Silence.
It was a profound, deafening silence that settled over the Luo compound after the echo of Elder Bai's final, soul-rending scream faded into the night. It was thicker than the dust stirred by the battle, heavier than the oppressive aura the Elder had brought with him. It was the silence of absolute, primal awe, punctuated only by the ragged breaths of the onlookers and the faint crackle of residual demonic energy that still danced around Luo Zhen like a crown of black lightning.
He stood over the desiccated remains of what had once been a mighty Foundation Establishment expert, a being who could have ruled over Floating Cloud City with a mere thought. Now, it was little more than a pile of bone and cloth, a cautionary tale given form. The spiritual sword, once a beacon of pure power, lay on the ground like a discarded toy, its light utterly extinguished.
Luo Zhen took a deep, savoring breath. The air tasted of spent energy, fear, and victory. The influx of power from Elder Bai had been monumental, a tsunami of refined spiritual energy that had crashed against the shores of his Demonic Foundation, expanding it, deepening it, forging it into something even more monstrous and potent. Advancing two full levels in the Foundation Establishment realm from a single consumption was an act that defied all known laws of cultivation. It was the privilege of a sovereign, a right earned through absolute dominance.
He flexed his hands, feeling the new, terrifying power thrum within his veins. The world seemed sharper, clearer. He could feel the individual heartbeats of every clansman in the courtyard, could sense the minute fluctuations in Su Mei'er's dark energy from across the yard, could almost taste the metallic tang of Feng Lian's tears inside the hall. His demonic senses had expanded to encompass the entire city; he was a spider at the center of a web, feeling every tremble, every whisper of fear and desperation.
"This," his voice cut through the silence, not loud, but carrying an imperious weight that pressed down on every soul present. He gestured to the pathetic remains at his feet. "This is the fate of those who stand in our path. Not death. Erasure. Their strength becomes our sustenance. Their legacy becomes our footnote."
He turned his gaze, now burning with the light of solidified crimson stars, upon his clansmen. They were on their knees, not in forced obeisance, but in genuine, religious terror. They had witnessed their god not just win, but consume.
"Luo Cheng," he said.
The clansman scrambled forward, kowtowing. "My Lord!"
"Have this garbage disposed of. Burn the robes. Grind the bones to dust and scatter them to the winds. Let there be no relic, no grave, for the Iron Sword Sect to mourn." The orders were given with a chilling finality. "The sword. Take it to the forge. Purge it of its lingering 'righteousness' in the hottest demonic flames we can muster. Reforge it into something useful. A dagger. A hairpin. I care not. Its only purpose now is to serve."
"Yes, my Lord! Immediately!" Luo Cheng rose and began barking orders, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fervor. Clansmen moved with frantic efficiency, treating the remains of Elder Bai not with respect for a fallen expert, but with the revulsion of handling toxic waste.
Luo Zhen's attention then shifted to the main hall. He could feel the two distinct energy signatures within: Su Mei'er's cold, sorrow-laced darkness, and Feng Lian's panicked, fluttering weakness.
He walked inside. Su Mei'er stood protectively—or perhaps possessively—in front of the cowering City Lord's daughter. Su Mei'er's grey servant dress was still stained with blood from the pass, but her posture was straight, her eyes meeting his with that new, icy resolve, though he could see the pulse hammering in her throat. The Art of the Sorrowing Veil swirled around her faintly, actively drawing strength from the palpable terror in the room.
Feng Lian, on the other hand, was a wreck. Her fine silks were torn and dirty, her face streaked with tears and grime. She whimpered, trying to hide behind Su Mei'er's slender frame.
"Did you observe?" Luo Zhen asked Su Mei'er, ignoring Feng Lian completely.
"I... I did, Master," Su Mei'er replied, her voice steadier than she felt.
"And what did you learn?"
She hesitated, choosing her words carefully under his piercing gaze. "I learned that power is not about the grandeur of the technique, but the absoluteness of the result. He had a mighty sword and righteous energy. You had... hunger. And your hunger consumed his might."
A faint, approving smirk touched Luo Zhen's lips. "Adequate. You are beginning to see." His eyes then flicked to Feng Lian. "And this one? Has she learned her place yet?"
"She weeps. She misses her father. She is... weak," Su Mei'er reported, a hint of disdain in her tone. The process of her own forging was making her contemptuous of those who remained soft.
"Then make her useful," Luo Zhen said. "Her weakness is a resource. Her fear, her sorrow, her homesickness—these are fuels for your Art. Harvest them. Use them to strengthen your Veil. She is not a person; she is your cultivation aid."
The cold brutality of the statement made even Su Mei'er blanch for a second before she schooled her features. "Yes, Master."
"Good. Do not disappoint me." With that, he turned and left them, the weight of his presence lifting from the room, leaving behind a different, more intimate kind of dread.
He retired to the ancestral shrine, not to meditate, but to plan. The consumption of Elder Bai was a point of no return. The Iron Sword Sect would not send another lone Elder. They would mobilize. An army of righteous cultivators, led by the Sect Leader or a Grand Elder, would descend upon Floating Cloud City with the intent of complete purification. They would see him not as a nuisance, but as an existential threat to the orthodox way—which, he supposed, he was.
This was no longer about dominating a city. This was about preparing for a war.
His thoughts were interrupted by a hesitant presence at the door. It was Envoy Zhao.
The Starlight Pavilion agent looked paler than usual. The unflappable neutrality was gone, replaced by a deep, wary respect that bordered on fear. He had undoubtedly witnessed the entire battle from some hidden vantage point.
"Lord Luo," Zhao began, bowing much deeper than he ever had before. "The Starlight Pavilion... wishes to revise its assessment."
"Oh?" Luo Zhen didn't turn around.
"The information on the incoming Iron Sword Sect force was... incomplete. We did not anticipate the speed of their response, nor the... resolution... of your countermeasure." He chose his words with extreme care. "The Pavilion wishes to offer a more concrete gesture of goodwill."
"Get to the point," Luo Zhen said, his voice bored.
"The Iron Sword Sect is mustering its forces. Our agents report that Sect Leader Jin himself is preparing to lead a host of three hundred inner disciples and five Elders, including Grand Elder Mu, who is at the late stage of Foundation Establishment. They will march within the week."
This was significant information. A full-scale crusade.
"In return," Zhao continued, "The Pavilion offers its... logistical services. We can provide detailed maps of the sect's defenses, the deployment schedules of their patrols, the personal weaknesses of each Elder... for a price, of course."
Luo Zhen finally turned, his crimson-starred eyes locking onto Zhao. "The price being?"
"A... a share of the spoils," Zhao said, sweating slightly under the intensity of that gaze. "And a future... understanding... between your growing power and the Starlight Pavilion."
Luo Zhen laughed, a low, chilling sound. "You wish to bet on the winning horse after the race has already begun. Your information has value, but your timing is pathetic. You will give me the maps and the deployment schedules. You will do it for free. And in return, I will not consider the Starlight Pavilion my next meal. That is my offer."
Envoy Zhao swallowed hard. He had never been so thoroughly outmaneuvered. The demon was not negotiating; he was dictating terms from a position of absolute strength. To refuse was to invite immediate annihilation.
"...Agreed," Zhao whispered, the word tasting like ash.
"Leave the information with Luo Bo. Now, get out."
As the envoy fled, Luo Zhen's mind was already working. A week. He had a week to prepare for an army. It was not enough time to advance significantly himself, but it was enough time to forge his Luo Clan into a true demonic legion.
He strode out of the shrine and into the compound, where the cleanup was nearly complete.
"Luo Cheng! Gather everyone! Now! Every clansman, every Liu retainer, every Su worker! In the main courtyard!"
Within minutes, the entire population of the Luo compound—over a hundred people now—was assembled, their faces a mixture of fear, curiosity, and fervent loyalty.
"You have witnessed the fate of our enemies!" Luo Zhen's voice boomed, amplified by his demonic energy, echoing in their very souls. "But this is only the beginning! The so-called 'righteous' Iron Sword Sect is marching upon us! They bring an army to wipe us from the earth!"
A wave of panic went through the crowd.
"SILENCE!" he roared, and the panic was instantly crushed under his will. "They do not bring an army! They bring a FEAST!"
He let the words hang in the air, letting the shocking, terrifying concept sink in.
"For too long, you have been weak! You have been prey! But I have given you strength! I have given you purpose! Now, I will give you the ultimate opportunity! In one week, you will not be defending your homes! You will be hunting! The cultivators of the Iron Sword Sect are not warriors; they are walking spirit stones, bottles of potent energy waiting to be uncorked!"
He pointed a finger at the crowd, sweeping it across their faces. "But are you worthy of this feast? Are your fangs sharp enough? Are your stomachs strong enough to digest such power?"
He gestured, and clansmen brought forward the remaining cache of resources from the City Lord's tribute and the Liu assets—spirit stones, pills, and vials of beast blood.
"A second Baptism begins now!" he declared. "But this is not a gift! This is an investment! I will pour these resources into you! I will break you and remake you stronger! The process will be ten times more agonizing than the first! Many of you will die! Your bodies will burst! Your meridians will incinerate! But those who survive... those who are strong enough to endure... will become true demons! You will march out to meet the Iron Sword Sect not as victims, but as predators!"
The crowd was dead silent, mesmerized and horrified by the vision he was painting.
"The choice is yours!" he thundered. "Step forward and embrace your evolution, or step back and be discarded as the weakling trash you are! CHOOSE!"
For a heartbeat, there was hesitation. Then, Luo Cheng stepped forward, his eyes blazing. "I will feast with you, my Lord!"
Then another. And another. Soon, a wave of clansmen, their fear transformed into a desperate, hungry fervor, surged forward, shouting their allegiance.
Luo Zhen smiled. The seeds of his demonic army had been planted. The next week would be a crucible of blood and pain. He would forge these willing subjects into a weapon, and then he would unleash them upon the righteous world.
The calm was well and truly over. The storm was not just coming; he was building it, brick by bloody brick, and he would hurl it himself at the gates of the orthodox world.