Back in Traceless Alley, chaos brewed.
Factions scoured records. Diviners went mad. One sect offered a thousand spirit crystals for just a whisper of his identity.
None came.
Because Chunhe had no identity to find.
He was scentless. Signature-less. Genderless. Timeless.
And his voice... was never the same twice.
Style.
That's what haunted them most.
The way he walked — like the world owed him interest and he was here to collect.
Like no god had ever scared him, and no devil had ever impressed him.
He didn't rush. He didn't strut.
He glided, lazy and bored, like violence was always an option and he was just waiting for someone foolish enough to press the button.
And in a place like Traceless Alley, that was the kind of style that made monsters sweat.
"You see his boots?""Boots?""Yeah. No laces. Just bone thread and black flame stitching. No brand, no clan mark. That isn't fashion — that's a warning."
"Quiet, Jin. You froze up when he looked at your pills."
"He smirked. Like my entire alchemy path was a joke. That wasn't even a human look. That was predator-level disregard."
Cultivators whispered behind talisman-covered doors.
Thugs who'd skinned beasts with their teeth avoided saying his name.
Even rogue merchant circles — the ones who trafficked live cores and cursed children — started skipping their usual night rounds.
The black market itself felt colder.
The stalls pulled inward. The shadows grew teeth.
You could taste it in the air. Something old. Something wrong.
Even the spirit coins started to smell metallic. Like blood.
He didn't do much.
That was the real terror.
He didn't kill a sect master.
He didn't blow up a market.
He just... bought things.
Silently.
Effortlessly.
And everyone felt like the rules changed the second he turned his back.
"He bought three slave brands."
"He wasn't even looking at the girl. He was watching the mirror behind her."
"He took that phoenix feather Old Hanwu said was cursed — you remember that one?"
"Yeah. The one that eats bloodline qi."
"Gone."
And Chunhe?
He walked past them like they were dust.
Wearing that half-tattered cloak stitched from sect flags. Each one a kill. No one asked. Everyone knew.
Under it?
No armor. No robes. Just black cotton. Burnt at the edges. Sleeves rolled. Chest inked with rune scars and twin eye glyphs that blinked when stared at too long.
His face?
Sometimes a mask. Sometimes not. Didn't matter.
The moment anyone tried to describe him, their memory scrambled. Like their mind knew it wasn't safe.
One merchant — former core realm cultivator named Kuo — tried to act bold when Chunhe reached for his shelf.
"That's ten thousand silver, stranger. No bargains."
Chunhe didn't blink. Didn't speak.
He just tilted his head.
Like he was deciding if Kuo was worth the effort.
Kuo's nose started bleeding. Then his ears. Then he collapsed mid-sentence.
The stall? Gone by morning. No trace.
No one asked questions.
The Alley kept moving, slower now.
Every thug lowered his voice.
Every stroller watched the sky.
And every cultivator had the same thought:
"I don't know who he is...but if he wanted this city gone?
It'd already be ash."
To be continued...