Sunken Moon Valley lay beneath a sky the color of tarnished iron. The wind moved through the barren slopes like a low sigh. At the center of the valley, a dried riverbed stretched crooked and wide, its cracked mud resembling the scales of a dead dragon.
Three hours remained before the entrance to the Black Market would open.
Jiang Chen stood like a silent monolith at the edge of the riverbed, his figure concealed beneath layers of dark obscuring clouds.
His cold gaze drifted across the gathering crowd.
Dozens of cultivators were scattered about the riverbed. Some wore concealment talismans similar to his own. Others hid behind carved masks of spirit wood and cold iron. Several stood wrapped in black robes from head to toe. There were also demonic cultivators who showed their faces openly, their expressions arrogant and unconcerned.
To them, infamy was a cloak more protective than any other concealment. The blood on their hands was a badge of merit.
