Lin Chen woke up gagging on a mouthful of black blood.
It tasted like rust and rotten meat. He rolled onto his side, his chest burning like someone had poured gasoline down his throat and lit a match. He was lying on a slab of freezing jade, staring up at a jagged rock cavern ceiling.
He spat the toxic sludge onto the floor and wiped his chin. Okay. Definitely not the sterile Earth hospital room where his heart monitor had just flatlined.
He was supposed to be dead.
He clearly remembered spending thirty-two years playing by the rules, keeping his head down, repressing every single emotion just to fit into a society that ground him into dust anyway. He died quiet. He died numb.
This was absolutely not numb.
He coughed again, harder this time. While his body violently rejected the poison, a massive wave of alien memories slammed into his brain. He didn't gasp. He didn't panic. He just closed his eyes and let the data download into his consciousness, processing it with the same cold, detached logic he used to analyze financial spreadsheets in his past life.
Mo Wuji. Young Master of the Yin-Yang Demon Sect. Heir to the Black Blood Mountain.
Currently dying from a lethal dose of Seven-Step Soul Rot.
Lin Chen opened his eyes. He was Mo Wuji now. The transition felt seamless, like slipping on a heavy, tailored coat that fit perfectly. The old Lin Chen, the obedient corporate drone who died of stress and an undetected heart defect, was gone. That guy was a loser anyway.
This new guy? He was a monster. Or at least, he was supposed to be.
Wuji checked out his new body. It was a complete mess. The poison had already shredded his primary meridians, turning his internal energy pathways into a toxic wasteland. The cold slab beneath him—a millennium-old frost jade bed—was the only thing keeping the poison from melting his brain completely. It froze his blood just enough to slow the decay.
He listened.
Beyond the thick stone walls of his isolation chamber, the mountain was screaming.
It started as a low, distant rumble, followed by the sharp crack of shattering stone. Then came the human sounds. Shouts of terror. The distinct, wet sound of steel tearing through flesh. The heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground. The smell of burning pine and scorched iron drifted through the cracks in the heavy wooden doors.
The Yin-Yang Demon Sect was under attack.
Wuji sifted through his newly acquired memories to put the pieces together. The Orthodox Martial Arts Alliance. Those hypocrites in pristine white robes who preached justice while hoarding ninety percent of the world's spirit stone mines. They had finally breached the outer array of Black Blood Mountain.
But that didn't make sense. The mountain's defensive formations were legendary. Even with the old Sect Master dead, it would take the Orthodox Alliance months of constant siege to break the first gate. They were inside the inner courtyard right now. The screams were coming from the disciple barracks, maybe three hundred yards away.
Someone opened the door from the inside.
Wuji let out a short, raspy breath. Betrayal. It was always the people sitting at your own dinner table.
He forced his right hand to move. The muscles screamed in protest. The poison tried to paralyze his motor functions, turning his arm to lead. He ignored it. He dragged his hand across the freezing jade, leaving streaks of black blood, until he could grip the edge of the slab.
He pulled himself up into a sitting position.
Sitting up made his head spin. Black spots danced across his vision. He gripped the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles turned white, waiting for the nausea to pass. Every heartbeat pumped acid through his veins. He looked down at his own body. Broad shoulders, heavily muscled chest, covered in intricate tattoos that looked like dormant lightning bolts. It was the physique of an apex predator, completely grounded by a cheap cup of poisoned tea.
He smiled. A dark, cynical grin.
He actually liked this.
Back on Earth, he had to pretend to care about corporate synergy and office politics. He had to smile at people he wanted to throw out a window. Here, the rules were beautifully simple. You want something? You take it. Someone gets in your way? You crush them. The Orthodox Alliance called themselves the righteous light of the world, but Wuji knew the truth. They were just politicians with better PR and sharper swords.
If the heavens brought him here to play the villain, he was going to be the absolute worst nightmare this world had ever seen. No more repressing. No more playing nice. If he was going to be a demon, he would rule hell.
But first, he had to survive the next ten minutes.
The sounds of slaughter were getting closer. The fighting in the courtyard was dying down, replaced by the methodical, terrifying sound of executions. The clatter of armor. The begging. The wet thud of heads rolling across the paving stones.
Wuji closed his eyes and tried to tap into his spiritual sea. The memories told him he possessed something called the Twin Soul Physique. An extremely rare genetic anomaly that allowed him to control both Extreme Yang and Extreme Yin energies. Right now, both pools of energy were completely stagnant, locked down by the poison.
He dug deeper. He bypassed the pain. He ignored the burning in his chest and forced his consciousness into the very core of his soul. He needed a spark. Just one drop of Qi to clear his throat and stand up.
Heavy footsteps echoed in the stone hallway outside his chamber.
Not the frantic, rushed footsteps of a fleeing disciple. These were slow. Measured. Deliberate. The heavy boots of someone who knew exactly where they were going and had zero fear of being stopped.
Wuji stopped trying to force his Qi. He opened his eyes and stared at the massive, reinforced oak doors at the end of the room.
The footsteps stopped right outside.
"Young Master," a voice called out through the wood.
Wuji recognized the voice instantly. Elder Zhao. The Third Elder of the Yin-Yang Demon Sect. The man who had personally brewed Wuji's tea this morning. The man who was supposed to be guarding the southern array.
"I know you are awake," Elder Zhao said. His tone was perfectly calm, stripped of all the usual groveling respect he normally displayed. It was the tone of a butcher talking to a tied-up calf. "The poison should have paralyzed your vocal cords by now. Do not try to speak. It will only cause you unnecessary pain."
Wuji didn't try to speak. He just sat on the edge of the jade bed, his bare feet touching the freezing stone floor, and waited. He calculated the distance from the bed to the door. Twenty feet. He had no weapon. He had no Qi. He had a failing liver and a throat full of blood.
"The Orthodox Alliance is here," Elder Zhao continued through the door. "The outer disciples are dead. The inner disciples are surrendering. Your father's legacy is over, Wuji. It is time for the sect to adapt. To survive, we must cut out the rot. And unfortunately, you are the rot."
Wuji tilted his head, cracking his neck. He watched the thick iron hinges on the door.
"They promised me the position of Sect Master," Elder Zhao said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a hint of greedy satisfaction. "As a vassal state to the Alliance, of course. But a king is still a king. All they require in exchange is the head of the Demon Prince. A small price to pay for peace, wouldn't you agree?"
Silence stretched in the chamber.
Wuji took a slow, painful breath. He gathered the saliva and blood in his mouth.
BANG.
The heavy oak doors exploded inward. Splinters of wood the size of daggers shot across the room, clattering against the stone walls.
Elder Zhao stepped through the ruined doorway.
He wore the dark purple robes of a high-ranking sect elder, but they were ruined. The fabric was soaked in fresh, crimson blood. In his right hand, he held a long, curved Dao sword. The blade was chipped, completely coated in gore that dripped steadily onto the floor.
He didn't look like a savior. He looked like a slaughterhouse worker finishing his shift.
Zhao looked past the splintered wood and locked eyes with Wuji. The Elder expected to see a terrified, dying boy begging for his life.
Instead, he saw the young demon lord sitting casually on the edge of the frost slab, completely unfazed. Wuji didn't flinch at the shattered door. He didn't look at the bloody sword. He just stared dead into Zhao's eyes with an expression of absolute, chilling boredom.
Wuji leaned forward slightly, spat a glob of black blood onto the floor right between his feet, and looked back up.
The message was clear. Wuji was ready.