Krogh Hanz's lips curved into a cold grin, his eyes glinting with the icy certainty of a immortal master surveying mortal folly. The air around him seemed to crystallize with the weight of his judgment.
"That young brat," he began, voice dripping with contemptuous assurance, "may wallow at the Seventh Layer of Qi Refinement, yet his cultivation base is unnervingly solid—his bones forged to Perfect Grade Refined-Tier, already whispering of Jade-Tier Bone ascension."
"Worse for the Ju-On, he masters the Blood Spectre Footwork Art—a legend movement martial spell plucked from the Inner Sect's most guarded divine archives. A swift shade among celestic spectre."
Krogh's gaze snapped to Donovan, and in that instant, an invisible mountain of sword intent crushed down. Donovan's knees nearly buckled as killing intent—pure, refined, ancient—pierced his skull like a white-hot needle.
"And since you," Krogh continued, the pressure not relenting, "carry a thread of my Red Run's Sword Aura Shard… he will scent this chance as well. That young man will come for that power like a starved wolf. With that cunning, if he chooses flee over folly, not even the evil Ju-On can take his life."
Krogh's voice dropped lower, yet each word struck with hammer-blow force.
"My body and soul are tethered to this Moon Reflection Mirror—one of Gloomwater Phantom Lily's six spirit-energy nexuses. Just as the Ju-On festers its lair in my Ancestral Shrine."
"That vermin dares siphon my Earth Vein essence? A thief gorging on crumbs while the banquet's master watches."
He leaned forward, and the entire courtyard itself seemed to darken.
"Do not mistake confinement for weakness. These chains are the Great Dao's own trial. My will cracks the foundations of this realm. When the last seal shatters, when I retrieve my natal artifact, I will ascend—and the Ju-On's existence will be unmade beneath my heel."
His final words rang like a death knell:
"This… is the cost of defying a true Sword Master's path."
Krogh's gaze returned to Donovan. No scorn. No impatience. Only the pitiless regard of a lord observing an expendable mortal soldier.
"By now," he stated, voice devoid of inflection, "that brat has undoubtedly fled the Ancestral Shrine. The Ju-On endures no human consciousness that remains stubbornly untouched by its essential, pervasive corruption. Its chosen puppets are already unleashed, instruments of the evil being's relentless will, hunting that young man with singular, corrupted purpose."
"He possesses neither the wit nor the methods to evade them indefinitely. His predictable desperation will inevitably drive him towards me." Krogh's focus sharpened on Donovan, the dismissal palpable. "Consequently, your sole usefulness is to facilitate his arrival here. Ensure he reaches this place with my sword."
Donovan's heart plummeted, the crushing weight of Krogh's words pressing against his ribs like the slow descent of a tomb's lid sealing him inside.
Fuck. Fucking hell.
The unspoken ultimatum was clear as ice—when Lordi Payne arrived, Donovan's worth would be measured in blood and obedience, and failure meant a swift, unceremonious end. There would be no mercy, no second chances. This Senior Brother Krogh Hanz was a predator who saw him as nothing more than a tool to be used and discarded.
Abyss damn it all.
The realization settled in his stamach like a knife twisting deeper with every breath.
"Esteemed Senior Brother," Donovan forced out, swallowing the bitter taste of fear as he bent into a deep, rigid bow, his spine tense as drawn steel. His voice, though steady, carried the barest tremor beneath its forced conviction. "This unworthy man shall ensure Junior Brother Kinson Wexford retrieves your Soulbound Spirit Sword without delay."
The Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment Technique—once a shimmering dream of ascension—was now a distant fantasy, a prize forever beyond his grasp. No point begging for scraps now. In this fucking nightmare, mere survival was a gamble, and crawling out of this haunted estate alive seemed like the kind of luck reserved for men far luckier than him.
Krogh's gaze lingered, cold and assessing, before he shook his head with the faintest flicker of disinterest, as if Donovan's fate had already been decided long before this moment. "Your cultivation is… adequate," he conceded, the words laced with icy detachment. "Your foundation is passable. Not entirely worthless."
A pause. Then, with the indifferent finality of a judge passing sentence: "From this day forward, you will serve as my Sword Serf."
No room for refusal. No illusion of choice. The pronouncement was a death knell wrapped in calm authority, as if condemning a man to lifelong servitude were no more significant than ordering a cup of tea.
!!! ???
Donovan's jaw clenched, but he kept his head bowed, his thoughts a storm of curses beneath the surface.
The Mister First Dominator's face drained of color, his breath hitching in his throat like a man choking on poison.
Sword Serf?!
Mother Fuck!
The words struck him like a blade between the ribs. To a swordsman, a Sword Serf wasn't just a servant—it was a living shackle, a soul bound in chains, body and will enslaved to the whims of a master for eternity. No freedom. No future. Just an existence of groveling obedience, his cultivation, his ambition, his very life reduced to a fucking leash around Krogh's finger.
And the worst part? The bond was one-sided. If Krogh died, Donovan would drop dead like a puppet with its strings cut. But if he died? Krogh wouldn't even blink. His corpse would be worth less than the dirt beneath his master's boots.
Fucking arrogant idiot!
The inkstone of Donovan Valdez's life had been ground not with water, but with sweat, blood, and the kind of pain that carved itself into a man's bones.
Since the age of four, he had known no softness, no mercy—only the relentless hammer of cultivation, each day a battle, each night a test of endurance. While other children played, he trained. While they slept, he bled. His childhood wasn't a time of innocence; it was a forge, his body and spirit tempered in fire until he emerged hardened, sharp, unbreakable.
By fifteen, he had clawed his way to the Sixth Layer of Qi Refinement—a feat that would have made lesser men preen with pride. But not Donovan. Stagnation was death. Complacency was weakness. So he led his handpicked brothers and sisters into the Gworm Abyss, a hellhole where the very air was thick with venom and the shrieks of demonic ghosts.
He fought in the vanguard, his Bone Eroding Fist Art shattering chitin and bone alike, his reputation growing with every monstrous corpse left in his wake. They called him the Mister First Dominator—a name whispered with fear and respect.
He built the Dominator Squad, a brotherhood forged in blood and battle. To outsiders, he was ruthless, relentless, a storm of ambition that brooked no weakness. But to his Squad? He was their shield. Their sword. He pushed them to their limits, yes, but he bled for them too, shared his spoils, mourned their losses like they were his own flesh. They weren't just followers—they were family, bound by something deeper than duty.
And yet, even that loyalty was just another stepping stone.
Because Donovan's hunger went beyond power, beyond reputation.
The Great Dao.
That was the only thing that mattered. The endless path, stretching into infinity, demanding everything he had and more. Ninth Layer Qi Refinement? Outer Sect dominance? Just waypoints on the journey. He trained when others slept, fought when others faltered, all for one purpose—to climb higher.
But if he became a Sword Serf?
None of it would matter.
Even if Krogh Hanz rose to become a legend, a celestial swordsman whose name shook the heavens, Donovan would be nothing more than a shadow in his wake. A servant. A slave. His ambition, his pride, his very self—erased.
What the fuck kind of life is that?
But the alternative was worse.
Refusal meant death.
Krogh's gaze was unyielding cold, his patience a thin veneer over ice, murderous certainty. There would be no bargaining. No mercy.
"So what's it gonna be, Donovan Valdez?" The Mister First Dominator asked himself in the heart.
Die now?
Or live as a dog?
His jaw clenched, his fists trembling—not with fear, but with the sheer, fucking injustice of it all.
The noose was tightening.
And he had to choose.
——
Elsewhere in the mountain,
The dense, mist-laden air clung to the jagged rocks, muffling the world beyond the secluded corner where Lordi Payne sat. His body cultivated with practiced ease under the AllFullOS System's control. The eerie stillness of the mountainside was deceptive, a fragile illusion of peace that masked the lurking dread beneath. Every rustle of wind through the skeletal trees set his nerves on edge.
The sudden thud of incoming heavy footsteps shattered the fleeting calm.
Each footfall struck the earth like a drumbeat of doom, reverberating through the stone and crawling up his spine. The rhythm was deliberate, unhurried, yet laden with menace. His pulse spiked, his breath hitching as the sound grew louder, closer. Shadows stretched and twisted along the cragged walls, morphing into grotesque shapes as the figures approached.
His heart plummeted.
A cold, sickening realization washed over him as Garrick Blackthorn, Janiyah Sullivan, and the other enthralled sect comrades emerged from the gloom. Their faces were unnervingly blank, their eyes hollow pits devoid of recognition or humanity. Whatever malevolent force had seized them had stripped away everything that made them who they were, leaving only puppets of flesh and bone. Their movements were synchronized, unnatural, as if guided by some unseen puppeteer. The air thickened with malice, pressing against Lordi's skin like an invisible hand.
Without a word, they attacked.
Martial spells erupted from their fingertips, streaks of searing light and jagged energy slicing through the darkness toward him. The first strike grazed his arm, the pain sharp and immediate—but it was nothing compared to the terror that followed. In that instant, the AllFullOS System abandoned him, its presence vanishing with a jarring, almost mocking cheerfulness. The system's voice, so falsely bright, echoed in his mind as it retreated, leaving him utterly alone against the onslaught.
~ Ding! *System Notification Chime*
[AllFullOS: Version 1.0.0]
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> Host control: RESTORED
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The moment he regained control, Lordi bolted at once, his Blood Spectre Footwork Art propelling him forward in a blur of motion.
His lungs burned with each frantic gasp as he tore through the twisted undergrowth, the shadows of the mountain stretching like grasping claws around him. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig beneath his feet sent jolts of terror through him—because he knew they were chasing right after. The forest itself seemed to conspire against him, branches snagging at his robes as if trying to slow him down, to deliver him back into the hands of his pursuers.
Garrick and the others pursued relentlessly, their bodies channeling dozens of colors of spirit energy that exploded in chaotic bursts as they activated their own footwork arts.
"Payne!" Garrick's voice was a guttural snarl, raw with fury like a rusty steel.
"Lordi Payne!" Janiyah's cry followed, shrill and unhinged, her tone choked by something thicker than mere anger.
"Halt, traitor!" The words came from multiple throats at once, a dissonant chorus of accusation that slithered into Lordi's ears and coiled around his heart. Their voices were thick with venom, their words sharp enough to draw blood.
"You swore to obey Senior Brother Hanz's orders just now! How dare you defy him? Are you trying to doom us all?!" The rage in their voices was unnatural, their minds twisted beyond reason, their hatred for him a living thing, breathing and hungry.