Chapter 7: The Brand

“Ha—”
Zhou Qing let out a yawn and rubbed his eyes with a hint of boredom.

At this moment, he and several colleagues were lingering in the alley behind the neighborhood, their feet surrounded by chaos: shattered beer bottles, broken bricks, bent steel pipes, and even a few blood-stained blades. Uniformed police officers moved through the mess, snapping photos, the click of shutters constant.

A few hours earlier, the local office had received a call from a resident: two gangs of street punks had clashed in this alley. Wild youth against spirited lads, fighting from the south gate to the north, so fierce that even the pavement seemed to have been worn away.

While the battle raged, staff from the office and police arrived, encircling the scene. The two groups, their spirits broken, were escorted away for questioning, leaving behind a mess for the staff to clean up.

“In this day and age, people still brawl in the streets? What could possibly spark such a commotion?”
Li Jie, owner of seven apartments, grumbled as he tidied up. The office staff had been dragged out early in the morning to clean up this disaster, sweating under the blazing sun, and his irritation bubbled over.

Fu Chenghao, the nearby academic, remained calm. “According to the police, the spark was two men eyeing the same motorcycle in a shop. Negotiations failed, tempers flared, and it escalated into a brawl.”

“That’s all?” Li Jie’s frustration grew. “A trivial matter turns into such chaos? And we get pulled here to clean up their mess…”

“Much of human malice is born from nothing at all. If someone wants to target another, excuses are endless.”
Li Jie looked up, turning to Zhou Qing, who was sweeping the debris with a careless expression matching his tone. If one looked closely, the broom never actually touched the debris; the rubbish seemed to leap into the dustpan of its own accord. But everyone was busy, and Zhou Qing’s words drew more attention than his actions.

“Brother Zhou, sounds like you’ve tangled with punks before?”
With a clatter, the broken beer bottles were swept into the iron dustpan. Zhou Qing tossed the broom aside and continued.

“When I first arrived in Liangzhou, I caught the attention of a gang. The reason was similar—both sides wanted the same thing. Negotiations failed, and it ended in a fight. Only later did I realize they didn’t care about the object at all; their aim was simply to target me.”

“No way, you actually fought them?” Li Jie’s eyes widened. “What happened afterward?”

He was genuinely surprised. He’d worked with Zhou Qing for some time, always seeing him as a gentle, easy-going man, never imagining him involved in an altercation.

“Afterward?” Zhou Qing pondered. “A few days later, someone came to avenge his subordinate, but I sent him away. Then another came, and another after that—a constant stream for months.”

Fu Chenghao, unimpressed by such lowbrow topics, quietly sneered, uninterested in street-fighting talk. Li Jie, on the other hand, was invigorated, eager to hear more.

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“And in the end, what did you do?”
“Not much,” Zhou Qing replied. “I went to them directly, had a face-to-face talk, resolved the issue, and they stopped bothering me.”

“You just talked it out? What did you say—hey, you haven’t finished!”

Li Jie was still keen for details, but as the cleanup was almost done and Zhou Qing turned to leave, he could only swallow his curiosity and follow.

Dealing with street brawls was troublesome, with endless follow-up work. If they kept chatting, they’d never leave by five.

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Meanwhile, one hundred and twenty kilometers from Liangzhou city, beneath Mount Baiyun.

On the undeveloped muddy ground stood empty temporary buildings, long-silent excavators, and blue metal fences—evidence of a former construction site.

Now, nearly ten thousand square meters were cordoned off with yellow tape, armed guards patrolling its perimeter. The security was akin to that of a military stronghold.

At the center of the site, a new fence encircled a massive excavation pit, arranged like an archaeological dig. Dozens of talisman papers inscribed with intricate symbols formed a glowing ring around the pit, as if suppressing some demon beneath.

This was where cultivator 5821 had accidentally discovered a supernatural legacy. After he was detained by the authorities, the Sanitation Bureau took over, sealing the site within days and proceeding with archaeological excavation.

Cultivators usually dwell in remote mountains, making their relics hard to find. After centuries, any site retaining supernatural traces is exceedingly rare, each possessing immense archaeological value.

Today’s site, however, contained not just relics but a spiritual imprint left by a cultivator. It was like finding a shell from an endangered species, and inside, a pearl—even a poisonous one would still be coveted.

Footsteps crossed the site; a team of specialists stopped thirty meters from the pit. All wore special spirit-proof suits, lined with defensive spells, resembling bulletproof vests covered in sigils.

“Just now, the bureau received word—a man named ‘Zhou Fan’ may be connected to the legacy here.”

The leader turned to the only man with a red epaulet. “Our task is to extract information about ‘Zhou Fan’ from the spiritual imprint here. We’ll need your expertise, Mr. Tan Yong.”

“No need for formalities.” Tan Yong smiled. “Compared to my previous investigations, this is hardly troublesome.”

Tan Yong’s title was Type II Special Operations Officer at the Institute of Supernatural Studies, a research partner of the Sanitation Bureau, with archaeology among its activities.

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The term “Special Operations” meant Tan Yong was officially sanctioned as a cultivator, directly under the government; “Type II” indicated he didn’t participate in combat unless there was an emergency, focusing instead on intelligence extraction through soul-searching or resonance.

Once preparations were complete, he advanced under escort, passing broken walls to halt before a half-buried colossal pillar.

The pillar glowed red-gold, seemingly made of a blend of gold and copper, untouched by a millennium of wear.

Its front was carved with a giant crimson wolf’s head, a ritual totem. Though thick dust covered it, the fierce lines remained recognizable, enough to make anyone’s scalp tingle at a glance.

As a seasoned operative, Tan Yong instantly recognized the pillar as a spiritual artifact, likely the core of the sect whose legacy lingered here. Using it as a medium would be the most effective way to draw forth lingering souls.

He placed a hand on it, closed his eyes, and chanted.

Complex spells illuminated the area, the spirit-suppressing totems quivered, and the air itself thickened, resonating in a teeth-grinding hum.

To Tan Yong, the hum transformed into countless murmurs, as if hundreds whispered in his ear—a sign his spirit was resonating with the lingering imprint.

The soul is vital yet fragile. Normally, the souls of mortals and weak cultivators dissipate quickly after death; only powerful masters can leave their soul as an imprint for legacy.

Yet exceptions exist.

When several cultivators die together, their souls intertwine, sometimes forming a stable imprint that lasts centuries—Tan Yong had encountered dozens of such cases. Compared to the legacies of great masters, those born from death sites were even more common.

Including this one.

Tan Yong’s brow furrowed. His consciousness submerged into a roaring sea of voices, countless fragments swirling like bubbles—the memories embedded in the imprint.

He had to focus wholly, lest he dissolve into this spiritual ocean, searching for the bubble he sought.

“Zhou Fan… Zhou Fan… There!”