Chapter 1 — The Fall and the Oath
The sky above the mountain was a churning storm of black and red, a canvas painted with the fury of heavens betrayed. Lightning split the clouds, illuminating the jagged spires of the Demonic Palace, each tower twisted like the claws of some ancient, forgotten beast. From its pinnacle, Mo Tianyin stood, his long black hair dancing in the wind, eyes glinting with the cold light of inevitability.
Below him, the battlefield had grown chaotic. The so-called righteous rulers of Taixu Domain had converged, their combined qi pressing against the very mountain. Flames and energy arrays scarred the air; the smell of blood and burning stone clung to everything. His disciple, Yan Qing, knelt at the edge of the courtyard, blade in hand, his expression unreadable, the culmination of years of betrayal resting in that motionless stare.
Mo Tianyin's lips curved slightly, not in fear, nor in pain, but in acknowledgment. "So it comes to this," he murmured, voice low, almost casual. "The disciple strikes before the master falls."
Yan Qing did not answer. The Records of the Human Emperor glinted faintly on his belt, a prize worth more than loyalty, worth more than life. Mo Tianyin's vision sharpened. Years of planning, countless secret techniques, alchemy perfected over decades—all reduced to this moment. The righteous rulers, fearing the knowledge he had uncovered, had come not as comrades or challengers, but as executioners.
The first strike came like thunder. Mo Tianyin leapt from the palace balcony, a shadow among shadows. His qi flared, black and green, a spectrum of corruption and intent. Demonic seals ignited along his arms; the Crimson Abyss Domain unfurled, a blood-red aura that twisted the ground and air alike. The nearest sect cultivators were hurled back as if the mountain itself rejected their presence.
He moved like a predator. Hand-to-hand strikes, demonic arts, and spectral shadows blended seamlessly. Each enemy that advanced was met with devastation: limbs shredded, weapons crystallized into sharp fragments and scattered, souls partially consumed by the lingering force of his Nether Soul Devouring Technique. Pain, for him, was irrelevant. He had long since severed himself from it.
But there were too many. The mountain shivered under the weight of their qi, energy waves colliding in dazzling arcs, shattering the palace's outer walls. Yan Qing struck, silently, his blade cutting through a wave of black qi like it was nothing, advancing with ruthless precision. Mo Tianyin parried with one arm, absorbing the strike, and for the first time in centuries, he allowed a hint of intrigue to pass his lips.
"You've learned well," he said. "Too well, perhaps."
The disciple's eyes betrayed nothing. "I learned what I must."
For hours, they fought. Mo Tianyin unleashed everything—his forbidden arts, his soul-bending techniques, the culmination of decades of ruthless mastery. Spells collided with spells, blood crystallized into weapons, and the air itself seemed to ripple in protest. Yet, the alliance's numbers, their relentless precision, began to carve at him. He could see it—the small fractures appearing in his defenses, the slow erosion of his corporeal vessel.
He had been feared, loathed, but respected, and still, it had come to this. Betrayal had a taste, sharp and metallic, lingering in his mouth. He remembered every torturous day of his life: the mockery, the endless schemes of the clans, the lies dressed as righteousness. That bitterness flared now, not as sorrow, but as clarity. The world had failed him. Every king, every disciple, every so-called righteous ruler—they had underestimated one thing: the mind of Mo Tianyin.
And yet… there were limits, even for him. A final wave of attacks broke through his defenses. Limbs shattered, qi channels ruptured, crimson blood spraying across fractured stone. Yan Qing's blade found its mark. Mo Tianyin's body collapsed to his knees, eyes scanning the battlefield one last time.
He tasted the air, thick with death, and felt nothing. Not pain. Not fear. Only understanding.
"You… will pay," he whispered, voice as cold and hollow as a grave.
The world around him seemed to slow. Memories of centuries flickered in his mind: countless techniques perfected, poisons refined, weapons forged, souls consumed. And yet, amidst all of that, a single thought burned brighter than all else: the Records of the Human Emperor. The secrets of the heavens. The existence of worlds beyond mortal comprehension.
He exhaled slowly, letting the last vestiges of his body fade. The mountains, the palace, the battlefield—everything dissolved into darkness.
In the void, a whisper reached him, faint but insistent, like a pulse echoing through emptiness.
[Initializing... Host: Mo Tianyin]
[Error: Physical vessel destroyed]
[Soul integrity: 17%]
[Searching for compatible vessel...]
Mo Tianyin's consciousness recoiled, instinctively resisting the pull of annihilation. It was not instinct—it was will. He had survived centuries of betrayal, torture, and assassination attempts. He would survive this, too.
Time no longer had meaning. Fragments of memories, alchemy formulas, forbidden techniques, every shadow of his former life swirled around him, coalescing into a single, potent ember of intent.
If I am to fall… let the heavens bear witness to my return.
And then, like a candle snuffed in wind, the light of his existence extinguished. The battlefield, the palace, the storm above, all faded into silence.
On the other side of the mortal world, a faint pulse stirred. In the mud-streaked alley of a small, insignificant village, a boy's chest rose and fell shallowly. Lin Xuan—the orphan who had lived a life of weakness, love, and fleeting courage—clutched a woman's hand as she screamed. The servants of her household, greedy and merciless, had betrayed her family. The young master of the house, and his martial mother, were already being dragged away by poisoned chains.
The boy's hands trembled, his chest heaving. His heart pounded with a feeling he could not name—pain, fear, loss. And yet, within that chaos, a spark flickered. It was familiar, sharp, and unyielding.
Somewhere deep in the recesses of his soul, another consciousness stirred. It was cold. Calculating. Ancient.
So this is mortality.
The boy gasped, as though awakening from a dream he did not understand. And then, as his vision blurred, and the first tendrils of consciousness from another life slipped into him, a single, undeniable truth emerged.
Darkness folded into light.
Mo Tianyin, Demonic Sovereign of Taixu Domain, scourge of the heavens, the ruler who had once stood above all, had been extinguished. And yet, he had not truly fallen.
A new life awaited, fragile and mortal. But it was a vessel. A seed. A beginning.
The storm above the distant mountains had passed. The palace lay in ruins, blood and qi lingering like a memory. And far away, in the quiet despair of a small, orphaned boy, a demon's mind opened its eyes.
> He would return.
He would take revenge.
And he would see the heavens themselves bend to him.