The land had not forgotten.
Even one month after the storm of tribulation lightning and the earth-shattering roars that shook the valleys, whispers still curled through the taverns and temples of the Central Continent. They spoke of a shadow born in blood, a nameless calamity that had survived heaven's judgment and walked away unbowed. Some dismissed it as drunken exaggeration. Others trembled, knowing all too well that rumors this dark were never birthed from air alone.
Far from the gossip of mortals, Aezreal moved.
He walked alone, cloaked in plain black, but every step across the broken paths of the wilderness was accompanied by a subtle resonance. The ground darkened in his wake, grass withering in silence, not from his aura alone, but from the presence of the weapon slung across his back.
The Blood Scythe.
Once a cold tool of slaughter, now an evolving predator bound to his soul. It pulsed faintly, veins of crimson light threading along its curved blade. Sometimes it whispered. Sometimes it shuddered, like a starving beast smelling prey in the distance.
And Aezreal — though utterly calm — could feel it inside his bones. The scythe was alive, and like all living things, it hungered.
> "Patience," he murmured, one pale hand brushing the haft.
"Your feast is coming."
The blade gave a soft hum, satisfied for now.
The World He Walked Into
The Azure Sky Sect did not sit in isolation. To reach them, Aezreal would cross the spines of empires, kingdoms, and rival sect territories that made up the Central Continent — each a towering pillar of power, each ruled by lords who fancied themselves eternal.
To the north, the Empire of Valerion, a dynasty of steel-blooded generals and ruthless kings. They were famed for armies clad in spirit-forged armor and war machines that had crushed rebellions for centuries.
To the east, the Crimson Lotus Empire, a land steeped in mystic arts, where every noble house produced cultivators. Their cities shimmered with formations that even the heavens hesitated to disturb.
To the west, the Silver Dominion, merchants and shadow-dealers who controlled the flow of rare ores, spirit herbs, and knowledge itself. Their assassins were whispered to be sect-killers.
And in the center, atop the Sacred Azure Peaks, stood the Azure Sky Sect itself. They did not merely dominate — they balanced and restrained the other empires, proclaiming themselves guardians of equilibrium. Their disciples roamed freely, their decrees bent the flow of trade, and their elders were said to be only a step away from immortality.
The sect was not just a mountain fortress. It was the keystone of the continent's order. And it was toward this keystone that Aezreal now walked.
A Path of Omen
The first weeks of travel were quiet. Forests bent away from his aura. Spirit beasts that normally prowled in feral packs avoided him like carrion birds avoiding a living predator. When they could not, when desperation overpowered instinct, they died quickly — their blood siphoned by the scythe in a hiss of crimson steam.
Bandits attempted an ambush once, thinking him a lone traveler. Their screams did not last long. The next morning, farmers traveling the same road found only husks — bodies dry and gray as if decades of life had been sucked away.
Rumors spread faster. In the border towns of Valerion, taverns began calling him The Wanderer of Ash. In Crimson Lotus markets, whispered scrolls carried sketches of a man in black with a scythe taller than himself. The Silver Dominion traders put prices on his head, though not one assassin dared move after hearing of what became of the bandits.
And high above, in the peaks of the Azure Sky Sect, elders sat in their silent halls, eyes half-closed in meditation, as the currents of the world shifted.
> "Something comes," murmured Elder Zhao, one of the Five Heavenly Pillars.
"The survivor spoke before he died," another replied darkly. "Those words… only one being should know them."
"Impossible. That bloodline is long erased."
"Then let us pray these whispers are wrong. Because if not… even heaven will bleed."
Their decision was made. The sect tightened patrols, recalled outer disciples, and fortified its mountain. But Aezreal, far below, felt none of this tension. His stride was slow, patient, inexorable — like an executioner sharpening his blade before a public square.
The Scythe's Hunger
On the thirtieth day of his march, Aezreal stopped at the edge of a ruined battlefield. Broken banners lay half-buried in dirt, bones bleached under sun and rain. It was an ancient scar of war, long forgotten by empires.
The scythe began to vibrate violently. Crimson veins pulsed, and the very air thickened.
Aezreal drew it free, letting the curved edge sing in the wind. Blood mist seeped from the ground, the remnants of countless slaughtered soldiers answering the weapon's call. In moments, the air was red, every corpse exhaling its last memory of death.
> "So this is what you crave," Aezreal said softly, watching as the scythe drank greedily, the skeletal remains collapsing into dust.
"Not just blood… but history itself."
When it finished, the weapon gleamed with a deeper sheen, its edge sharper, its presence colder. Aezreal tested its weight and smiled faintly. It was no longer merely his tool. It was his companion in annihilation.
And together, they would walk into the Azure Sky Sect.
Shadows Across the Continent
While Aezreal moved unseen, the continent boiled with speculation.
Valerion's generals issued orders to fortify border fortresses, fearing that the Azure Sky Sect's impending conflict would spill onto their soil.
Crimson Lotus scholars gathered in hidden towers, studying prophecies, their eyes widening at verses that spoke of "a dragon reborn in blood, carrying the blade of endings."
The Silver Dominion merchants smirked, selling fear itself — weapons, scrolls, false rumors, anything to turn chaos into profit.
And the Azure Sky Sect — proud, ancient, and immovable — tightened its grip, declaring that no calamity could breach its holy peaks.
But in the hearts of ordinary cultivators, dread grew. They had no name for the shadow. No face, only whispers. Yet when night fell and the wind carried the faint echo of a scythe's hum, they barred their doors and prayed.
Atop a hill overlooking the distant azure-capped mountains, Aezreal finally paused. He rested the scythe across his shoulders, eyes half-lidded, as though savoring the scent carried by the wind.
The peaks glowed faintly under the moonlight, serene, eternal. To countless disciples, they were symbols of security and destiny. To him, they were nothing more than prey, fattened on arrogance.
> "Azure Sky Sect…" His voice was low, almost conversational, but it carried into the night like a verdict.
"You will be my next sign-in."
The scythe thrummed in agreement, its glow spreading across the blade like a heartbeat. The sound was not just hunger. It was anticipation.
And so the march continued.