defying the Heavens, not imprisoning souls; merely using the remains."

  "Go." Zhi Xuan waved his hand, and Northern Yama faded into dark smoke, entering the Ruthless Heavenly Banner.

  Once Northern Yama was absorbed back into the gray silk folds of the Ruthless Heavenly Banner, a chilling silence returned to the cellar. Zhi Xuan steadied his ragged breath; forging a single Nirvana puppet from the body of a Soul Transformation expert had drained nearly a third of his inner essence. Cold sweat soaked his brow, but his gaze grew sharper, like a freshly honed blade.

  "One is born," Zhi Xuan whispered, wiping a bloodstain from his fingertip. "But one sword is not enough to cleave the horizon that opposes me."

  He looked at the remaining cultivator bodies still floating stiffly before him. They were weaker vessels, but in large numbers, they would become a storm capable of crushing a small sect in a single night. Zhi Xuan focused his will again, crushing the dozens of remaining Night-Petal Root Fruits.

  "Weaving the will, dozens of nameless bodies," Zhi Xuan murmured. "Nirvana Will; living yet not living, dead yet not dead."

  The emerald liquid from dozens of crushed fruits floated in the air, forming fine, glowing threads in the darkness. Zhi Xuan moved his hands in a haunting rhythm, drawing out the soul remnants from the Ruthless Heavenly Banner. The hollow shrieks of these soul fragments no longer sounded like cries, but like a harmonious death song as they were forced into the lined-up bodies.

  The air in the cellar grew heavier, as if the pressure itself rejected the existence of the dozens of bodies forced to rise. The emerald threads woven by Zhi Xuan began to infiltrate the ears, noses, and skin of the floating bodies, stitching together severed meridians and wrapping dried bone marrow.

  One by one, the bodies trembled. The sound of joints being forced into motion echoed like hundreds of dry twigs snapping simultaneously. The sight was horrific; rows of corpses once stiff now began to bend fingers and straighten necks, yet their faces remained flat, emotionless, without a spark of life—only gray holes in their eyes showing absolute obedience.

  "Nirvana is not about resurrecting spirits," Ruo Xianxue hissed, her voice sounding from the depths of his Sea of Consciousness with a heavier tone. "It is about copying slaughter instincts into empty vessels. Do not let the remnants of their memories wake, or you will have an uncontrollable army of monsters."

  Zhi Xuan clenched his jaw, blood trickling from the corner of his lips as he began to feel the strain of the essence he had used. Having formed Northern Yama, he was now forcing the awakening of dozens more. Zhi Xuan snorted harshly; with fingers still weaving the threads of will, he took a sharp breath and emitted a slaughtering silence—like sharp blades cutting every soul entering the bodies to make them completely empty.

  Transparent yet deadly blades of mental light shot from the center of his forehead, severing every emotional residue left in those demonic warrior souls. He did not allow a single drop of humanity to taint his masterpiece. To him, they were now merely instruments of death—an extension of his cold will.

  Instantly, the previously noisy internal screams subsided, replaced by a more terrifying silence. The dozens of bodies stopped trembling. They stood tall in the air, hovering inches from the dusty floor, forming a semi-circle around Zhi Xuan.

  "Zhun’veth... Mar'thul... Korr’nazz..." Zhi Xuan wove the final seal with hand movements slowed by extreme mental exhaustion.

  Each body was now wrapped in a thin layer of compact black essence, forming a sort of mental armor that merged with their skin. They no longer looked like rotting corpses but like ancient bronze statues carrying the weight of a history of slaughter.

  "Nirvana Shadow Army," Zhi Xuan whispered, his sapphire eyes dimming yet carrying a cruel satisfaction. "Sleep within your silver cloth."

  Zhi Xuan flicked the Ruthless Heavenly Banner. The gray silk cloth extended, wrapping around the dozens of bodies one by one and pulling them into the hollow dimension within. The cellar, once crowded by the presence of death, suddenly became empty and silent once more.

  Zhi Xuan staggered, using his palms to support his weight on the cold stone floor. Fresh blood dripped from his nostrils, wetting the dust beneath him. Forging Northern Yama and dozens of Nirvana Puppets in succession was an act that nearly burned his own essence away.

  "You're mad, brat," Ruo Xianxue snorted, though a hint of admiration was tucked behind her mockery. "If you didn't have the foundation of the Heavenly Samsara Wheel with that Law of Four Seasons, your soul would have been sucked dry by those blood-hungry bodies."

  Zhi Xuan did not reply. He regulated his heavy breathing, allowing the spiritual energy in the room—which he had purified with the isolation formation—to seep back into his body to close the wounds in his meridians. He wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, then sat upright in a cross-legged position once more.

  The silence enveloping the cellar felt heavier now, as if the weight of the death he had just woven had settled in every corner of the mossy stone. Zhi Xuan closed his eyes, letting the Heavenly Samsara Wheel within his mind spin slowly. The spiritual essence that had surged like a storm began to cool, flowing through his veins that had been burning.

  After hours of sinking into meditation to recover his drained essence, Zhi Xuan slowly opened his eyes. The sapphire light in his pupils was now muted, replaced by a deep calm—the calm of a hunter who had finished sharpening his dagger in the middle of the night. He stood up, his joints letting out a cracking sound that broke the cellar's silence.

  He waved his hand, erasing the isolation formation. Instantly, the subtle vibrations of the mortal world above began to seep back into his senses; the heavy footsteps of tavern customers arriving as the sun rose, the sharp scent of soot from the kitchen, and the meaningless chatter of humans.

  Zhi Xuan climbed the decaying wooden stairs, each step bringing sharp alertness. As he pushed open the secret door behind the wine rack and emerged into the stifling tavern kitchen, he found A-Lang busy chopping lotus roots on a pockmarked wooden table.

  The youth startled, his knife nearly cutting his own finger as he saw the tall figure of Zhi Xuan suddenly appear from the shadows. "S-Senior! You've come out?"

  Zhi Xuan did not answer verbally. He stared at A-Lang with a gaze that made the youth feel as if his entire soul was being stripped bare by cold ice. "How long have I been below?"

  "Three suns and three nights, Senior," A-Lang replied, bowing low, his hands trembling as he set down the knife. "Uncle Mo has forbidden anyone from approaching the kitchen; he even turned away the city guards who came back for tribute, claiming there was a plague in the cellar."

  Zhi Xuan gave a small nod. Old Mo evidently possessed enough cunning to keep a secret. He stepped toward a small, dust-covered window, looking out at the dead-end alley.

  "The mortal world is a good place to hide, yet it is a prison for those who wish to fly," Zhi Xuan murmured. He then turned back to A-Lang and waved his hand to slip several more gold coins to the thin figure. "Eat well. Do not ruin a beautiful mortality like yours."