The mountains stretched endlessly, jagged peaks cutting into the sky like black teeth. Shen Zong's steps were silent as he made his way toward the Ruins of the Fallen Saints, a place shunned even by wandering cultivators. It was said that the spirits of ancient masters lingered, their remnants of power twisted by the passage of centuries.
The path was treacherous. Broken cliffs, collapsing stone bridges, and twisted vegetation guarded the entrance to the ruins. Yet Shen Zong moved calmly, each step precise, his senses alert to the faintest movement.
A low growl echoed from behind a broken pillar. From the shadows emerged a Spirit Wraith, translucent and malevolent, eyes glowing with the remnants of a saint's qi. Its voice hissed like wind through bones:
"Who dares enter… the resting place of the Fallen?"
Shen Zong did not flinch. His chest mark pulsed faintly.
"I am no saint," he replied softly. "I am the curse they never imagined."
The wraith attacked, its ethereal claws rending space itself. Shen Zong shifted, the phantom lotus blooming briefly behind him. The tendrils of cursed qi tore through the wraith, dispersing its form into nothing but whispering fragments that vanished into the wind.
Qi Refined, Third Stage… stable. The scripture whispered, a cruel, satisfied murmur within his mind.
---
Deeper within the ruins, the remnants of ancient relics glimmered faintly, exuding strange, demonic energy. Shen Zong approached one—an obsidian blade, etched with inscriptions older than the sects themselves.
As his hand brushed the hilt, visions flooded his mind: battles, carnage, and a fallen cultivator of immense power, devoured by his own greed. The blade whispered to him, promising strength, immortality, and knowledge—but at a cost.
Shen Zong smiled faintly. "Everything has a price. Let us see… how high yours is."
He lifted the blade, feeling the surge of cursed energy. The phantom lotus pulsed, responding to the relic. Power flooded him, but so did the faint tug of his own humanity, fraying at the edges.
---
Unbeknownst to him, shadows moved at the edge of the ruins. Two figures cloaked in azure—the scouts of the Azure Cloud Sect—watched silently, sending messages back to their sect.
"Master," one whispered through a jade talisman, "he has reached the Ruins of the Fallen Saints. The boy is tampering with relics of ancient demons. His cultivation… it grows too fast."
The other nodded, frowning. "He is more than a threat. The inner sect must intervene, but we must be careful. If we strike now, he may awaken powers beyond comprehension."
Shen Zong's eyes narrowed faintly as he felt a disturbance—a faint thread of qi in the air, cautious but deliberate. He smiled softly, the darkness within him curling with anticipation.
The world is beginning to move. Let them come. Let them all come.
He turned back to the obsidian blade, lifting it fully. Shadows coiled around him, the phantom lotus thrumming in his chest, ready to devour, ready to bloom, ready to claim whatever stood in his path.
The ruins were alive now.
And so was he.