Grand Demonic Elder Blood-Crow hit the stone plaza with the grace of a falling sack of flour.
He didn’t care about dignity. For three hundred years, he had cared about demonic prestige, dark blood flags, and terrifying young cultivators. None of that had ever given him a pension, hot meals, or a warm bed. Grandma Chen gave him three bowls of scallion pork wontons every morning, and she never once asked for his blood-essence in return.
“Get away from the broth!” Blood-Crow roared.
His gray cotton apron flapped in the wind. He slid across the smooth granite pavers on his stomach, skidded past the front wheel of the soup cart, and opened his jaw as wide as a mountain python.
Gulp!
The spherical black clay jar vanished straight down Blood-Crow’s throat.
The demonic disciple’s jaw dropped so hard it nearly hit his collarbone. “You... you swallowed a Corpseeater Poison Mist jar? With your bare gullet?”
Glug.
