"Mo Jue, hand over the Aeon-Erosion Seed and I will grant you a clean severing of the soul!"
"Vile demon! Today, the righteous coalitions of the Seven Peaks have converged to sanitize this wasteland. There is no path left for you but the void!"
"Two thousand years of depravity, Mo Jue! You refined the marrow of millions of infants to temper that seed. Your sins are written in the very rot of the earth. Today, we bring balance to heaven!"
"Monster, fifteen centuries ago you slaughtered my clan to feed your Phantom Graft. I have waited through three reincarnations to see your blood stain the frost!"
The voices lashed out through the howling gale of the Sky-Rending Peak.
Mo Jue stood at the center of the encirclement. His robes, woven from the filaments of a Rank 5 Phantom, were reduced to scorched, blood-soaked rags.
His long hair, once as black as the abyss, was matted with gore and grime. He looked around the plateau.
The wind caught his tattered sleeves, whipping them like a funeral shroud.
From the countless lacerations on his body, Black-Blood Essence oozed steadily. It pooled beneath his feet, hissing as it touched the frozen rock.
Enemies were everywhere. Every mountain pass was blocked by high-ranked Grafters. Every sky-lane was sealed by restrictive arrays.
Death was a mathematical certainty.
Mo Jue processed this fact with clinical detachment. Even facing total erasure, his expression did not shift. There was no tremor in his hands, no frantic light in his eyes.
His gaze was a deep, stagnant pool. It held a stillness that made the surrounding heroes uneasy.
The coalition forces—composed of venerable Sect Elders and the rising stars of the righteous path—held their positions. Some roared curses to mask their fear; others sneered with the confidence of the many.
A few held their wounds, looking at the silent demon with eyes that betrayed a deep-seated trauma.
They did not strike yet. Every observer knew that a Rank 7 Demon at the end of his path possessed the capability for a suicidal detonation that could take many of them.
The standoff persisted for six hours. The sun began its descent, casting a bruised purple light across the jagged peaks. The sky looked as though it were hemorrhaging.
Mo Jue, who had been as motionless as a tombstone, slowly shifted his weight.
The sudden movement caused a ripple of panic. The front line of cultivators instinctively retreated a full step, weapons humming with essence.
The gray stone beneath Mo Jue was now a dark, viscous red. Due to the massive loss of essence and blood, his skin had achieved a translucent, deathly pallor.
In the fading twilight, he seemed to glow with a faint, ghostly luster.
Looking at the dying sun, Mo Jue let out a dry, rattling laugh.
"The heavens break above the silent peaks, the frozen moon greets the spring. Dawn is a fine thread and night is a heavy shroud; in the end, whether one conquers or fails, the Dao remains hollow."
As he spoke, fragments of a distant past flickered across his mind.
He was once a man from a world governed by science and logic, a scholar who had accidentally tumbled into the meat-grinder of the Shattered Heavens.
He had survived 500 years of struggle, followed by 1500 years of demonic ascension. Two millennia had evaporated in the blink of an eye.
Memories buried under layers of cold calculation began to stir, sprouting like pale weeds in a dark room.
"I have failed the siege," Mo Jue thought. There was no bitterness in the realization.
This outcome had been a probability from the moment he chose the path of the Shattered Dao.
To be a demon in this world was to be a predator in a world that hated competition.
To turn against the world was to eventually be crushed by the weight of its collective resistance.
"If the Aeon-Erosion Seed I refined is effective, I shall remain a demon in the next cycle!"
With that final thought, Mo Jue's laughter grew louder, more dissonant.
"What is the demon laughing at?"
"Stay back! He is going to detonate his Reliquary!"
"Kill him now! Secure the Seed!"
The coalition surged forward like a tide of steel. In that instant, a blinding eruption of Crimson-Gold Ichor consumed the peak. The sound was not a bang, but a terrifying roar of space-time tearing itself apart.
---------------
The sound of rain was the first thing Mo Jue processed. It was a soft, rhythmic patter against a windowpane.
It was deep into the night. A cold breeze carried the scent of wet pine and blooming mountain flora.
Black Silt Ridge was not dark. From its rugged slopes down to the base, clusters of lanterns glowed like embers in the mist. These lights originated from the dense residential blocks of the Mo Clan Village, a pocket of order in a world of entropic horror.
In the heart of the village stood the Ancestral Pavilion. Tonight, its windows were ablaze with candlelight, signaling the commencement of a grand ritual.
"Ancestors of the Shattered Dao, look upon your descendants! We pray that this ceremony reveals vessels of high capacity, bringing new strength to the Mo bloodline!"
The Head of the Mo Clan, a man of fifty with silvered temples and a sharp, calculating gaze, knelt upon the polished yellow floor. Clad in ceremonial white robes, his posture was as rigid as a spear. His hands were clasped in a gesture of supplication.
Before him stood a tiered altar housing the memorial tablets of the clan's predecessors. Thick coils of incense smoke drifted toward the rafters.
Behind him, twenty elders and high-ranking deacons knelt in unison. They were the pillars of the Mo Clan, the masters of the local containment zones.
The Clan Head leaned forward, his forehead striking the floor with a rhythmic thud.
Behind him, the elders followed. The hall filled with the sound of heads knocking against wood—a collective heartbeat of desperation and hope.
Once the prayers concluded, the assembly rose in silence and filed out into the long, covered corridors of the pavilion. The heavy atmosphere of the ritual began to lift, replaced by the hushed tones of political maneuvering.
"Another year has passed. The cycle never slows."
"I still remember the last ceremony. It feels like only a month has gone by."
"I wonder what the crop looks like this year. We haven't seen a great talent in three cycles."
"Indeed. The Zhao Village and the Iron-Silt Sect have both produced geniuses recently. That Zhao Yin from the neighboring peak... they say his natural capacity is over high."
The mention of Zhao Yin caused a visible darkening of the elders' expressions.
That youth was a freak of nature. In only two years of training, he had already reached the Upper-Stage of Rank 1. In the younger generation, he was a mountain that shadowed all others. He would inevitably become a powerhouse that could threaten the Mo Clan's resource borders.
"But there is hope for us this year" one elder noted, lowering his voice.
"You mean the orphan from the outer branch? Mo Jue?"
"Precisely. By age four, he was analyzing clan logistics and reciting the fragmented scriptures. His intellect is... unsettling. A pity about his parents, but his uncle has raised him well."
"Intelligence is a fine tool, but without a Reliquary to house it, he is just a clever mortal. However, early wisdom often correlates with high capacity. If he his reliquary is A-grade, we might have our own answer to Zhao Yin"
The Clan Head, walking at the rear, overheard the discussion. He knew they were talking about the boy who had become a local legend for his eerie, silent competence.
In the history of the Shattered Heavens, those with photographic memories or early-onset logic often possessed superior spiritual vessels.
"If this child is A-grade, he is a weapon. If he is B-grade, he is a pillar. Given his early traits, the probability of A-grade is high," the Clan Head mused with a cold smile appearing on his face.
He stopped and cleared his throat. The elders turned immediately.
"The hour is late. Rest and stabilize your essence. Tomorrow's evaluation requires your full attention."
The elders bowed. They understood the subtext.
Tomorrow, they would be fighting one another to claim the best talents as disciples or sons-in-law.
To secure a genius like Mo Jue meant prosperity within the clan.
"We shall take our leave."
"May the Dao be contained."
The corridor grew quiet as the elders dispersed. The Clan Head walked to a window. He looked out over the village.
The lights represented the future—the fuel that kept the Mo Clan from being swallowed by the surrounding miasma.
"The hope of the clan" he whispered.
At that same moment, in a small, sparse room in the outer village, a pair of eyes opened. They were clear, devoid of the fog of sleep, and filled with a cold, complex depth.
Mo Jue sat by the window, letting the spray of the spring rain hit his youthful face.
"Mo Clan Village... before the disaster?"
He looked at his hands—pale, soft, and small. He slowly clenched them into fists, feeling the lack of callouses, the lack of power, and the terrifying absence of the Aeon-Erosion Seed in his dantian.
"The Seed worked. A rebirth of two thousand years... or rather, a regression."
The rain continued to patter against the sill. Mo Jue closed his eyes for a long moment, then exhaled a breath that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.
"Two thousand years..."
But as he felt the cold bite of the wind, he knew better.
He received another chance