The inside of the desolate city had a strangely muddy feel to its streets.

Crushed rotting flesh and offal were scattered everywhere, filling the air with a stomach-turning stench.

Sparse passersby moved through the filth as though they could neither see nor smell it, trudging across the muck with dull, numb faces, each footfall producing a wet slap against the ground.

These were the abandoned.

South Peak City, once the principal city of its prefecture, no longer belonged to Great Qian. No longer stood under the Demon Suppression Division's protection.

The Flower Leopard General, serving under the Red-Eyed Divine Lord, had smashed apart the plague on the Demon Suppression General's residence, then taken the old man's head — the old soldier's eyes still wide with fury — and hung it on a pike at the gate.

From that day forward, South Peak City had acquired a demon magistrate.

Chanting the Red-Eyed Divine Lord's title day and night, attending the temple every three days to offer worship — this was the only path to keeping one's life. Of course, alongside the chanting, one ought also to pray that the invitation to the next banquet would not land on oneself.

The demon magistrate had a habit of throwing grand banquets.

The guests had gradually shifted from the distinguished powerhouses of great clans and sects, who had grown too scarce, to ordinary people like these.

Protecting the people of one's territory, in exchange for satisfying one's appetite. Such was the Divine Lord's reward to a diligent demon magistrate — to be chosen as a guest, to become the dish on the table, was the honor of the protected.

"..."

A thin, ragged man in a patched hemp shirt, head bowed low, made his way down the street, only to be stopped by two people.

He looked up. The two of them gave him a small nod.

The man's hands slowly opened. The incense sticks he'd been clutching scattered to the ground. He made no struggle, no plea. His knees simply gave way beneath him, and the two men caught him by the arms.