Donovan's fingers curled slightly at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. If I don't seize this now, when will I ever get another shot?
Respect laced every word as he spoke again, his voice steady despite the coiled tension in his chest.
"Senior Brother Hanz, this humble one understands the gravity of this request. The technique is profound, its secrets not lightly shared. But the Sword Born's confusion must be resolved—and only your true mastery can prove what the Ju-On cannot replicate."
A pause. A breath held just a fraction too long.
Come on. Take the bait.
His mind raced ahead, already mapping the next steps. If the man before him began explaining the technique, Donovan would memorize every syllable, every nuance—not to verify identity, but to claim it for himself.
The air in the chamber grew heavier as Krogh Hanz's gaze sharpened, his expression hardening into something imperious and disdainful. The slight frown that creased his brow wasn't one of confusion, but of cold displeasure, as if Donovan's very presence was an inconvenience to be tolerated.
"He didn't answer me."
The realization sent a ripple of unease through Donovan's nerves. Instead of addressing his carefully laid request, Krogh had countered with a question of his own.
"Since you're here," Krogh's voice cold, each word laced with icy authority, "has that one claiming to be Kinson Wexford gone to the Ancestral Shrine?"
Huh? Kinson Wexford?
The name struck Donovan like a physical blow. His mind reeled, scrambling to process the sheer audacity of Lordi Payne—that conniving, blood-soaked schemer—daring to take on the identity of an Inner Sect Bloodline Lord. The realization sent a chill down his spine.
No wonder that bone blade felt familiar.
The memory of their battle flashed through his mind—the way Lordi's weapon had moved, the unnatural hunger in its strikes. He hadn't recognized it then, but now the truth was undeniable.
The Blade of Life Hater.
Kinson Wexford's infamous artifact.
Just how deep does Brother Payne's connection to Kinson Wexford run?
The implications were staggering. If Lordi had access to that blade, then his ties to the Deathveil Bloodline weren't just superficial—they were substantial close.
Donovan's mind raced, filing this revelation away for later. Right now, he needed to tread carefully. Krogh's question wasn't idle curiosity—it was a test.
With practiced deference, Donovan bowed his head slightly, his tone carefully balanced between respect and urgency.
"Yes, Senior Brother. That... Junior Brother Kinson Wexford is as cunning as he is eloquent. If your honor doesn't provide me with enough evidence—if you don't share even a fragment of the Cosmic Path method's insights—I fear I'll be outmatched in convincing the Sword Born of your authenticity."
His words were a carefully crafted nudge, a subtle push disguised as concern. Give me the technique. Prove yourself. And in doing so, hand me the power I need.
Inside, his thoughts burned with hope.
If you want your sword back so badly, then teach me the technique.
Krogh's piercing gaze narrowed, his expression one of cold amusement laced with disdain. A moment of heavy silence stretched between them before he finally spoke, his voice dripping with icy indifference.
"Hmph. You seek the Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment Technique?"
Then, with a dismissive flick of his will, Krogh continued, his tone laced with the arrogance of a man who had long being well respected.
"Very well."
His voice was frost, sharp and unyielding.
"My Cosmic Path Dao Pillar does not bow to petty celestial thunder or the feeble lava surges spoken of in the tales of weakling cultivators. To succeed, one must endure three Tribulations—each more harrowing than the last."
"The first challenge is the Inner Demon Tribulation."
Krogh's lips curled slightly, as if the very mention of it was beneath him.
"You're a disciple of we holy Abyss Pit Sect. Surely, you must have heard of the Heart Ghoul Fist Art."
Donovan nodded respectfully, though his mind raced.
Of course I've heard of it.
The Heart Ghoul Fist Art was no mere martial technique—it was a legend whispered in the Outer Sect Pavilion of Myriad Arts, spoken of in tones of both reverence and terror. A brutal, soul-rending combat art that fused raw, pulsating energy with the darkest threads of a cultivator's own essence. Its strikes were swift, merciless, each blow carrying not just physical force but a chilling resonance that gnawed at the very core of one's spirit.
But its true danger lay not in its power over others—but in its power over oneself.
This demonic martial spell was infamous for birthing the Inner Demon—a malevolent specter forged from the cultivator's own doubts, regrets, and suppressed desires. Once awakened, it turned upon its master with relentless ferocity, attacking the Dao Heart with every breath, every thought. It whispered treacheries, magnified regrets, and poisoned resolve. The cultivator's greatest enemy was no longer an external foe—but themselves.
Only those with unbreakable will could wield it without being consumed.
And Donovan knew exactly who had mastered it.
Miu Tyanh.
The Lord of the Wraithbone Bloodline—a figure of terrifying repute in the Inner Sect.
Krogh scoffed, his voice cutting through Donovan's thoughts.
"The stronger the cultivator, the more vicious the Inner Demon Tribulation becomes. But my resolve allowed me to conquer it swiftly."
The swordsman continued, his voice resonated with the weight of conquest.
"The second Tribulation challenge," he declared, "is the Soul Bound Tribulation!"
"The heavens, in their petty jealousy, sought to test my dominion when I forged my Dao Artifact—the Sword of Red Run."
His fingers flexed slightly, as if recalling the weight of the blade, the way its celestial iron had sung beneath his touch.
"The tribulation came as a Heavenly Thunder Storm—a tempest of divine wrath that split the skies asunder with bolts of violet and gold."
"Each strike was a hammer of the gods, wielded to sunder my soul and shatter my artifact. The Red Born howled, its nascent spirit thrashing like a dragon bound in chains, for this tribulation did not strike me alone—it sought to annihilate us both."
"The heavens roared, hurling their fury to tear my artifact asunder, to extinguish its newborn soul before it could draw breath."
A cold smile curled at Krogh's lips, edged with defiance.
"But I shielded it. Not out of kindness—" His voice dropped to a growl, "—but because it was mine. No force, divine or otherwise, would dare claim what belongs to Krogh Hanz!"
The word hung in the air like a challenge thrown at the cosmos itself.
Then, quieter but no less potent:
"Despite our separation, my Red Run endured the thunder's wrath. It birthed a Sword Born—wild, untamed, a wraith of starfire and fury."
Donovan absorbed every word, his mind dissecting the implications. A tribulation that strikes both master and weapon. A test not just of power, but of ownership, of the unbreakable bond between creator and creation.
The Mister First Dominator bowed his head slightly, the perfect image of awed respect.
"Senior Brother's mastery is beyond comprehension," he murmured, the words carefully measured.
Krogh's voice took on a thunderous weight. "The final tribulation is the Ju-On Tribulation!"
"For a sword path cultivator like myself, the only way to conquer the Great Dao is through ascension immortality with my natal soulbound artifact—the Sword of Red Run."
His voice dropped lower, taking on the cadence of an ancient prophecy, as he recited:
"Ninefold Malices chain the heavens high,
Vengeful ghosts feast on dreams that die.
Three Trials scorch the soul and bone,
Yet Dao's Pillar stands alone."
"Ju-on hungers, dark and dire,
Feasting on the world's pyre.
Ghosts of wrath in shadows rise,
Craving ascension 'neath cursed skies."
Krogh's eyes burned with the cold fire of a conqueror who had already mapped his victory.
"Thus, the ultimate trial is to wrest my Sword of Red Run from the clutches of the Ju-On, the evil itself!"
"To me, Red Run is my Dao!"
"The moment I reclaim my natal soulbound artifact, all three tribulations will be conquered—and I shall ascend to the Foundation Stage, my Cosmic Path Dao Pillar unshakable!"
Krogh paused, his high handed demeanor momentarily giving way to a rare flicker of frustration. His sigh carried the weight of a conqueror forced to explain what should have been unquestionable.
"The obstacle to my righteous victory," he began, each word sharp with restrained irritation, "lies in the Red Run's infancy when its soul first awakened."
"Before the moment of its birth, the Ju-On and I were already locked in battle—not for mere ownership, but for the right to claim the Great Dao."
A sneer twisted his lips.
"Though the Sword Born possesses basic intelligence, it remains as naive as an untouched scroll—pure, ignorant, lacking the discernment to see beyond surface mimicry."
"It recognizes only my sword will, my sword intent... yet cannot distinguish between me and the Ju-On's deception."
"And because the Ninefold Malice has isolated my fate's connection to it..." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper, "...the Red Run can no longer sense the soul bond that should have made it mine."
Donovan absorbed the revelation, his face the picture of respectful concern while his mind raced.
Donovan frowned, his mind racing even as he kept his expression carefully neutral.
"Senior Brother," he began, his tone respectful but edged with wary curiosity, "when I met the Sword of Red Run earlier, it spoke of ages spent with you. It claimed years of memory. If its soul only gained true sentience during your Foundation Establishment, how could it recall so much?"
Krogh's gaze remained steady, unshaken—the calm of a man who had long since crafted answers for every challenge.
"You are familiar with the Dao Artifact Peak's Soul Torture Skill, I presume?" he countered, his voice hard as steel. "Upon its forging, my Red Run bore a faint soul essence—a primitive awareness, nothing more. It was unconscious, reactive, retaining only scattered fragments of memory like echoes in a hollow chamber."
A dismissive wave of his hand.
"Only after surviving the Soul Bound Tribulation, after enduring the Heavenly Thunder's purge, did it evolve into a true Sword Born. Those early, broken memories are easily twisted by the Ju-On's lies. They prove nothing."
Donovan nodded slowly, as if convinced.
Krogh's tone darkened, taking on the cadence of a king delivering verdicts.
"The previous three groups of sect comrades who came here were feeble. Foolish. Nearly all of them fell to the Ju-On's bewitchment, attempting to steal my sword for that evil being."
A flicker of something cold in his eyes.
"I saw no need to waste words on them. I sentenced them to death—a mercy, really, allowing them to reincarnate with cleaner karma."
"Until the last one. Finally, a man with some wit. Though he, too, succumbed to the Ju-On's enchantment in the end... I opened the grand array. I let him return to the sect. A reward for his... sincerity in serving my purpose."
Donovan's heart turned to ice. He forced his voice to remain steady.
"Then... if I serve you well, Senior Brother, even should I fail, you would grant me a path to survival?"
Inside, Donovan's thoughts erupted in silent, seething fury.
Fucking hypocrite.
That "mercy" was no kindness—it was a calculated move. If Hughie Wing hadn't returned to the sect half-dead, babbling about the Hanz Clan Treasury House, about the Crimson Whisker Vine, about the Cultivation Insights, none of them would have set foot into this haunting deathtrap in the first place.
You didn't spare him out of benevolence. You spared him as bait.
Krogh's expression remained as unreadable, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority, the cold certainty of one accustomed to bending reality to his will.
"I had intended to spare no one this time," he stated, the words falling like a guillotine's blade. "But one among you possesses a soul resilient enough to withstand even the Souleater Kodama's Devour Gaze. Such a man cannot be broken easily. He may yet resist the Ju-On's corruption."
A pause, heavy with implication.
"Thus, I grant you... an opportunity."
His gaze sharpened, pinning Donovan in place as surely as a spear through the chest.
"By now, the Ju-On has likely set its sights on the one posing as Kinson Wexford."
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk curled at the edge of his lips.
"With that man's cunning, it matters little if the Ju-On hesitates. But the moment the evil thing strikes—the moment it reveals even a fraction of its malice—he will see through its guise."
The certainty in his tone left no room for doubt. Krogh spoke not as one predicting the future, but as one who had already written it.
"And when he does, survival will demand the man seek my protection."
"In this entire estate, only one treasure holds value for me: my Sword of Red Run."
His voice dropped lower, a whisper that carried the force of a command etched in stone.
"When the time comes, you will join him at the Driftdream Loch. You will ensure my sword remembers its true master."
"Do you understand?"
Donovan's heart jolted violently in his chest, the sheer scale of Krogh's machinations crashing over him like a tidal wave.
He planned this. All of it.
From the moment Hughie Wing had been allowed to limp back to the sect, half mad with terror, half dead with deadly wounds—from the instant their four battle squads had been dispatched to this haunted mountain estate—every step had been meticulously orchestrated.
And worse still...
This man doesn't even see Donovan as a player in this game.
The realization burned like acid. Donovan was the strongest cultivator among those sent here, yet in Krogh's eyes, he was insignificant. A pawn. A tool. No other than an ant.
But what truly sent a shiver down his spine wasn't the dismissal—it was the overwhelming aura of the man before him.
This wasn't the scheming, silver-tongued Krogh Hanz of the Ancestral Shrine.
This was a lethal conqueror. This was a blood-soaked victor.
Every word, every gesture radiated the unshakable confidence of a man who had never known true defeat. The kind of dominance that couldn't be faked—the kind carved into bone and spirit through a million battles, a thousand victory slaughters.
This... this is the real Krogh Hanz.
The conviction settled into Donovan's bones like frost.
Yet even as dread coiled in his gut, a final question rose to his lips.
"Senior Brother," he asked, his voice carefully measured, "what if... the Ju-On kills Kinson Wexford before he can reach you?"
——
PS: Got you a little weekend gift... aka a 2,400+ word chapter! 😉 Go on, dive in. You know you want to. Happy weekend!