The village of Willow’s Rest (柳息村, Liǔ Xī Cūn) sat nestled within the fertile heartland of the Central Realm, its fields stretching in gentle waves of green and gold under the mid-summer sun. A place of quiet labor and simple living, it had survived for generations with little need for the world beyond its farmlands and workshops. The Serpent's Vein River (蛇脉河, Shé Mài Hé), a winding lifeline that had sustained the village for centuries, curled protectively around its southern border, its waters gleaming silver beneath the summer sky. The river was more than a source of water, it was a symbol of life, a thread connecting the village to the land and to the heavens. The elders often spoke of its blessings, of how its currents carried the whispers of ancestors and the promises of the gods.

  But on this night, something was different.

  A fog, thick and unnatural, began to rise from the Serpent’s Vein River as twilight deepened. It did not roll in like an ordinary mist but slithered, tendrils curling through the fields like spectral fingers probing the earth. It crept between the wooden homes of Willow’s Rest, wrapping around doorposts and lantern poles with an almost deliberate intent. The villagers, attuned to the rhythms of the land, sensed the wrongness of it immediately.

  Fog like this had no place in mid-summer. It carried a chill that bit deeper than the season allowed, a dampness that clung to the skin and seeped into the bones. No fire could warm the icy residue it left behind.

  Mothers pulled their children indoors, their voices hushed as they whispered prayers to ancestors long gone. Fathers lit extra lanterns, their hands trembling as the flames flickered uneasily. Even the light itself seemed reluctant to push back the encroaching gloom.

  By nightfall, only the foolish or the desperate remained outside. Those who heeded the instinctive whispers of their soul barred their doors, closed their shutters, and huddled together in uneasy silence. The fog thickened, swallowing the roads, the fences, the very air itself. The world beyond the walls of their homes seemed to vanish into a void of swirling gray.

  And then…

  The river began to whisper.

  At first, it was barely audible, a faint, sickly gurgle that rose from the depths. It sounded like the belch of something ancient and foul stirring in its sleep. The sound was soft, almost tentative, as if testing the air, probing the silence for weakness. It slithered through the fog, curling around the village like a serpent coiling its prey.

  Those who heard it froze, their breath catching in their throats, their hearts pounding in their chests. It was not the sound of water, nor the wind, nor any natural thing. It was alive, yet not alive. A voice without a throat, a breath without lungs.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

  The silence that followed was worse.

  It pressed against the ears, heavy and suffocating, as if the world itself were holding its breath. The fog seemed to thicken, swallowing the faint glow of the lanterns. The distant cries of the crows were muffled, as though the very air had turned against them.

  The villagers that remained without shelter, stood still, their eyes darting toward the river. Their hands trembled as they clutched at talismans and prayer beads. Even the animals, usually so restless, fell eerily quiet. The dogs cowered in their kennels, their whines reduced to faint whimpers. The oxen stood rigid, their flanks twitching as if they could feel the unseen presence drawing nearer.

  For a moment, nothing moved.

  Then, the whispers returned.

  This time, they were louder, more insistent. A chorus of wet, gurgling voices rose from the river, overlapping and intertwining. Their words were indistinct, but their tone was unmistakable, hungry, mocking, cruel. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, echoing through the fog, reverberating in the bones of those who heard it.

  It was the sound of drowning, of lungs filling with water, of voices choked by the weight of the depths. It was the sound of death.

  The villagers huddled together in the dark, their children clinging to them. Their whispers trembled with fear. Outside, the fog grew thicker, the whispers louder, until it seemed the very air was alive with malice. The lanterns flickered weakly, their light barely piercing the oppressive gloom. The shadows seemed to shift and writhe as if they, too, were listening.

  And then, just as the tension threatened to snap, the whispers stopped again.

  The silence was deafening.

  But it was not peace.

  At dawn, the stench hit first.

  A putrid, rotting stink rolled in from the Serpent’s Vein River like a foul tide. It curled through the village, thick and cloying, clinging to the air like a living thing. The stench was unbearable, a nauseating blend of decay and corruption that set stomachs heaving and bile rising in throats. It was the smell of death, but not the quiet, natural death of the earth. This was something worse.

  The first farmer to reach the riverbank froze mid-step, his face contorting in horror. He stumbled backward, clamping a hand over his nose and mouth, his yell cutting through the morning stillness like a knife. His cry drew others, their curiosity quickly turning to revulsion as they approached.

  The bodies had come.

  More than twenty swollen corpses lay tangled among the reeds, their flesh blackened and split open like overripe fruit. Thick, tar-like rot oozed from their wounds, pooling in the water and staining it a sickly, iridescent black. Their limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, frozen in grotesque poses that spoke of violent, desperate struggles, even in death.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Some of the corpses still wore the tattered remains of once-fine robes, the silk now discolored and eaten away by whatever corruption had claimed them. Others were stripped bare, their bloated bodies reduced to grotesque husks, their skin stretched taut and glistening with a foul, oily sheen.

  The river itself was no longer the lifeblood of the village. Its once-clear waters had turned sluggish and dark, the surface coated with a shimmering film of decay. Dead fish floated belly-up, their eyes bulging, their mouths agape as if gasping for air that no longer existed. Some had burst open from within, their swim bladders grotesquely swollen, hanging from their gaping mouths in strands of sickly white.

  The sight was too much. Villagers turned away, retching into the grass, their faces pale with shock. Fear spread like wildfire, its roots digging deep into the hearts of all who witnessed the horror. This was no ordinary tragedy. This was an omen, a warning of something far worse to come.

  The elders gathered, their voices hushed and trembling as they murmured of curses and forgotten gods. The bravest among them dared to touch the bodies, their hands shaking as they dragged the corpses from the water. But even their courage had limits. By nightfall, those who had touched the dead began to fall ill.

  The sickness came swiftly. First, a fever that burned like fire. Then, a thirst that no amount of water could quench. And finally, the boils, black, festering lumps that swelled beneath the skin, spreading like ink through parchment. They grew until they burst, leaking a vile, burning pus that seared the flesh of anyone who came too close.

  The village, once vibrant and alive, became a place of hushed dread. The streets, once filled with the sounds of morning chatter and the steady rhythm of daily life, fell silent. The air itself seemed to thicken with fear, heavy and oppressive, as if the very world were holding its breath.

  The river had turned against them.

  And no one knew how to stop it.

  The elders convened in hushed voices, their wrinkled hands shaking as they murmured old warnings of rivers turned foul by curses, of bodies washed ashore as omens of coming disaster. The few who dared touch the bodies, brave or foolish, no one could say, began to fall ill within the day.

  At first, it was a fever, accompanied by a terrible thirst. But then, the boils came.

  Black, festering lumps swelled beneath their skin, first on their torsos, then spreading like ink through parchment. They grew until they ruptured, leaking a thick, vile pus that burned against the flesh of those who touched it. Those unfortunate enough to contract the sickness did not last long. Their skin became a battlefield of rot, their very breath thick with the scent of death. Their tongues blackened, swelled, and, in some cases, simply fell away.

  The village, once filled with the sounds of morning chatter and the steady rhythm of daily life, became a place of hushed dread.

  The sickness spread.

  It did not discriminate. The young, the old, the strong, the weak, it took them all.

  Rumors spread like wildfire. Merchants passing through the region carried whispers beyond the valley, to the great cities and beyond the eastern coast. The story changed with each telling, some claimed a curse, others spoke of an ancient revenge, a punishment from forgotten gods. But the one thing they all agreed upon was this:

  The river had turned against them.

  And no one knew how to stop it.

  Among the villagers was Li Wei, the healer’s apprentice. At sixteen, he had seen his share of sickness and death, but nothing like this. The bodies lay tangled among the reeds, their flesh blackened and split open, oozing thick, tar-like rot into the water. His stomach churned, but he forced himself to step closer, his healer’s instincts overriding his fear.

  “Don’t touch them!” Old Man Zhang barked, his voice trembling. “This is no ordinary death. This is a curse.”

  Li Wei hesitated, his hand hovering over the nearest corpse. The man’s face was unrecognizable, his features bloated and distorted, but the remnants of his robes suggested he was no common traveler. The fabric, though discolored and frayed, bore the faint imprint of a sigil, a crescent moon cradling a single star.

  Li Wei’s breath caught. He had seen that symbol before, in one of his master’s old scrolls. It was the mark of a sect long vanished, a sect said to have wielded power over life and death itself.

  “We need to burn the bodies,” Old Man Zhang said, his voice low and urgent. “Before the sickness spreads.”

  But Li Wei barely heard him. His eyes were fixed on the sigil, his mind racing. If this man was from that sect, what had killed him? And why had his body ended up here, in their quiet village?

  As the villagers began to argue, some calling for caution, others for immediate action, Li Wei slipped away, his heart pounding. He needed to find his master. If anyone could make sense of this, it was her.

  But as he turned toward the village, a faint sound reached his ears, a whisper, soft and insidious, rising from the river. It was not the voice of the wind or the water. It was something else, something that sent a chill down his spine.

  And for the first time, Li Wei wondered if even his master could save them.

  High above the Central Realm, wings cut through the sky.

  A blaze of gold and crimson, Fenghuang (风凰) descended like a comet from the heavens, his vast wings slicing through the firmament with the weight of ancient majesty. His feathers shimmered with an otherworldly radiance, each plume burning with an ember-like glow, as if forged from the first dawn. He was no mere creature of flesh and bone, but a relic of an age when gods still walked among mortals, a sentinel of balance, a harbinger of change.

  From his place above the Central Realm, he surveyed the world with eyes that had seen its triumphs and tragedies unfold across endless cycles. He had borne witness to the rise and fall of empires, to the clash of divine wills and mortal folly. He had watched kings spill rivers of blood for thrones now dust, seen demon hordes blacken the land like a living plague, and felt the silent grief of temples long abandoned, their prayers lost to time.

  But this…this was different.

  He dipped lower, his keen gaze piercing through the mist that coiled over the Serpent’s Vein River. Below, bloated corpses tainted the waters, their skin marred by sickly black lesions. Fever-ridden villagers clung to life at the river’s edge, their bodies wracked with suffering, their breath labored as if the very air carried death. The land itself recoiled, the once-verdant fields now rimmed with creeping decay, crops withering as though something unnatural festered beneath the soil.

  A sickness that devoured the living. A poison that clung to the dead. A shadow that slithered where none should be.

  Fenghuang gave a final, piercing cry, a sound that echoed through the mountains like a celestial decree. Then, with a mighty sweep of his wings, he turned westward, his form a streak of fire against the sky.

  He flew toward the temple. Toward the mountains.

  Toward his master.

  Zhen Wei would need to see this with his own eyes.

  Far below, where the river festered with death and the land trembled in decay, something stirred.

  A presence, ancient and insidious, slithered unseen through the blackened waters, coiling in the hushed whispers of the dying, stretching its fingers through rot and ruin. It had no name, only purpose, a hunger that would not be sated, a shadow that sought to spread until all was drowned in its embrace.

  And as the Fenghuang’s light vanished into the horizon, the darkness lingered, patient, pleased.

  Everything was unfolding as it had foreseen.

  He Brought a Gun to a Sword Fight.

  A life was tempered in the forge of struggle—an orphan fighting to survive, a soldier battling an alien plague, a protector who gave his life for those too weak to defend themselves.

  But death wasn’t the end of his war.

  Reborn in a world of immortal cultivators and ancient secrets, Jin Shu finds himself as the eldest son of the Jin family, masters of runesmithing. Armed with his modern military knowledge and an arsenal of runic-enhanced weapons, he’s ready to take on anyone who dares threaten his new life.

  This second life offers more than just battles. It’s an opportunity to experience parts of existence he never thought possible: the warmth of family, the joy of raising an adorable tiger cub who sees him as her father, even love.

  Now that he has felt the warmth of love, nothing in heaven or earth will stand in his way. Be it God, Buddha, or Demon, all will come to know the wrath behind the smoking barrel of his gun.

  What to Expect:

  Xianxia Meets Modern Weaponry (Powered by runic magic!)

  High-Octane Action and Hilarious Moments

  A Tiger Cub So Cute, She’ll Steal Your Heart

  Guns, Guns, and More Guns! (Did I mention sound effects? Bang! Boom!)

  An OP MC with a Purpose (Because pulling the trigger isn’t always enough)

  The First 100k+ is Written & Posted to Patreon.

  If you love explosive battles, heartfelt moments, and a touch of the absurd, this story is for you.

  Thank you for reading—or even just clicking!