The Green-Eyed Blademaster

Chapter 2: Devil's World Perfume

The sun beat down on the cobblestone streets of Linshan Village.

It was a market day, and the air was thick with the chatter of mortals, the smell of roasted meats, and the sweet scent of fruit piled high on wooden carts. Cultivators rarely graced such mundane places; they walked among the clouds, chasing power in their sects or seeking fortune in dangerous, untamed lands. This world, vibrant and loud, belonged to the common folk.

Tucked between a seller of noisy chickens and a woman hawking clay pots was a small, unassuming stall. Behind it sat a wrinkled old man, his back hunched like a dried shrimp. He sold only one thing: fragrant oil in tiny, cheap glass vials.

"A pleasant fragrance to brighten your day!" he would call out in a soft, reedy voice.

From time to time, he would mist the air with a small sprayer. The scent was indeed captivating,a light, floral aroma that seemed to wash away the fatigue of the day. A few villagers, mostly women and young girls, were drawn in.

"How much for this, old man?" one asked, holding up a vial.

The old man would offer a kind, simple smile. "Whatever you feel it is worth, my dear."

Some people bought his wares, happy with the pleasant scent. Others scoffed. A group of boorish young men swaggered past, one intentionally knocking a vial from the stall.

"Watch where you're going, you old fossil!" he jeered.

The old man simply smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He bent down slowly, picked up the shattered glass, and said nothing. His serene patience was almost saintly.

The day wore on. As dusk painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, the crowds thinned. The old man packed up his empty stall, every last vial having been sold. He chuckled to himself, a low, rattling sound in his chest, as he counted the meager pile of copper coins in his hand.

That was when they appeared.

Three burly men from the village, their faces shadowed by the failing light. They had been watching him from the corner of a teahouse all day, their predatory gazes never leaving his stall. Their intentions were as plain as the dirt on their clothes.

"A good day's business, old man," the leader grunted, cracking his knuckles. "Now, hand over all the earnings. Don't make us ask twice."

The old man looked up, his wrinkled face bathed in the dim light of a nearby lantern. He chuckled again, the same rattling sound, but this time it held no warmth. It was the sound of grinding stones.

"My earnings?" he rasped.

These simple villagers did not know him. They saw a frail, harmless elder, an easy target. But in the wider world, the world of cultivators, his name was a whisper of terror. They did not know they were speaking to Hei Wuji,Boundless Darkness,a member of the infamous Blood Serpent Clan, masters of poison and silent death.

"Are you deaf, old fool? The money!" the thug roared, lunging forward with a clumsy fist.

The fist never landed.

The man froze mid-swing, his eyes bulging. A dark, blackish-purple rash bloomed across his face like a grotesque flower. He opened his mouth to scream, but only a torrent of thick, black blood gushed out. He collapsed, his body convulsing violently on the cobblestones.

His two companions stared in horror. "What... what did you do?"

Hei Wuji’s kind smile was gone, replaced by a sneer of utter contempt. "A man who cannot even discern the scent of death has no right to breathe."

The other two tried to run, but their legs buckled. They clawed at their throats, their skin turning a putrid gray as the poison that had been incubating in their bodies since morning finally erupted. They writhed on the ground, choking on their own liquified organs.

Hei Wuji stepped over one of the twitching bodies. He crouched down, his face inches from the dying leader. He enjoyed this part. The fear. The utter helplessness.

He grabbed the man's jaw, forcing their eyes to meet.

"You want to know my purpose here?" Hei Wuji whispered, his voice dripping with sadistic glee. "This insignificant little village is under the protection of the Huang Clan. A thorn in my Blood Serpent Clan's side. Tonight, I will pluck this village from the earth. I will salt the ground with its corpses. The Huang Clan will panic. They will be thrown into chaos, their reputation in tatters. And you... you get to be the first to die."

The man's eyes went wide with a final, silent scream before the light faded from them forever.

Hei Wuji stood up, wiping his fingers on his robes. He looked out over the quiet village, where families were settling down for the night, the pleasant floral scent he had sold them still lingering in their homes.

He raised a single, bony hand. A faint, dark mist coiled around his fingertips.

"Bloom," he commanded softly. "Devil's World Perfume."

Across the entire village, the trigger was pulled.

The fragrant oil that everyone had so enjoyed, the scent they had inhaled, the perfume they had dabbed on their skin,it was all a slow-acting, two-stage poison. The first stage was harmless. The second, activated by Hei Wuji's command, was absolute death.

A scream tore through the night. Then another. And another.

In a home near the market, a mother who had bought a vial for her daughter watched in horror as the little girl began to seize on her bed, black foam spilling from her lips. A moment later, the mother collapsed beside her, her own body consumed by the same agony.

A man sitting down for his evening meal fell face-first into his bowl, his back arching in a final, excruciating spasm.

The night was filled with a chorus of death. Screams of pain and terror echoed from every house, a symphony of slaughter conducted by a single, hunched figure standing in the empty marketplace. Old or young, man or woman, kind or cruel, it made no difference. All who had breathed in the sweet fragrance, died.

The screams eventually faded, replaced by an unnatural, profound silence.

The next morning, a traveling merchant guided his cart towards Linshan Village, hoping for an early start at the market. As he drew closer, he frowned. It was too quiet. There were no children playing, no roosters crowing.

An unsettling, sweet smell hung in the air, a mixture of flowers and something else. Something coppery and foul.

He peered into the first house by the road. The door was ajar. Inside, an entire family lay dead around their breakfast table, their faces locked in masks of agony.

The merchant stumbled back, his face pale with horror. He looked down the street. Every door was open. Every home was a tomb. The village was dead, drowned