The night sky bled crimson.
Shen Zong staggered through the jagged cliffs of the Black Serpent Mountains, his robe in tatters, blood painting every step he took. Behind him, the echoes of pursuit never ceased—blades flashing, killing intent heavy like storm clouds.
"Don't let him escape!" a voice roared. "The boy carries the curse—his head alone will earn us the favor of the Alliance!"
Arrows hissed past his ear. One pierced into his shoulder, grinding bone. Shen Zong's body shuddered, yet he did not cry out. His face was pale, calm as ever, though his eyes glowed with a silent madness.
Each step was torment. His meridians screamed, his organs ruptured, but still he moved. Crawling through broken rocks, tumbling down cliffs, dragging his ruined body into the depths of wilderness.
The heavens above seemed to mock him. The cursed mark on his chest burned endlessly, as though branding him with the will of fate itself: You were never meant to live.
---
Three nights passed.
Shen Zong had no food. His water was rain licked from stone. His wounds festered, black veins spreading across his flesh. Insects gnawed at his open cuts. Yet his gaze never wavered.
"I will not die here." His whisper was barely audible. "Even if the heavens themselves wish it, I… will not… die."
---
The hunters did not relent.
At dawn, a dozen cultivators from the Azure Sword Sect cornered him in a ravine. Their blades shimmered with killing intent, forming a net of steel around him.
"Demonic brat," their leader spat. "Even rats know when to stop crawling. Accept your death."
Shen Zong stood unarmed, swaying like a broken reed. Yet his eyes—calm, ruthless—met theirs without fear.
"If I am a rat," he said softly, "then remember this… even a dying rat will bite."
He moved.
---
The clash was brutal.
Shen Zong fought with nothing but stones, broken branches, and sheer will. He broke bones with his bare fists, crushed throats with jagged rocks, tore flesh with teeth when no strength remained.
But the cost was unbearable. His ribs shattered. His vision blurred. When the last enemy's sword stabbed through his abdomen, Shen Zong only smiled faintly, blood leaking from his lips.
His body fell among corpses.
---
Above, the storm broke, lightning tearing the sky apart.
Rain poured down, washing blood into rivers. Shen Zong's fingers twitched as he lay dying, the world fading into silence.
Yet in that silence, he felt it—the cold breath of the abyss. Death was near, closer than it had ever been. But within its darkness, a spark shimmered. Something ancient. Something eternal.
"Immortality…" he whispered, eyes half-closed. "So this is… the path…"
And then, his consciousness sank into the void.