Ashes of Victory
The Night Lotus Demon is dead, and with their defeat, the eternally ongoing Orthodox–Demonic War had ended.
Throughout the great martial world, humans celebrated. Bells tolled in mountain monasteries, firecrackers illuminated the skies over great cities, and thousands of martial artists wept with relief. The feared Night Lotus Cult, a darkness that had sought to consume the world whole, was no more. The era of peace, long promised and long deferred, seemed finally within sight.
But peace was not the sole remnant of war.
The Ten Clans Alliance had shed blood in plenty. Two of its most powerful sects—unwavering supporters of the Orthodox Faction—were left in smoldering rubbles. One of the Four Noble Clans disintegrated completely, its ancestral lands nothing but charred ashes.
A myriad of martial artists fell. Even the revered Heavenly Paragons, figures once thought immortal, met their end under the Night Lotus Demon's hand.
Yes—the war ended in victory. The Night Lotus Demon lay dead, and their cult lay shattered. But the scars remained, deep and unhealed.
So much was lost.
And no one could say how long it would take before the martial world regained its former brilliance.
Still—
Though the earth was filled with ash and darkness, though hope hung on like smoke, something persisted. One day, out of those ashes, hope would bloom again. One day, new heroes would emerge, born to bear the burdens of tomorrow and to hew justice from desolation.
…And me?
I didn't care about any of it.
"Where are they?"
The voice sliced across the silence like the point of a sword. A woman's voice—firm, unshakeable.
The torch flame in the cellar torture room flickered, lighting up her solitary form. She was at the heart of the Alliance of the Ten Clans' cellar.
Her complexion was white, nearly radiating in the darkness. Her figure was slender, brittle in appearance, yet every motion possessed a subtle strength. Her hair was drawn back in a tangled mess, tendrils hanging loose as if she had neither time nor inclination to care about appearances. Still, even where unruly, her figure had a dignity that could not be obscured.
She glowed, an indomitable star in a crumbling world.
Who would have believed that such a woman—the very same one standing in front of me now—was the one who cut the throat of the Night Lotus Demon, ending the horror that consumed generations?
Who would have dreamed that this young girl, once spoken of as no more than a budding disciple, would become the most powerful under the heavens?
She was Isabella, the Divine Sword.
The direct disciple of the Blade Sovereign himself, having died at the Night Lotus Demon's hands. And now—the unparalleled Zenith Under the Heavens, recognized by the world following the war's conclusion.
Maybe some said that her ascension was opportune—that the Three Heavenly Paragons' absence left the road to dominance empty.
But anyone who had seen Isabella cleave mountains in two with a single blow, who witnessed her summon storms of swordlight that drowned hundreds of demons in one moment of time. anyone who saw her three-day battle against the Night Lotus Demon that shook the heavens themselves—knew the truth.
Her throne wasn't inherited. It was won.
And that same woman now stood before me.
"I won't ask again. Where are they?"
My eyesight was blurred from loss of blood. My body writhed with pain from the hours of abuse, yet my eyes continued to see her.
Her robe, formerly white as snow, was sooted and ash-stained black.
Her ultimatum was obvious—but I couldn't respond. My vocal cords had been destroyed years ago.
Naturally, Isabella was aware of this. She was not unaware of my status. But her rage drove her beyond tolerance.
"You, of all people, must know where the Night Lotus Cult remnants hide."
And she was correct. I knew.
Not merely that—wanting to tell her.
"If you still possess any shred of conscience…"
Her voice shook, the first crack in her unbreakable tone. She pointed toward the shackles that held me captive, and with a wave of her hand, they dropped loose.
It wasn't a risk to her. To the world's Zenith, emancipating an wretch like me wasn't a threat. I, who couldn't even stand upright, had no strength to fight.
But even set free, I was still restrained.
The real manacles were not iron or chain. They were deeper.
Whatever Isabella did, all I could do was silently stare at the floor.
Thud.
Agony burst through my body as her blow hit me, and I slammed into the wall. The stone creaked under the impact. How much power had she exerted for my body to creak like that?
"This is your last chance. If you tell me what I need to know, then even if the whole world pursues you, I will shield you."
This was the woman hailed as the Zenith after the war. And yet…
"So please. I'm begging you."
Her words faltered, softening, breaking.
I could feel it—the desperation.
Why was she so desperate? Hatred for the cult? Vengeance for her master?
No. Something deeper. Something more important.
The Stone Blade.
Everyone knew of the bond between Isabella and Henry White, the man known as the Stone Blade.
Henry White, the leader of the Ten Clan Alliance. Her hero. Her inspiration. Her betrothed.
And now—took by the surviving remnants of the Night Lotus Cult.
It had to be due to that.
The strongest in the world, a woman stronger than armies, fitful and unraveled—due to one man.
"Speak quickly and reply! Where are they concealed?"
Her eyes blazed at me, hot enough to scorch me.
Somehow, it made me chuckle inside. Not outside—my body was too battered for laughter. But on the inside, I could sense the irony.
We weren't supposed to be like this, once. Not strangers. Not enemies.
But fate has a way of twisting. And choices decay.
I had made my choice.
I defected my own people, sold my soul to the Night Lotus Demon, and became a traitor. And she… she became a hero who the world adored.
When I continued to remain silent, Isabella's optimism shattered. She threw me aside like trash.
My body crashed against the stone once more. Pain hardly mattered. My nerves had been shattered years ago.
"If I had understood how despicable you became the first time we met, I would have murdered you as soon as I laid eyes on you."
Her voice was husky. Not for my ears. But I overheard.
And it cut deeper than any sword.
Regret. My biggest regret.
What was she like, then? When I first saw her? I couldn't even recall anymore. Perhaps I never bothered to. Perhaps that memory had been buried under my sins for so long.
But buried or not—it still gnawed at me.
Why did I bury it so deep?
Creaaak.
She turned to depart the chamber. The door creaked open.
But she did not leave.
Because I moved.
My twisted body rubbed against the stone. My fractured bones groaned as I pushed my head upward.
Isabella's eyes grew wide, her shining gaze flashing with delicate hope.
With shaking fingers, I reached into my own blood and started to write on the ground.
Each line etched on stone was an expense. My heart heaved in agony, blood spilling from my lips.
Due to the curse.
The Night Lotus Demon's oath.
Don't betray the Demons.
Four words. That was the brand that controlled my life.
Anyone who defied it died. Regardless of their power, regardless of their will. Their heart would break in their chest like shattered glass.
I hoped—thought—that with the Night Lotus Demon killed, the curse would break.
But it didn't.
Why?
Was it my stubborn will that let me endure this long? Or were the heavens granting me one last chance to redeem myself?
Whatever the reason, I knew the end was near.
"Huh? What's happening—"
Isabella's voice reached me dimly, as though from underwater. She rushed forward, eyes widening with alarm.
I ignored her. I had to.
This was my last act. My last defiance. My last… atonement.
My heart's beating turned into a hammer against my ribs. With each throbbing, there was more blood flowing from my mouth.
Still—I wrote.
A letter. Another. My eyes swam. My body shuddered.
Isabella's hand extended, shaking, attempting to hold me steady. But she did not halt me. She could not. She knew.
At last—at last, I finished.
The curse claimed me the very moment that I set down the final stroke. My heart exploded.
On the blood-etched stone floor were the cult survivors' location.
I fell. But Isabella scooped me up, wrapping my destroyed body in her arms.
Not with pity. Not with hatred. But to prevent my writing from being smeared.
I remember my last view of her face—shocked, hurt, conflicted. Then darkness.
What a disaster.
Why had I lived this way?
Why did I have? None worth mentioning. None anyone would accept.
I was Davis Fireheart of the Fireheart Clan of Emberhold.
Once an Orthodox warrior. Then a traitor. Then the puppet of the Night Lotus Cult.
Taken, shattered, and utilized as mere means to their remains.
A life worthy of being described in one line. A life no one cared to recall.
And I believed that was how it would all conclude.
…Until—
"Want a potato?"
"Huh?"
That voice. That ridiculous, misplaced voice.
It should have concluded here.
But fate, it appeared, wasn't finished with me.