The battlefield was silent. Silent, save for the sound of blood dripping onto the soil, drop by drop, seeping into the ruined earth.
The sky was dim and clouded, the sun hidden behind a veil of smoke and ash. Once, this valley had been a place of green life—birds, rivers, and forested mountains. Now it was a scar upon the world, an ocean of corpses and broken weapons.
And at the center of this wasteland stood a lone figure.
Zhuo Fang.
His robes were black, drenched with crimson, torn and tattered, yet his back remained straight. His long hair, matted with dirt and gore, fluttered faintly in the poisonous wind. His eyes burned, cold and sharp, like blades that had cut through countless throats.
All around him, countless cultivators encircled him. The united armies of eight righteous sects, their banners torn, their disciples pale with fear. They had once come here with confidence, to slay a single man. They had thought themselves hunters.
But now, they knew they were prey.
An old man stepped forward from their ranks. His white beard was stained with soot, his scholar's robes scorched from battle. He was Patriarch Xu of the Heavenly Script Sect, one of the most revered leaders of the righteous path. His voice trembled with suppressed fury as he shouted:
"Zhuo Fang! Surrender the Eight Colored Herbs, and perhaps we shall grant you a quick death!"
The cultivators behind him straightened, gripping their weapons. Though their knees shook, though their hearts quailed, they found a sliver of courage in their patriarch's words.
But Zhuo Fang only laughed.
The sound was hoarse, cruel, and mocking, rolling across the battlefield like thunder.
"Patriarch Xu… do you take me for a fool?" His voice dripped with contempt. "You say 'surrender,' but what you truly mean is 'submit.' And when I submit, you'll peel me apart, strip me of everything, and cast my corpse aside. A quick death? Hah! I'd rather carve my own path with blood than kneel before hypocrites like you."
Patriarch Xu's face twisted, but Zhuo Fang was not finished. His voice rose, carrying across the battlefield.
"You accuse me of refining the Eight Colored Herbs, of slaughtering billions. Yes, I refined them! Yes, I slaughtered them! So what if I did? The weak are nothing but fodder. Their lives are like grass—born to be trampled, harvested, and burned. You righteous sects pretend at morality, but tell me—when you enslave villages, when you bleed your disciples dry for resources, when you plunder the heavens themselves—do you call that justice?"
His laughter grew louder, sharper, like a blade sawing against bone.
"I am called demon because I strip away the mask. I do openly what you do in secret. That is the only difference between me and you."
The cultivators shivered. Some lowered their gazes, unable to meet his eyes. His words tore into their hearts, exposing truths they wished to bury.
Patriarch Xu roared, his aura flaring. "Madman! Your evil has no end. Today, we cut off this calamity at its root!"
At his command, thousands of cultivators surged forward, unleashing torrents of Chi. Firestorms roared, rivers of light surged, blades of wind and stone screamed toward Zhuo Fang. The sky itself seemed to collapse under the combined might of the righteous path.
Yet Zhuo Fang did not retreat.
Amidst the storm of power, his body remained unmoving, like a mountain rooted in blood. His eyes glittered with madness.
"You want me to run?" he sneered, blood dripping from his lips. "Hahahahaha! Who's running? Why should I run? Since the day I was born, I've only ever advanced by crushing those before me. If I must fall, then I will drag the world down with me!"
With those words, he pressed his hand to his chest. His Chi Aperture trembled violently, his Chi Core cracked. The Eight Colored Herbs fused into him, flooding his veins with unbearable power. His body split and bled, each heartbeat tearing him apart from within.
But his laughter only grew louder.
The Eight Sects realized his intent. Their faces paled. Their hearts froze.
"Self-detonation!" someone screamed.
Panic spread through their ranks. Elders shouted orders, disciples scrambled, but it was too late.
Zhuo Fang threw back his head and roared to the heavens. His voice was filled with cruelty, with defiance, with a madness that would never bow.
"Zhuo Fang does not kneel to Heaven!"
BOOM.
His Chi Core shattered. His aperture ruptured. The Eight Colored Herbs ignited as fuel, releasing a cataclysmic torrent of Demonic Chi.
A wave of annihilation swept outward. Mountains crumbled. Rivers boiled. Armies vanished, bodies erased to ash. Thousands of cultivators screamed for but a moment before being swallowed by black flame. The sky itself cracked, the heavens trembling at the fury of one man's death.
When the light faded, silence reigned.
Where once had stood armies, sects, and banners, nothing remained but scorched earth. The righteous path had won, and yet they had lost. Their disciples lay in ashes, their elders annihilated. The price of Zhuo Fang's fall was their own destruction.
And Zhuo Fang himself?
Gone. His body obliterated, his soul scattered.
The world would remember him as the most terrifying demon of his age. A man who had defied all sects, all heavens, and even death itself.
But beneath the ashes, unseen by mortal eyes, a faint ember pulsed.
It was not light. It was not warmth. It was not mercy.
It was the remnant of Zhuo Fang's Demonic Heart, refusing to perish.
Even in death, it beat faintly, whispering its cruel promise.
The heart of a demon remains after death