The cacophony that erupted from the direction of the Ancestral Shrine was a disturbance that could not be dismissed, a seismic event that pierced even the deep, self-imposed silence of Emma's hiding place. For hours, she had been a creature of shadow and stillness, husbanding her fragile spirit energy, focusing on nothing but the slow work of restoration. Yet the clamor from the left peak was of such a magnitude that it invaded her hidden corner like a physical force. It was a rolling thunder that did not just fill the ears but vibrated up through the very rock, transmitted through the soles of her soft hips and settling as a disagreeable hum in the marrow of her bones, a sensation so pervasive it set her teeth on edge with its relentless, grinding frequency.
This was no simple skirmish of Qi Refinement Stage strengths. The quality of the noise spoke of the unraveling of the mountain's base. It was the sound of the mountain's ancient spine being shattered, being ground to dust in a single, violent expiration. The very air itself grew thick with the promise of annihilation, a resonant frequency that seemed to tear at the edges of the world, whispering that nothing within its reach would be permitted to remain whole.
In any previous chapter of her life, the instinct would have been immediate and absolute: flight. The first and most vital lesson beaten into every recruit of the Abyss Pit Sect was the sacredness of self-preservation. To hear such a sound was to receive a mandate to run, to turn her back and not stop until the landscape had changed and her lungs burned with the effort of putting countless leagues between self and such danger.
Yes. This creed had been her brittle shield against the world's cruelties, a simple, effective algorithm for survival that had carried her through dozens of perilous encounters.
But the woman she was now was not the same one who had learned those lessons. The recent crucible of betrayal, of venomous lies and public malice, had seared away that simpler self. The pretty, perhaps naive, female cultivator had been tempered into something harder, her will violently rearranged.
Just as she had resolved to finally abandon this haunted estate for good, a sharper, more desperate need had lanced through her pragmatism: her crush, Rodney Luther. The thought of him, trapped and unaware in the path of the unfolding destruction, had overridden a lifetime of conditioned caution. It was this foolish, human thread that had pulled her not toward safety, but directly back into the heart of the danger, rushing toward the Water Lily Lake with a frantic hope of finding him and Squad Captain Jorge Blue, of rescuing them and forging an escape together.
The silence that greeted her at the lake's edge was more terrifying than any battle clamor. It was a profound, swallowing quiet that seemed to actively press down on the world, absorbing all light and sound into its vacuum. She had braced her spirit for a stupid, maybe heroic, but mostly futile death, a sudden and not peaceful conclusion to her simple life. She had been prepared to offer her life as a final, meaningful transaction.
But fate, it seemed, had scribed a far more vicious ending for her. It had not required her sacrifice. Instead, it had simply taken everything she had come for, and everything she was, and left her alone as the sole witness to the aftermath.
The lake itself was a waterlogged tomb, a vision of stillness that screamed of recent violence. The once-serene carpet of water lilies was now a grotesque flotsam of shredded petals and severed stems, churned into a pulp amidst the wreckage. The water, once clear, was a murky, churned froth stained a sinister, rusty brown, its surface broken not by lilies but by pale, indistinct forms lurking just beneath. The graceful willow trees that had once leaned over the shoreline like attentive guardians were now grotesque skeletons, their trunks torn asunder, their splintered limbs trailing in the bloody water like the broken arms of the drowned. And there was… nothing. No movement, no whisper of life, no answering call to her own desperate presence.
A desperate, mad hope kindled in her chest, a final, foolish ember. Maybe, her mind whispered, a frantic, childish prayer, maybe the Sword of Red Run was merciful. Maybe it released them. Maybe it moved the array, the prison, to another place. It was a fantasy, and she knew it, but she clung to it as she began to move.
For what felt like an eternity, she searched. Dozens of minutes bled together as she scrambled over shattered rock and splintered wood, her movements growing increasingly frantic, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. She called their names, her voice a thin, reedy sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. She peered into the stained water, hoping to see a scrap of that blue worn robe, a glint of the hilt of that familiar bone chain, anything.
It was in the smallest of details that the truth finally broke her. A scrap of fabric snagged on a splintered branch, the exact shade of azure that Senior Brother Jorge Blue always wore. A single, broken piece of a hairpin, carved with a running hare, a trinket she had teasingly given to stoic Senior Brother Rodney on his last birthday. These were not the artifacts of a teleportation or a release. They were the scattered, pathetic confetti of annihilation.
They were gone.
That's a frantic pain, drained from her limbs all at once. The lady sank to her knees in the cold mud, the damp filth seeping instantly through the fabric of her robes, but she registered no physical sensation.
There had been no valiant last stand to witness, no grand, tragic finale. There were no bodies to mourn over, no final words to cherish. There was only this… nothingness.
The realization did not come as a scream or a storm of tears. It came as a quiet, absolute cold, seeping into the marrow of her soul.
The crushing weight of reality try to break her. But the grief somehow compressed the soft ore of her fear and sorrow into something new, something unyielding. A will of vengeance, tempered in the coldest fires of despair. All that was left now was a purpose, singular and pure: retribution. The rest—the girl who dreamed, who loved, who trusted—was ash.
Their faces burned in her mind, a gallery of the damned.
Lordi Payne, his filthy, disgusting hands groping her, his awkward laughter a stain on the air as her humiliation burned hotter than any fire.
Donovan Valdez, that greedy, sanctimonious bully, snatching the Legendary-Level Foundation Establishment Pill from her grasp, robbing her of her future with a smug, condescending smile.
And Ruru Rosa, that fucking bitch, her lips dripping with sarcastic lies as she slandered her before her squad comrades, tarnishing a reputation she had spent a lifetime building, painting her innocence with the brush of a whore.
Fleeing was the thought of a coward, and she was no longer capable of such a thing.
Instead, a terrifying calm descended upon her. It was not the absence of emotion, but its absolute concentration. Every ounce of hatred, every spark of anger, was funneled into a cold, precise engine of intent. Her movements became bold, yet meticulously careful. She turned not away from the chaos, but back into its heart, stealthily rushing towards the epicenter: the ancestral shrine.
What she witnessed from the shadows was a cataclysm beyond mortal comprehension. Sword auras, visible as rippling waves of destructive light, crisscrossed the skies, shearing the tops from mountains for miles around. The very earth trembled as ferocious clashes between titans—the two Krogh Hanz—shattered cliffs and tore the landscape into meter-deep chasms, leaving forests as kindling. When the battle concluded, she watched, her breath still, as Donovan Valdez, ever the viper, launched his cowardly surprise attack, stealing the fruits of victory. The consequence was immediate and devastating: the self-destruction of a Foundation Stage ghost maiden, an explosion of pure ruin that completely shattered the left peak, sending the ancestral hall atop it crashing down into the abyss in a avalanche of stone and dust.
Fate, it seemed, had not abandoned her. It had merely been sharpening its knives.
She moved without a sound, a ghost herself, hurrying to the newly formed wasteland where the mountain peak had collapsed. And there, amidst the settling dust and groaning rock, she found them. The spoils of a war between giants, now broken and vulnerable. Donovan Valdez, lethally wounded, his breathing a wet, ragged thing. And Krogh Hanz, hovering at the precipice of death.
There was no hesitation. No triumphant shout, no grand declaration. There was only the perfect, silent opportunity.
She seized it.
In one fluid, ruthless motion, she emerged from the debris. Her palm dagger, a simple, unadorned move, became the final arbiter of her rage. She drove palm forward, aiming with an assassin's cold precision, and buried it to the hilt in Donovan Valdez's heart. The first debt, collected in full.
Wet, hacking sound broke the silence.
"Cough! Cou... cou... cough!"
Donovan Valdez's body seized, his own hand flying to his chest in a futile, instinctual gesture. His mind, fogged with pain from his previous wounds, struggled to process this new, final agony. There was a strange, unfamiliar sensation—a cold draft blowing through him, right below his sternum. A hot spray of iron-filled liquid choked him, bursting from his lips as a strong, unyielding pressure clenched deep within his core, gripping his very life in a fist of pure malice.
His eyes, wide with a stunned disbelief that eclipsed all previous pain, rolled to see her. He had sensed danger, but this... this was a cold far deeper than any winter. The once-domineering Dominator Captain tried to form a word, a curse—anything to mark his stunning. But Emma gave him no quarter.
With a vicious, wet wrench, she retracted her hand, tearing his heart free from its cage of bone and muscle in a single, grotesque fountain of gore.
Hot blood and spilled viscera drenched the cold beauty's short robes, painting the fabric in a brutalist tableau. Emma stared down at Donovan, her features a mask of savage satisfaction as his body shuddered violently, a horror of a gaping, cavernous hole left in his chest. The light fled his eyes, and the man crumpled, lifeless, to the broken earth.
But her vengeance was not yet sated. With a crushing grip that spoke of a will hardened far beyond mere strength, she squeezed the pulsing muscle in her hand, pulverizing the heart of her enemy before casting the bloody, unrecognizable pieces aside like refuse.
Then, with a chilling lack of emotion, the lady strode forward. She planted her foot firmly upon the base of Donovan's neck, the leather of her boot settling against his still-warm skin.
"Rest in peace, Senior Brother Valdez," she spat, the words venomous, her tone one of utter, unnerving calm, yet her eyes blazing with a terrifying, crystalline excitement.
After the initial THUMP, she ground her heel down, and the air was filled with a horrific, wet CRUNCH-SQUISH that silenced the gurgling cry for good. She leaned her weight into it, and a wet GRIND was the only sound that followed.
With a detached finality, the beauty watched the last tremors of life leave the muscular man's body. As the light faded from his eyes, she turned her chilling gaze upon Krogh Hanz. Her face, a masterpiece of delicate features and serene beauty, remained an unsettling portrait of peace, yet the corners of her lips were curled into a faint, cruel smirk. It was the same expression she had worn while coldly watching the Mister First Dominator die.
From the shadows to the side, Krogh observed this sudden and violent shift in fortunes with a quiet calm. His posture was not one of shock or readiness for a fight, but of a weary resignation. The scene reflected in his eyes was not new; it was a familiar play he had witnessed too many times before.
Such treachery was the very currency of the devil's domain they inhabited, a place so steeped in blood and betrayal that it was the daily rhythm of life. In a world where demonic sect rules, disciples were ever-ready to turn on their own, where comradeship was a fleeting illusion and a blade in the back from a sworn brother was a common climax to any alliance. A grim, internal acknowledgment passed through him: "The Holy Sect…" Yes, this was the same ruthless Abyss Pit Sect he had always known.
"I never imagined," Emma murmured, her voice a cold whisper that cut through the silence, "that the final victor would be me." Her declaration hung in the air as she waved a hand, using a subtle thread of energy to summon the fallen jade slip from the ground into her waiting grasp.
A quick but thorough inspection of its contents confirmed the prize: the legendary Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment technique. A spark of overwhelming, voracious joy flared within her, so potent it was almost dizzying, but it was immediately tempered and hardened into a grim resolve. Without a moment's hesitation, she tucked the precious slip securely into her storage pouch.
In one fluid motion, she then drew a pale, wicked-looking short bone dagger from the sleeve of her robe. Her steps were deliberate and measured as she closed the distance toward the dying Krogh, her intent as clear and sharp as the weapon in her hand.
Step by deliberate step, she advanced, the soft sound of her footfalls the only rhythm in the oppressive silence. Looking down at the dying man lying ignobly in the dirt before her, Emma could not help but feel a wave of profound, almost dizzying awe wash over her mind.
The sheer unpredictability of fate was a force more powerful than any cultivation technique. Truly, the future was a tangled web, impossible to decipher.
A decade past, when she had been a nameless newcomer trembling in the vast and ruthless Outer Sect, this very man, Krogh Hanz, had already been its most dazzling talent, a brilliant star whose name echoed like a thunderclap across millions of miles of demonic lands.
His reputation was so formidable that it had shaken not only the foundations of their own demonic world but had even sent ripples of fear and respect across the boundaries into another entire realm, the legendary Vermithys. And now, that same titan lay broken and defeated at her feet, his glorious destiny snuffed out, destined to fall to someone he would have once deemed utterly beneath notice—an obscure, common, and unknown female cultivator, no different from the countless others he had overshadowed.
Yet, in a breathtaking twist of fate, the Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment Technique was now securely nestled in her possession, its immense potential coursing through her ambitions. With such a legendary artifact, she saw a clear and radiant path to greatness unfurling before her. Given sufficient time to master its secrets, she could legitimately contend for the title of a legendary star in the cultivation world, and even compete for the coveted position of the Holy Abyss Pit Sect's fourth Sect Successors. This was not merely about becoming a senior in cultivation; it was about grasping the very pinnacle of power and status. She now possessed a genuine chance to claim the title that made hearts tremble: to become Her Highness! She would irrevocably join the storied ranks of the sect's past prodigies, her name renowned throughout countless lands and distant planets, her deeds etched as a vivid and enduring stroke in the annals of their era.
For a long moment, she indulged in this reachable dream, this vision of a bright future blooming brilliantly in her mind, and a great, soaring joy threatened to overwhelm her. It was with this triumphant certainty that she finally ceased her steps, standing directly over the prone form of Krogh Hanz. His death at her hands, she decided with cold finality, was no disgrace to the legendary prowess of the future legend she was destined to become. On the contrary, it was a perfectly fitting and honorable end for such a fallen titan.
"Senior Brother Luther…" The thought of her glorious destiny spontaneously conjured the image of Rodney Luther, the man she had silently admired for so long, and a sudden, sharp pang of sorrow, poignant and unexpected, struck her heart.
The memory of Rodney Luther came to Emma not as a sweeping, dramatic tide of passion, but as a steady, grounding warmth—the kind that emanates from a stone that has soaked up the sun's heat long after the day itself has faded into cool twilight. It was a peculiar thing, to cherish a man who was, by any common standard, not handsome. His face seemed hewn from raw granite, all sharp, uncompromising planes and stubborn angles, with a nose that was slightly crooked from some long-forgotten spar. But in the cut-throat, venomous shadows of the Abyss Pit Sect, where physical beauty was often a mask for deceit and a venomous trap, it was his lack of conventional charm that made his inner substance, his unwavering integrity, seem all the more brilliant and rare.
She had been just fourteen then, a raw prodigy plucked from the obscurity of her backwater village, her spirit veins humming with a rare and potent energy that promised greatness. She arrived at the sect's jagged mountain peak, her heart swelled with the belief that she was inherently special. That naive illusion was brutally shattered within her first week. The intake that season was a veritable harvest of geniuses, a gathering of monstrous talents where every other novice could channel destructive yin energy with effortless grace or possessed a foundational cultivation level that would have taken her months of grueling effort to achieve.
So, Emma made a calculated and survivalist choice: she buried her fragile pride and meticulously forged a new identity out of pure, unrelenting diligence. She became a ghost in the training grounds, the first to arrive under the dim morning light and the last to leave in the deep of night, her robes perpetually stained with the dust and grime of the practice yards. She attended every single lecture with fanatical devotion, from the esoteric and soul-chilling principles of the "Soul-Devouring Art" to the brutally practical mechanics of the "Meridian-Severing Palms."
It was during these countless sessions of earnest study that she first noticed the subtle, cruel smirks. They did not come from the true Elders, who regarded all disciples with a blanket of indifference, but from the senior Outer Sect disciples—those cruel, ambitious creatures who fed on the insecurity and failures of newcomers to feel their own power. Their laughter was a soft, mocking thing, always lingering at the edge of hearing, like the rustle of poisoned leaves.
"Look at the little sparrow trying to become a hawk," one would sneer under his breath as she fumbled a complex hand seal. "Some talents are just… slower to ferment," another would jest to his companion, their eyes cold and dismissive.
Amid the sea of sneering faces and cynical opportunists, however, two figures stood apart. Rodney Luther and Jorge Blue were only a year her senior, yet they carried themselves with an aura of unshakeable integrity that felt alien in that den of vipers. While their peers preened, gossiped, and conspired in shadowed corners, these two cultivated with a singular, unwavering focus. Their dedication was not a performance for the elders; it was a silent, roaring flame of pure purpose that made the sputtering, deceitful candles of those around them seem pathetic and weak. And on those occasions when the mockery directed at the struggling new recruits grew particularly sharp and cruel, it was always Rodney who would step forward. His voice, when he spoke, was low and firm, devoid of theatrical challenge but resonating with the weight of simple, unassailable fact.
"A sect is built upon the collective strength of all its disciples, both senior and junior," he would state, his steady gaze pinning the smirking senior until the mockery in their eyes faltered and died. "To mock their sincere effort is to deliberately weaken our own foundation, and in doing so, you betray the very institution that grants you power."
To Emma, the man was profoundly different, his spirit possessing a purity that felt utterly out of place. He did not carry himself like a man from a demonic sect, steeped in betrayal and selfish ambition; instead, he embodied the focused dedication of a true seeker of knowledge, the kind of cultivating and learning man one would expect to find in a mythically righteous world.
In that ruthless environment, he became a living shield. For her, and for all the other wide-eyed and terrified novices of their generation, his presence was a bulwark against the pervasive corruption. In a world of demons, he was impossibly, bafflingly noble. He would correct their stances and hand seals without a trace of condescension, freely share hard-won insights from his own training, and his eyes—so often stern—held a core of profound kindness that felt, to Emma, like a sacred sanctuary. This was a seduction far more potent and dangerous than any fleeting flirtation; it was an appeal to the soul.
A dozen young women, Emma included, found their hearts tripping over themselves for him. They did not fall for a handsome face, but for a strong back that could bear any burden, for a spirit that adamantly refused to be corrupted, no matter the temptations that surrounded them.
For Emma, this admiration blossomed into a private universe constructed entirely from stolen moments and cherished glances. There was the shared, dangerous mission to gather night-blooming nettles in the treacherous Whispering Woods, where his calm, assured presence made the predatory shadows feel strangely safe. There was the long, quiet afternoon spent dissecting the complex flow of demonic energy through a blocked meridian, his brow furrowed in pure concentration, his patience seemingly endless. She found herself memorizing the unique cadence of his voice, the deliberate way he held his bone chain whip—not as an extension of anger or cruelty, but as a tool of pure, unadulterated purpose.
Eventually, gathering every fragile shred of her courage, her heart beating like a frantic bird trapped within the cage of her ribs, she had confessed her feelings during a quiet dusk, the heavy air thick with the cloying scent of twilight blossoms. She had laid her vulnerable heart bare before him, hoping against hope.
Rodney had listened with unwavering patience, his granite-like expression softening with a profound sorrow that chilled her far more deeply than any angry rejection ever could.
"Emma," he had said, his voice gentle but immovably final, like a tombstone sealing shut, "you have a brilliant and formidable future ahead of you. Do not anchor your heart to one who has pledged his entirety to the Path. My devotion belongs to cultivation, and to cultivation alone. You are a fantastic girl, with a fierce spirit. It would be a profound dishonor to you for me to offer anything less than the complete love I cannot give."
The true crucible of her feelings, however, came later, in a moment of sheer terror that cemented his legacy in her soul. A disgusting junior disciple, empowered by his stronger cultivation base, had ambushed her in this haunted estate. His intentions were a foul, palpable stain in the air. She fought with desperate fury, but his power was overwhelming, and a single, brutal blow knocked her senseless. As the filthy man pinned her limp body, his grip like bands of iron, her world shrank to the horrifying proximity of his leering face and the paralyzing terror that froze her very blood.
Later, after the event, venomous rumors began to slither through the sect's corridors before the true story could be told. That bitch, Ruru Rosa, eagerly tried to smear her innocence, painting Emma as the temptress, the seductress who had lured the poor disciple. But when the gossip reached a fever pitch, it was Rodney who stood before the gathering of sect comrades, his presence alone commanding a hushed silence.
Rodney stood there, his granite features carved into a mask of cold, righteous fury. He did not need to shout or grandstand. He simply moved, and the very air seemed to crack with the concentrated force of his intervention. He tore the filth from her, and the subsequent fight was short, brutal, and utterly decisive.
He had fought for her dignity with a ferocity he would not employ for her love.
He had protected her honor with the same unwavering principle with which he so zealously guarded his own solitary path.
He had never wavered, never offered a single word or gesture that could be construed as false hope.
He had been, consistently and until the end, a man of his word—a noble, steadfast soul in a den of unimaginable vice.
And she now understood, with the painful clarity of hindsight, that his clean rejection was perhaps the greatest kindness he could have ever offered her. It was a sharp, clean wound that allowed for healing, unlike a messy, half-hearted affection that would have festered forever. He had refused to taint her with a partial, distracted love, and in doing so, had gifted her the pure memory of a man who was, in the truest sense of the word, magnificent.
Lost in the swirling torrent of these memories, Emma was almost startled to find that her feet had carried her unconsciously to her final destination. She now stood directly over the fallen form of Krogh Hanz, looking down upon the legendary figure not with simple triumph, but with a complex whirlwind of emotions—awe at his fallen stature, grim satisfaction at her victory, and a strange, lingering sorrow for the brutal necessities of their path.
With a will of iron, she forcibly suppressed the rising tide of these painful memories, locking them away in the deepest, most fortified chamber of her heart. The truth was clear to her now: Senior Brother Luther had refused her advances not for the sake of another woman, but out of a single-minded, sublime devotion to the Great Dao. It was a path of ultimate ascension that had, in its own cruel irony, ultimately led to his tragic and untimely death. His passing, a source of enduring grief, now served as the primary fuel for her resolve, hardening her spirit into something cold, sharp, and unyielding. She was determined to carry his lofty aspirations forward, to honor his pure memory not through tears, but by seizing the very power he had cherished and ruthlessly pursuing the pinnacle of the path he had once walked.
Since that was the irrevocable case—since her beloved Senior Brother Luther was gone from this world and she alone remained, blessed and cursed with this heaven-sent opportunity—she knew she had no choice but to press onward without looking back.
Her grip tightened on the bone dagger, its pale edge gleaming with a hungry light as she poised it directly over Krogh's heart. This single, decisive strike would not only end a life but would irrevocably claim the destiny that was now rightfully hers, cementing her transformation from an obscure disciple into a future power to be reckoned with.
Yet, the very instant her dagger began its fatal descent, the world itself seemed to rebel. Without warning, a violent streak of blood-red light tore across the dome of the sky, a blinding scarlet scar that ripped through the tranquil twilight and utterly shattered the moment. It was not a natural phenomenon, but a manifestation of pure, annihilating energy, moving with a speed that defied perception.
Thud.
The sound was not loud, but horribly, sickeningly final. The crimson light did not fade; it simply converged. Before Emma's mind could even register the threat, before her muscles could twitch in defense, the energy cleaved through her. Her body, once whole and poised for victory, was severed cleanly in two. The light in her eyes extinguished instantly, and her remains collapsed in a sudden, lifeless heap at Krogh's feet, her bright future and complex dreams ending not with a triumphant shout, but with a dull, wet thud against the cold, unfeeling earth.
Having executed its lethal command, the Sword of Red Run now hovered silently in the air above its master. The blade, still gleaming with a faint, mournful light from its recent kill, seemed to hum with a palpable sense of agitation. From within the steel, the sword's spirit sent out a desperate, psychic cry that echoed in the silence, a single word filled with centuries of bonded loyalty and sudden, frantic worry.
"Master!" it called out, its ethereal voice a sharp contrast to the physical stillness of the night. The blade then spun in a swift, protective arc, intercepting the final, grisly splatter of the dead cultivator's blood that had been meant for its master's direction, its spiritual tone radiating a frantic, almost paternal concern.
After what felt like an eternity of silence and severed connection, the sword could finally sense the faint but distinct thread of its soul-bound tie to Krogh Hanz. The bond, which had been stretched to its breaking point, was now thrumming with renewed life. Yet, this relief was instantly tempered by profound confusion and alarm. Why was its master, a figure of once-boundless power and indomitable will, reduced to such a pitiable state? He lay broken, a mere shadow of his former self, his life force so diminished that he was teetering on the very edge of total oblivion.
At the sight of his Natal Sword, Red Run, a spark of life rekindled in Krogh's eyes. The initial shock of its sudden return gave way to a wild, desperate hope that flooded his ravaged body. He had severed the sacred Threads of Fate connecting him to the Ninefold Malice Earth Vein in a last, desperate gamble to surprise attack the Ju-On. The cost had been catastrophic: his own Life Providence was completely exhausted from the previous battle, and his final life-seizing attempt had failed. By all accounts, he should have been doomed, his soul scattered to the winds. But now, the impossible had happened: the terrifying Ju-On was slain, and his Natal Sword had returned to him against all odds. In that single, miraculous moment, he had dramatically completed all the arcane rules and brutal requirements of the Ju-On Dao Pillar's Three Calamity Tribulations!
"Quick! Give me your Spirit Essence!" Krogh gasped, the words a ragged whisper as he mustered the final dregs of his strength, forcing his command through the bond they shared. The Sword of Red Run was inextricably tied to his very life and soul. Having just survived its own Soul Bound Tribulation, the sword's refined Spirit Essence was the only thing that could temporarily sustain his flickering life force. It was a primordial energy, pure and directly compatible with his own ravaged core.
Of course, he knew this was merely a stopgap, a fleeting respite from the inevitable. Without reclaiming the crucial fragments of his own Life Providence that had been stolen by the Ju-On, the sword's Spirit Essence—though potent—was rooted in the same Foundation Stage as his own damaged cultivation. It alone would not be enough to sustain his dying life for more than a few precious moments. But just a few more moments of breath was all he needed… it was long enough for him to crawl back to the Moon Reflection Mirror.
His mind, sharpened by desperation, focused on the ancient stone well. Below it, that female cultivator, Ruru Rosa, was prisoned, her presence there serving a vital purpose: to anchor his fate and cover up the fact that he had severed the Threads of Fate and broken free from the constraints of the Ninefold Malice Earth Vein. She was the keystone of his deception.
As long as he could reach the mirror and command the Souleater Kodama Ghost Tree, he could force it to drain the woman's soul from her body. Then, in the fleeting instant between her death and his own, he could perform the forbidden soul-transference ritual, placing his own spirit into the vacant skull and seizing her physical form. In this grotesque manner, Krogh Hanz could continue his existence.
Krogh's heart raced with a dark and volatile mix of anticipation and revulsion. The promise of survival was now tantalizingly within reach, a single, grim thread he had to seize. The thought of becoming a woman, of inhabiting a foreign and weaker body, was profoundly distasteful, an affront to his very identity. But faced with the immediate and absolute certainty of annihilation, it was no choice at all. It was simply the next, necessary step on his path to power.
As a renewed and desperate hope swelled within Krogh's chest, a faint, confused quiver ran through the air. The Sword of Red Run trembled slightly in its hover, and the voice of its Sword Born spirit echoed in his mind, not with assurance, but with palpable, puzzled confusion. "Huh...?" it resonated, its tone laced with genuine bewilderment, "Master... have I not already given you my Spirit Essence?"
The words struck Krogh not merely as a surprise, but as a thunderclap of dreadful realization, utterly shattering his fleeting hope and exposing the terrifying truth of his situation. His brief moment of salvation crumbled into dust.
Krogh's eyes bulged in utter disbelief, a silent scream of fury and profound betrayal consuming what little remained of his final moments. His mind, sharpened by desperation, raced—
What?
How?
Who...?!
Who possessed the power and the cunning to deceive his Natal-bound sword, to intercept and steal the very Spirit Essence that was his by right, the last lifeline meant solely for him?!
It was an impossible treachery, a theft from the very core of his being.
"Wha—" he choked out, the syllable a ragged, guttural effort, but before the accusation could fully form, the last vestiges of his strength failed him completely.
The words died in his constricted throat, unvoiced. A tidal wave of pure rage and bottomless despair surged through his ravaged meridians, violently extinguishing the last flicker of the legendary sword master's life force. Krogh's face froze into a ghastly mask, a permanent sculpture of shock, utter disbelief, burning curiosity, and stunned paralysis, his eyes staring wide into the void, filled with an angry and astonished finality, as he stiffly collapsed backward, his body striking the cold earth with a definitive finality.
In the sacred covenant of the sword path, a cultivator and his soulbound natal sword shared a single, intertwined fate; their destinies were forged as one. The swordsman lives, and the spirit of the sword born remains vibrant; the swordsman dies, and the artifact spirit inevitably perishes, its purpose extinguished.
The very moment Krogh's final breath ceased and his heart stilled, the Sword of Red Run let out a final, piercing keen that was both a lament and a release. The brilliant spiritual light that had once adorned its blade flickered and died as its spirit began unraveling from within. It plummeted heavily from the air, its flight ended, all its once-vibrant and terrifying power fading in an instant into a dull, lifeless piece of metal. The spiritual light was completely extinguished, the legendary artifact becoming no more than a common, inert cultivation artifact, its glory departed with its master.
Simultaneously, at the distant threshold of the rear mountain, a parallel stillness fell. The monstrous Souleater Kodama, which had just finished devastating the mountain's earth vein and had begun its grim march toward the ancestral shrine, halted its advance abruptly. Its countless, writhing roots, which moments before had been pulsing with malevolent energy, stilled and sank into the ground. All the myriad eyes that covered its grotesque trunk snapped shut in perfect, unnerving unison, receding back into the bark like a vanishing tide of consciousness. In mere moments, all the unnatural, predatory aura bled from the giant tree's form, the animating will that commanded it having been severed.
What remained was no longer a terrifying, soul-devouring entity, but simply an ancient, ordinary tree, its form now inert and peaceful.
A wind swept down from the mountain peaks, rustling its branches and leaves with a natural, gentle sound. Its entire eerie presence had dissipated completely, leaving behind only this silent, wooden witness to the manor's fall, its branches swaying gently as if they had never known malice. The wind blew, and leaves drifted down from the giant trees in a slow, sorrowful dance. The fallen leaves settled silently upon the ground, layer upon layer, blanketing the courtyards and paths of the now-deserted mountain estate in a shroud of quiet and decay.
PS:
Hey there, wonderful readers!
I've brought you a weekend special: a brand new chapter that's over 6,200 words long! That's right—it's the longest single chapter in the book so far.
And speaking of milestones, can you believe our wild ride, "Why is My System Glitching?", has now crossed the 400,000-word mark? I'm smiling just typing that. Thank you for every second you've spent in this chaotic world.
This week's dose of chaos wraps up with a classic case of the bad guys turning on each other. You know the type: a brutal "dog eat dog" showdown. It's the kind of ending where you just have to sit back and sneer.
Happy weekend, everyone! YoungPeasant