The curl at the top stood proud, glossy and smooth, like the crown of a king.
Old Tiger Zhao leaned in.
He took one bite.
Then froze.
For a moment, the world stopped.
He tasted slowly, eyes wide, pupils quivering.
This wasn’t just cold. It wasn’t even close to the vanilla one.
That one had been creamy, light, with a faint milky sweetness and smooth finish.
But this…
This was rich.
Dense.
Velvety and decadent, with a depth that pulled him in like a spiral array.
The cold hugged his tongue, melted with a smooth glide, then left behind a bold, lingering flavor.
It wasn’t simple chocolate – it was something more primal. Something with heat behind the cold.
Molten Nightshade Kucua.
A rare ingredient found only near the smoldering roots of the Molten Ashlands, where volcanic spirit and demonic beasts once bathed in lava and the soil shimmered with lingering flame essence.
The beans of the Nightshade Kucua Tree were known to absorb both the fire of the land and the chill of the ash winds.
Traders claimed it burned your mouth raw – until you roasted it properly in glacier-fire, then ground it into a powder darker than a midnight realm.
Old Tiger Zhao had tasted it once before.
In his younger days, a bark-chewing hermit in the Southern Wastes had brewed it into a bitter elixir that nearly made him cough out his soul.
But this – this soft serve ice cream version – was divine!
Subtle spice sang behind the dark sweetness. There was an earthy heat, a whisper of scorched bark, followed by a deep, mellow bitterness that curled around the tongue.
Not overpowering. Balanced. Alive!
It reminded him of a duel – hot, cold, violent, and addictive.
Lick. Bite. Lick.
Shlurp!
Old Tiger Zhao turned toward the vanilla machine beside the new one, gave it a gentle pat.
“My first frozen maiden, never forgotten.”
“But your sibling’s built different.”
Dou Xinshi scoffed between slurps. “It’s frozen milk, old man! Get a grip.”
He muttered it bitterly, but his eyes didn’t leave the swirl of chocolate in the old man’s cone.
Just then, the door to the store swung open.
Hao instinctively glanced up, expecting to see Lin Yijun and Xiao Lianfeng or maybe Yue Xueyan and Hua Feixue stepping in as usual.
But no.
A new customer appeared.
Slim and wiry, with thin long nimble fingers that seemed ready to perform some secret hand trick.
He wore a faded red robe, patched unevenly with rough volcanic beast hide, the kind only a hardened cultivator from the Molten Ashlands would use.
His shoulder-length hair was charcoal black, slightly tousled but neat enough to suggest discipline.
Under his left eye, a small flame-shaped birthmark flickered faintly, like a living tattoo.
His body was almost completely hidden beneath black bandages, wrapped tightly up to just below his half-neck collarbone, barely visible beneath the robe’s flowing sleeves.
Hao’s eyes narrowed in surprise.
’He should be from Scorching Soul City, right?’
Yet, the man’s skin was pale – no hint of the deep tans expected from a sun-beaten desert cultivator.
’Did he spend years cultivating in a cave and only come out now?’
Clearly, he was powered by the finest enchanted sunscreen on the market.
The man stretched his right arm slowly, rolling his shoulder.
“Haha.”
“Surely no one thinks I ran here.” he said with a low chuckle.
This was Nie Huo – a name whispered in the alleys of Scorching Soul City, and shouted in rage by dozens of robbed young masters.
He had once been a talented scholar of fire arts and spirit formations.
But because of his strangely pale skin that looked untouched by sunlight, and the odd birthmark on his face, he had never been fully trusted.
Some disciples of his sect even gossiped that he was a half-demonic aberration, a product of cursed bloodlines or forged in the ashes of forbidden rituals.
Nie Huo never bothered to correct them.
He found it more entertaining to smirk and raise an eyebrow whenever someone flinched at his presence.
If they wanted a villain, he figured he might as well give them one worth gossiping about.
Then came the day everything shattered.
He was framed for stealing an ancient artifact from his sect. No trial. No explanations.
Just a scroll declaring his expulsion and a bounty slapped on his head.
So, Nie Huo adapted.
He honed his skills. Studied forbidden formations. Learned how to disable traps, pick seals, slip through barriers like smoke.
If they already called him a thief, he’d become the best one in the city.
He didn’t kill. That was uncultured.
He stole from those who had too much, especially the arrogant young masters who never shut up about their thousand-year wine collections or ten-thousand-crystal hairpins.
Now, he was infamous. A wanted man with enough bounties to fund a small sect.
When Nie Huo finally glanced past the aisles, his half-lazy smirk twitched.
This wasn’t an outhouse!
His eyes sharpened.
A faint click echoed from beneath his sleeve as a thumb-sized charm popped into his hand.
It was a red jade-glass orb with sealed formation lines etched across its surface.
The Duststep Mirage Pearl.
His own custom creation.
It dispersed obsidian sand laced with evasion glyphs and mild disorienting illusions, perfect for slipping away unnoticed.
Or at least causing enough chaos to make a clean escape.
It had saved him from traps, sect enforcers, and once, a very angry rich alchemist with explosive temper issues.
His fingers didn’t release it yet, but he was coiled like a spring.
Was this that ridiculous rumor?
The strange one that had been circling the alleys of Scorching Soul City for weeks now?
That if you entered an old outhouse on the city’s east side, you’d get whisked away to some illusion realm?
Nie Huo had heard it and rolled his eyes so hard he almost gave himself a headache.
Who in their right mind would waste a spatial formation on a latrine?
For what? A prank?
And the so-called “effect” was nonsense. According to the gossip, no one who entered the place got injured or lost anything.
What was the point of all that?
He’d brushed it off.
Completely.
Until now.
His heel shifted slightly on the floor tile beneath him. Smooth. Clean. Not even a whiff of shit stench.
His brows furrowed.
He was a thousand percent certain he’d opened the door to a rundown, cracked old outhouse with scorch marks on the wood.
There hadn’t been a single shred of illusion qi around it.
This place didn’t feel fake!