The Child Outside Killing City

At the exit of Hell Road, black mist churned as a foul wind thick with blood and rot rushed headlong toward her, flattening the wild grass across the mountainside. Yet it could not stir the immaculate black gown on Bibi Dong's body.

She slowly stepped through the pale violet barrier that separated life from death. Behind her lay Killing City, forever sunk in depravity; before her stretched the Douluo Continent, where daylight had just broken after years apart.

Her fingertips twitched, and faint black domain power flickered around her. Bone-chilling killing intent spread like something tangible. Even the vultures circling low in search of food let out mournful cries and fled in panic, wings flapping wildly.

Killing God Domain. Bibi Dong lowered her eyes to the pale hand that had been stained with countless lives, and a cold yet exhilarated smile curled across her lips.

She had endured Hell Road, fought through mountains of corpses and seas of blood, and struggled to survive amid schemes and treachery. Not only had she emerged alive, but she had also obtained one of the strongest domains in the world.

What shook her even more was the cold, sinister, yet supremely majestic divine consciousness deep within her mind.

It was like an ancient venomous snake coiled in the corner of her soul, its tongue flicking out. Yet it brought her no discomfort at all; instead, it fit her soul perfectly, as though it had always been part of her.

Rakshasa God. Bibi Dong silently repeated those three words, and the hatred that had churned in her chest for years seemed to have finally found an outlet.

The conditions for inheriting the godhood had already been branded clearly into her mind: devour the bloodline and soul power of a Six-Winged Angel Martial Soul possessor, absorb their sacred origin as a sacrifice, and she could formally begin the inheritance path of the Rakshasa God.

Six-Winged Angel Martial Soul...

Bibi Dong's gaze suddenly turned gloomy. Her nails dug deep into her palms, and the crimson blood that seeped out was instantly vaporized by her soul power.

Wasn't her "good teacher," Qian Xunji, the current Pope of Spirit Hall, the finest possible sacrifice?

That man wore the guise of a holy angel while committing the filthiest acts of a beast. Using the Six-Winged Angel Martial Soul he took such pride in to begin her path to the Rakshasa God was simply the most fitting retribution.

She would consider it compensation for what he owed her—but even if he died a thousand, ten thousand times and was ground to ashes, it would not repay even one ten-thousandth of the suffering he had inflicted upon her.

She had once been Spirit Hall's most dazzling Holy Maiden. Her talent with twin martial souls surpassed everyone of her generation, and she had held dreams of the martial soul world and expectations for the future.

It was Qian Xunji who had personally dragged her from the clouds into an endless hell. He had destroyed her love with Yu Xiaogang, ruined her open and honorable life, and even used the most despicable means to make her pregnant with a child marked by humiliation.

Whenever she thought of Qian Renxue, Bibi Dong felt a suffocating pressure in her chest. Love and hatred tangled around her like a spiderweb, nearly tearing her apart.

That was her flesh and blood, the daughter she had carried for ten months and given birth to. Yet she was also Qian Xunji's daughter, proof of a lifetime of humiliation.

She could not bring herself to love that child openly. Every time Qian Daoliu brought her to Worship Hall to look from afar, the sight of that little face growing more and more like Qian Xunji's made those unbearable memories surge back and drown her in hatred.

In the end, only distance and coldness remained. Separated by such a vast gap, she could not even reach out and touch her.

Suppressing her turbulent emotions, Bibi Dong steadied herself. Just as she was about to circulate her soul power and rush back to Spirit Hall at full speed, an exceedingly faint yet remarkably clear cry drifted into her ears on the biting wind.

Her steps halted, and her brows knitted sharply.

This was a desolate wilderness on the outskirts of Killing City. For a hundred miles, there was not a soul in sight; dry bones littered the ground, and poisonous miasma grew everywhere.

Forget a swaddled infant—even soul masters in their thirties or forties would not dare enter this land of death lightly. How could there possibly be a baby crying here?

It was probably an illusion born from the lingering baleful aura of Hell Road. Bibi Dong hardened her heart. Killing City was unfathomably strange, and illusions capable of bewitching the mind were countless.

She lifted her foot and continued forward, the hem of her black dress brushing past yellowed blades of grass without the slightest trace of reluctance.

Yet the crying did not vanish. Instead, it grew clearer and clearer, one cry after another—thin and weak, carrying the soft breathiness unique to an infant, yet also the frailty of one on the brink of death. It did not sound like some insubstantial illusion, but like a tiny life desperately calling for help in this barren wilderness.

Bibi Dong stopped and listened closely for a moment.

The cries came from a pile of jagged rocks to her left, intermittent and faint as a thread. If she arrived any later, they might disappear entirely.

As if possessed, she changed direction.

Even Bibi Dong herself did not know why. With the temperament she had tempered in Killing City, let alone a strange infant, even if hundreds or thousands of people died before her, she would not so much as frown.

In Killing City, humanity had long since been worn away. The strong devoured the weak; that was the only rule.

But the crying was like a thin strand of spider silk, lightly hooking the softest, most deeply buried corner of her heart and leaving her unable to ignore it.

She passed through waist-high wild grass and climbed over rugged, sharp rocks. The cries grew nearer and weaker.

At last, Bibi Dong saw the tiny infant wrapped in a coarse cloth swaddle within a sheltered hollow in the rocks.

It was a baby boy. His little face was wrinkled, and his skin carried an unhealthy bluish pallor. Clearly, he had been frozen by the cold wind for quite some time.

His eyes were shut as his tiny mouth opened and closed in tears. His voice was so hoarse it was nearly inaudible, but he kept crying all the same. His little chest rose and fell, as though he were fighting for his final breath.

The swaddling cloth was covered in dirt and grass scraps, and its corners bore marks of tearing. Someone had clearly abandoned him deliberately in this uninhabited place, leaving him to live or die on his own.

Bibi Dong stood where she was and watched in silence for a long time.

An abandoned infant had appeared out of nowhere outside Killing City. No matter how she looked at it, it reeked of something strange. Perhaps it was a trap set by some hostile force, or a scheme aimed specifically at her.

Given her caution, she should have turned around and left. She might even have destroyed this potential danger outright to eliminate all future trouble.

But she did not move.

Perhaps sensing someone nearby, the infant's crying weakened. His little head shifted slightly, revealing a wrinkled yet exceptionally stubborn face.

Bibi Dong crouched down and, as if possessed, reached out and gently lifted the tiny bundle into her arms.

He was alarmingly light, as though the slightest force would snap those delicate bones. The instant he was picked up, the baby's cries stopped abruptly. His little nose twitched as if sniffing something, then he actually nuzzled into her warm embrace. He closed his mouth peacefully, and even his breathing became steadier.

Bibi Dong froze completely.

She was holding a tiny, warm life in her arms. This child was not afraid of her.

She carried the heavy killing intent she had acquired in Killing City, as well as the sinister, frigid aura of the Rakshasa God. Even a Titled Douluo-level powerhouse would feel mentally oppressed and have their hair stand on end upon approaching her, yet this infant actually felt safe in her arms.

She looked down at the child in her embrace. He was a tiny bundle, his eyes closed, his long lashes like two small fans as they trembled faintly.

His little fists were clenched tight, yet one hand gripped the fabric at her collar, as though he had seized the only support in this world.

An unfamiliar yet overwhelming emotion surged fiercely from the depths of her heart—sour, soft, carrying an instinctive maternal tenderness. It struck her chest again and again until it ached.