After Impermanence rescued me from that dead-end alley, I made up my mind: from now on, I would never again involve myself with anything related to anomalies.

  That cursed alley would surely haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life. I never wanted to be trapped in such absolute terror again.

  But Impermanence’s words shattered my carefully laid plans for the future.

  “It looks like you’ve come to understand just how terrifying anomalies can be. In that case, let me tell you something important. Consider it preparation for whatever future awaits you.”

  “…What are you going to say?” A bad premonition rose in my chest.

  “The moment you were caught up in an anomalous event, an invisible line was drawn between you and all the ordinary people who remain ignorant. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can simply live out your days in peace.” His tone was kind—almost gentle—but to me, the words felt brutally cruel. “There’s an old saying that circulates in Luo Shan: once you encounter the anomalous, you become bound to it.

  “We still don’t fully understand the mechanism behind this phenomenon, but statistics don’t lie. Anyone who has survived an anomalous event has a dramatically higher chance of encountering another one later. It’s almost like being cursed.

  “Unless you’re one of the legendary ‘Great Impermanence’—someone so powerful that all evils flee at the mere sight of them—similar dangers will find you again in the future.”

  —

  I could neither confront it nor escape. The shadow of the anomalous had already entwined itself with my fate.

  In that situation, I had only one choice. Logically, it was the obvious path, yet it still took tremendous effort to convince myself. I would immerse myself in the world of anomalies and learn how to handle them.

  With the help of that kind-hearted Impermanence, I carried his recommendation letter and joined Luo Shan as a disciple.

  Most Luo Shan disciples had similar backgrounds: ordinary people who had once been caught in anomalous events and joined to learn how to survive. The standard training period was four years, though there were exceptions. Graduates generally fell into one of two paths: becoming true demon hunters capable of slaying anomalies, or becoming “probes”—those who could not attain that power and instead served as vanguards.

  Even the name made it clear: probes were expendable. Outside the organization we might be called “Luo Shan agents,” but both to Luo Shan and to ourselves, we were half-outsiders. Even though the organization provided safety equipment out of obligation, the mortality rate among probes in the field remained appallingly high.

  I wanted to become a demon hunter. I wanted power. Since the future guaranteed more encounters with anomalies, at the very least I needed the means to protect myself. Driven by overwhelming fear and burning desire, I absorbed knowledge related to demon hunting like a sponge. Even during the most intense exam preparations in my past, I had never studied with such fervor.

  The reason I had been so helpless back then was simple: I lacked power. If I had possessed the strength to break out of that alley—or better yet, the power Impermanence had shown, immunity to illusions and the ability to slay an evil spirit with a single stroke—how could I have been reduced to such a pathetic state?

  All fear and despair in this world stem from one thing: insufficient strength.

  Yet despair found me again.

  Most Luo Shan disciples lacked the talent to become demon hunters. So did I. Four years passed, and I remained as powerless as ever. In the end, I returned to the mundane world as nothing more than a probe.

  Years went by—then more than a decade.

  Nearly twenty years had passed. Enough time to change many things. For example, the Impermanence who once saved me had been reassigned to the role of “Wandering Patrol”—and, by some twist of fate, had become my direct superior.

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  But some things never changed. Like my perpetual inability to obtain what I longed for.

  As a Luo Shan probe, I encountered numerous anomalous incidents. Through fear-driven caution—and, more importantly, sheer luck—I managed to stay alive. Yet the fear never faded. I knew full well that my survival was nothing but fortunate coincidence. One by one, colleagues I had come to know met gruesome ends, just like the friends who had entered that alley with me, leaving me alone once more in bottomless darkness.

  During those years, I repeatedly tried to re-enter training and challenge the gate to becoming a demon hunter. But the world of talent is merciless. Some things you either have or you don’t. The door remained firmly shut.

  Perhaps I would never fulfill my wish. One day, regret would color my face again, and I would be buried in that same darkness.

  It was in the depths of that despair that a stranger wearing a silver mask appeared before me, carrying a hope laced with deadly poison.

  After so many years as a Luo Shan probe, I had accumulated vast experience observing anomalies. One glance was enough to tell me this masked man reeked of something bizarre and unhinged from head to toe. Beneath his seemingly rational and confident speech lay the face of a madman.

  He was insane. Nothing he said should be trusted. I needed to distance myself from this dangerous person immediately.

  But the words that came out of his mouth were impossible to refuse.

  “Do you want power?”

  “…Power?”

  “I can see it in your eyes—you already know what kind of person I am. And I can see you too: the coward you’ve worked so hard to hide.

  “No need to get angry. Fear in the face of danger, the instinct to flee—those are perfectly human. Full granaries breed courtesy; full bellies breed honor. Courage is the same. People like to say courage is the companion of the weak—that’s nonsense spouted by fools brainwashed by peace and order. Courage without power is just the self-satisfaction of idiots. True courage is born only from power.

  “And what I bring you now is the very treasure you have longed for, begged for, and never obtained.”

  Right in front of me, he produced it.

  My gaze could not tear away.

  “What is that?”

  “True courage.”

  His voice was like the seductive whisper of a devil.

  —

  In the end, I accepted his “gift.”

  He called himself the “Freak Maker.” His real name and origins were unknown; he appeared and vanished like a phantom. What he gave me was called a “Seed of the Heart”—an anomalous entity capable of merging with my body and granting power.

  When I wielded that power, I transformed into a goat-headed demon and could freely manipulate shadows. The strength was overwhelming. Even fresh from receiving it, I had already surpassed the “Decay” tier.

  Demon hunters generally divide their cultivation path into four stages, borrowed from Buddhism’s four phases of the world: Formation, Stability, Decay, and Emptiness.

  “Emptiness” corresponds to ordinary people with no power. As the name implies, they possess nothing—no mana whatsoever. Many beginners who can only manipulate external natural forces but cannot yet generate mana internally are also classified here.

  “Decay” corresponds to most demon hunters. Just as unused knowledge fades and unexercised muscles weaken, demon hunters at this stage are in a constant state of “rowing against the current—if you stop, you fall back.” Some Decay-tier hunters possess strength rivaling Stability-tier, yet they must still face the risk of decline and continue relentless training.

  Stability-tier demon hunters have no such worry. Their mana has reshaped both soul and body, fusing deeply to become a permanent part of them. From their perspective, Decay-tier hunters are essentially no different from lucky wielders of powerful artifacts or those who awaken supernatural abilities by chance—just ordinary mortals holding impressive weapons. Only Stability-tier hunters can truly be called transcendent, the “real” demon hunters, and the backbone of Luo Shan.

  Formation-tier represents the pinnacle of the path. Hunters at this stage can progress no further; they have reached the summit, the literal state of “completion.”

  Even if I had been capable of becoming a demon hunter, I would have started at Emptiness and climbed backward along the world’s cycle from birth to destruction. But with the Seed of the Heart, I instantly touched the threshold of Stability. If Luo Shan ever learned of this, it would cause massive upheaval.

  I also understood perfectly well that the Freak Maker hadn’t given me this for free.

  The Seed of the Heart carried a serious side effect. The Freak Maker had been very clear: every person I killed would have their soul automatically devoured by me. The more souls I consumed, the stronger my craving to consume more would become. It was a bodily instinct—like throwing fragrant roasted meat in front of someone starving; they would tear into it without hesitation. Only during digestion would the evil hunger subside.

  As for the Freak Maker himself, he had his own demands. Compared to the side effect, they seemed almost trivial: he needed to periodically examine my body, collect samples of my blood and other tissues, and I was to report my physical condition to him like a patient under medical observation.

  Obviously, he was using me as an experimental subject. To him, I was unimportant; what mattered was how the Seed of the Heart would change within a person like me.

  I wasn’t foolish enough to resist him with violence. Threatening someone with a gun bought from a shop only works in bad jokes. I had no idea what kind of power he possessed, but he certainly had the means to suppress me.

  The power granted by the Seed of the Heart filled me with exhilaration, yet the murderous impulse plunged me into constant anxiety. Rather than rebel against the Freak Maker, I first had to find a way to deal with this immediate, pressing problem.