The room had descended into an eerie silence—unnatural, suffocating, as though even the air feared what it had just witnessed with Miss Mo. The heavy scent of blood and burnt spiritual qi lingered, thick and metallic, clinging to the walls of the ancient chamber like a curse.
Dozens of cultivators stood frozen, their eyes wide with disbelief. No one spoke, no one moved. Their minds were still trying to comprehend what they had seen—a parasite tearing through flesh, a young woman half-dead but infused with something unholy. A demonic inheritance? Or a curse from a forgotten age?
Suddenly—
"Aaaaarghhhh!!"
A loud, bone-chilling scream shattered the silence. All heads snapped to the source. A young male cultivator, barely in his twenties, fell to his knees, clutching his chest with both hands. His veins bulged under his skin like thick cords, glowing with a sickly red light. His eyes rolled back into his head, froth and blood spilling from his lips.
Then his chest began to swell grotesquely, the rib cage visibly distorting and pulsing, as if something alive was crawling beneath his flesh.
"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" one of the others shouted, but it was already too late.
CRRRAAAACK!!
A wet, splintering sound echoed as his sternum exploded outward, ribs snapping like dry twigs, shards flying in every direction. From the jagged, bloody cavity of his chest, a massive worm-like creature shot out with a shriek that sounded less like an animal and more like an ancient demon wailing from the underworld.
Its form was more horrific than the one Miss Mo had borne. Covered in translucent skin, its insides glowed with a pulsing red hue. Rows of serrated teeth lined its circular mouth, and black tendrils extended from its body, twitching like feelers.
It landed with a wet thud and immediately twisted around. Its head snapped toward the nearest cultivator.
Before the man could react, the worm lunged with terrifying speed.
THWUMP!
It bit into his neck, ripping out flesh and arteries, blood splashing like a burst dam. The man screamed and flailed, but the worm wrapped its tendrils around him, pulling itself closer, drilling its mouth into his flesh.
Gasps and panic rippled through the room.
"This… this is a death trap!"
"They're hatching! These things are hatching from within us!"
One woman backed into a pillar, her breath shallow, heart racing. She looked down at her stomach. A faint red glow began to pulse beneath her skin.
"No... no... NO!!"
Another scream. Another body hit the ground. The worms had begun awakening in others. Cries of agony now filled the chamber as more cultivators fell, their bodies contorting, spasming. One after another, their chests or backs burst open, blood and gore splattering the ancient stone floor. Worms clawed their way out, each larger, more savage than the last.
It was no longer a trial or an inheritance.
It was a massacre.
Some tried to fight back, drawing their swords and unleashing spiritual techniques, but the moment they used their energy, it awakened the parasites inside them faster. The room became a swirling chaos of blood, screaming, and writhing demonic beasts.
Miss Mo, still barely upright, watched with wide, trembling eyes. Her own chest still burned from earlier. The worm inside her was dormant, but she could feel it twitch, feeding on the fear in the room.
Miss Mo's legs trembled as she tried to rise, blood still crusted around her lips and smeared down her chin. Her chest heaved with every breath, each inhalation feeling like a dagger twisting inside her ribcage. The remnants of the parasitic refinement still lingered in her body—her veins throbbed with a strange heat, her skin cold as stone.
Around her lay the remains of a horrific nightmare—broken bodies, exploded chests, blood pooled into dark puddles, and the scattered remains of cultivators who once dreamed of glory. The air was thick with the stench of death and burned qi. The once-proud warriors of various clans were now just lifeless husks, their final expressions frozen in agony and terror.
She put a hand on the cold stone wall to steady herself. Her fingers trembled.
Suddenly, the wall beneath her hand began to shift. The ancient carvings glowed faintly with crimson light. The stone moved—not crumbling or collapsing, but reforming, as if guided by an unseen will. The room around her trembled with a low, thunderous hum.
The walls began to open.
A vertical slit widened slowly before her, revealing a dark passage wrapped in mist and strange symbols glowing dimly on the floor. The howling of worms behind her had stopped. She dared not look back. Something—perhaps luck, or the influence of the demonic blood now inside her—had triggered the temple's will.
Heart pounding, she staggered forward into the passage. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the wall sealed shut behind her with a deep groan, closing off the massacre within.
Inside the corridor, silence fell. The oppressive energy from the previous room seemed to vanish, replaced by a calm, eerie stillness. Faint candle-like lights ignited along the walls, casting long shadows that danced and flickered as she walked. Her breathing was still uneven, but the pressure in her chest had lessened—as if the worm, for now, had gone into slumber.
She walked slowly, dragging her feet forward, each step echoing louder than the last. Then she turned back once to glance at the sealed wall. It looked ordinary again—as if nothing had happened.
The worms. The blood. The slaughter. All of it… buried by the will of the temple.
She realized then, this place wasn't just testing cultivators. It was feeding on them. Studying them. Choosing one. Perhaps, her escape wasn't luck. Maybe the temple had chosen her—or worse, the worm inside her had been chosen to survive.
As she continued through the passage, somewhere far behind her, she could still hear the faint, skin-crawling sound of hundreds of small legs dragging across stone, crawling deeper into the temple's dark heart… where something older, darker, and far more powerful was waiting.
In a dimly lit corridor that led to a vast underground chamber, the flickering glow of spirit torches cast shifting shadows across the ancient walls. A second group of cultivators—cloaked in a mix of fear and curiosity—stepped cautiously into an open area unlike anything they had seen within the temple so far.
The chamber was immense, its dome ceiling reaching so high it disappeared into darkness. Strange vines dangled from the ceiling, glowing faintly with bioluminescent hues. In the center of this hollow sanctum stood an enormous black stone, almost like an altar, cracked and timeworn, yet pulsing faintly with demonic energy. The stone's surface bore inscriptions—twisting, curved symbols that shimmered with a faint golden aura, alive with an ancient force.
One of the cultivators stepped forward, narrowing his eyes as he tried to decipher the writing.
"What language is this?" someone whispered. "It's not from this continent."
"I've studied hundreds of cultivation scripts," another muttered, "but I've never seen symbols like these…"
As confusion mounted, a deep, resonant voice echoed behind them.
"It is written in the language of the ancient dragons."
Every cultivator spun around instantly, their hands going to their weapons in reflex. The pressure they felt suddenly hit like a tidal wave—a terrifying aura washed over the chamber, as if a beast from legends had awakened.
A boy stepped forward—tall, broad-shouldered, and shirtless under a fur-lined black cloak that fluttered despite the still air. His skin was bronze-toned, and his muscles were carved as if sculpted by divine hands. But what silenced the crowd completely were the two enormous, twisted black horns curling from the sides of his head, glowing faintly with ancient runes.
His eyes burned like molten gold, and faint scales shimmered on his forearms and neck.
Someone in the crowd gasped, stepping back in disbelief. "That… that's impossible."
"He's… a Seventh Rank cultivator!"
"But how can someone so young—?"
"He's not human," another whispered. "He's part… dragon."
The boy's lips curled into a confident, almost arrogant smirk. "I was born beneath a cursed sky, trained among beasts, and forged in the flames of a fallen dragon temple. This place… it recognizes me."
As he walked toward the stone, the golden symbols pulsed brighter in response. It was as if the altar remembered him—or his bloodline.
The cultivators around him were frozen—not merely out of fear, but awe. Seventh rank was the domain of monstrous beasts, clan leaders, or ancient protectors. For one so young to reach it, with a bloodline so obviously draconic, was beyond terrifying.
One bold cultivator drew his sword slightly and asked in a shaky voice, "What are you doing here? Are you here for the inheritance too?"
The boy chuckled darkly. "No. I am not here to claim an inheritance. I was summoned. This place calls those who carry the blood of ancient powers. And if you wish to stand in my way…"
He turned his eyes toward them—those molten golden eyes seemed to burn straight through their souls.
"…then you'll simply become the ashes beneath my next step."
As he reached out to place his hand upon the stone, the air in the chamber began to hum violently, ancient seals unlocking with a sound like cracking bones and shifting worlds.
Something old… was awakening.