The forest had become his crucible.
For twenty years, the half-demon, half-dragon child had shed his old self, forging strength in solitude. Mountains became his bed, rivers his mirrors, and beasts his eternal opponents. Through relentless slaughter and meditation beneath ancient trees, he tempered his Origin Core to its pinnacle — Origin Core Perfection.
Now, his body was an embodiment of silence and dread. He no longer released aura; his very existence suppressed it. His eyes, once dull, glowed with crimson-gold light. Every beast in the forest had long since learned: to look into those eyes was to kneel.
On this day, he stepped across the boundary of the forest, leaving the only world he had known for a century.
[System Notice: Host has exited Isolation Zone.]
[System Notice: New Missions Unlocked – Conquer the World. Step into the Dao.]
The path sloped downward into the Azure Wind Kingdom, a fragile dominion of sects and kingdoms that postured as mighty. Compared to the immensity of the Omniverse, this land was dust. But to him, it was a beginning.
On the third day of walking, he smelled iron and blood.
A caravan appeared on the dirt road: chained mortals, dragged like cattle. Their skin was torn, their mouths gagged. Children stumbled as slavers whipped them forward, laughing. Among them walked a handful of sect disciples in azure robes, their eyes sharp with arrogance, their hands on polished swords.
"Another batch for the mines," one sneered.
"Filthy peasants. They should be grateful their lives fuel cultivation."
A child tripped, falling face-first in the dirt. A slaver kicked him aside. The boy did not cry. He had already lost the strength for tears.
The stranger's shadow fell across them.
A slaver turned, scowling. "Oi, brat. Move aside. This is sect business."
The stranger did not move. His gaze was flat, emotionless.
Annoyed, the slaver raised his whip. "Tch. Think you're—"
Shhhk.
The man's words ended with his head rolling across the dirt. Blood sprayed. His body twitched for a moment before falling lifeless.
The disciples froze, their arrogance cracking into fear. "You—! Do you know who we are? We are disciples of—"
They never finished.
From the void, a black scythe materialized in the man's hand, its edge shimmering with murderous intent. With one sweep, the world fell silent. Flesh parted. Dozens of men collapsed where they stood, their lifeblood painting the dirt crimson.
The chains of the slaves clattered as their captors fell.
The mortals stared in disbelief. Some wept, some collapsed in worship.
But the man did not spare them a glance. He wiped no blade, offered no words. He turned, walking onward, leaving behind corpses and trembling survivors.
Only one boy dared whisper as the figure vanished into the horizon:
"…Savior."
The wind carried back a sound — low, cold, and unfeeling. A chuckle, perhaps a laugh, echoing with dread.
"I am no savior… I am calamity."
The dirt road stained red became the first mark of his presence in the world. From that day forth, rumors would spread — of a shadow who walks with death, of a scythe that reaps lives without hesitation.
The first step beyond the shadows had been taken. And the world, unknowingly, had begun to tremble.