Isn't It Said That Heaven Has No Road to Block the Way!

Brain storage!

The night was cool as water, with sparse stars.

Several figures in black, tight-fitting clothes moved swiftly across the densely packed rooftops, their movements like ghosts.

"Sir, that remnant soul is too fast, we're losing it!"

Li Mingyue, addressed as "Sir," had a clear, cold voice. She glanced at her subordinate, who was panting beside her, her tone devoid of any warmth.

"Nonsense."

"Do you think someone who escaped from the Demon Suppression Tower of the Demon Suppression Division is ordinary?"

"If we can't catch up, we'll both lose our heads. Shut up and keep up!"

Wannian County, Yihong Pavilion, Heavenly Chamber.

Fang Mo's eyes were bloodshot, staring intently at the bed curtains above, his gaze vacant.

"Eighteen years."

"Do you know how I've spent these eighteen years?"

He muttered to himself, his voice laced with a bizarre despair.

"After tonight, I'll be eighteen by full count, nineteen by traditional, twenty by a few more, and on the verge of being unable to establish myself at thirty. I'm almost thirty!"

"My golden finger, if you don't come soon, I'll have to wait until the next life!"

That's right, this handsome young man was Fang Mo, a transmigrator selected by the Great Luck and sent to this place.

He had transmigrated, eighteen years ago.

When he learned that this world had martial arts, his mind was already filled with dreams of wielding the sun and moon and plucking stars from the sky.

Alas, fate was not as he wished. For eighteen years, he hadn't even entered the first realm of martial arts, the Qi and Blood Realm. He was a complete martial arts trash.

As the old saying goes, when God closes a door, he also wants to open a skylight.

If I can't practice martial arts, I can still pursue literature!

He was an orphan in his previous life. In this life, he was unlucky enough to have a father who was a jailer in the heavenly prison.

When he learned of this profession, he felt like the sky had fallen.

The Great Yun had strict laws, and officials like clerks were considered lowly, their descendants barred from imperial examinations for three generations.

The path to becoming a person of status was cut off.

He was unwilling and wanted to go into business, but his father beat him for three days and three nights.

In Fang Mo's words, it was "three blows that scattered his entrepreneurial soul, and from then on, he resolved to be a good person."

Merchants were the lowest of the low.

Fang Mo was stunned at the time. If he couldn't practice martial arts, couldn't take the imperial exams, and couldn't go into business, what could he do?

His father spat out the grass root from his mouth and proudly patted his shoulder:

"Brat, your old man has a 'rice bowl' job! You don't need to think about anything else, just eat and wait for death! When you grow up, I'll pass the position on to you, then find you a wife, take three or four concubines, buy five or six maids who sleep with you, and have seven or eight chubby sons. That'll be your life's mission accomplished!"

Fang Mo asked unwillingly at the time, "What about my son?"

His father's eyes twinkled with the wisdom of inheritance, "Of course, he'll eat and wait for death, take your place, and then marry him..."

Son after son, generation after generation, endlessly.

Thinking of his father's grand blueprint for the Fang family's lineage, Fang Mo's mouth twitched uncontrollably.

But the next second, all the expressions on his face vanished, leaving only a frozen, gloomy look.

Not long ago, the old man who constantly talked about finding him a wife had died.

He died on duty in the heavenly prison.

Uncle Wang, his father's colleague, claimed it was due to overwork, his heart collapsing.

Fang Mo didn't believe a word of it.

What kind of heart collapse kills someone into a mummified husk drained of all moisture?

What kind of person has two holes the thickness of chopsticks on their neck? Were those for breathing?

Did he never watch zombie movies?

But what could he do? He was insignificant, alone, and powerless.

He could only silently accept the compensation money, which had been whittled down from three hundred taels to one hundred, and a letter of appointment stating "son inherits father's position."

The letter of appointment read: Report on time in eight days.

Counting the days, it was just after his father's seventh-day memorial.

How humane.

The heavenly prison held great terror; his father's death was the best proof of that.

If he went, he would die.

If he didn't, he'd be an unregistered resident, unable to escape, and his fate might be worse than death.

A dead end.

So, Fang Mo clutched that hundred taels of silver and kicked open the doors of the Pleasure House.

Before dying, he might as well go out with a bang.

However, as the passion faded, the cold dread of death gripped his throat once more.

"Young master, you're hurting me~"

A woman's charming complaint came from his side, pulling Fang Mo's thoughts back to reality.

Deep within Fang Mo's eyes, a flame of madness burned.

Damn it, if I'm going to die, I might as well get my money's worth!

Just as he was about to roll over and exercise his final rights as a consumer, a faint wisp of black energy drifted into the room without warning.

A chilling, sinister thought echoed directly in his mind:

"Young one, do you want to become strong?"

Fang Mo froze.

"Who?"

"Young master, what nonsense are you spouting? There's no one else here, come on..."

Fang Mo had no intention of paying attention to the cheap perfume beside him at this moment; his gaze was fixed on the corner of the room.

The air there was distorting, black energy surging and coalescing into a ferocious ghost face over three feet wide.

"Young one, I am an ancient great cultivator. I suffered a great calamity and only my remnant soul remains."

"Now, open your mind and let me merge with you!"

"I can slaughter ninety percent of the beings on this street and forge an supreme demonic body for you!"

Fang Mo was silent for a moment.

He frowned and asked seriously, "Only ninety percent? Won't the remaining ten percent cause my foundation to be unstable?"