Twenty days had passed.
In that time, what was once a crude shelter clinging to life among the jagged cliffs had become something more—something alive. The mountain base, hidden in the folds of harsh stone, had transformed. Tents stitched from beast hide stood firm against the wind, anchored with stakes etched in crude but effective runes. Between them, weapon racks carved from blackwood held blades gleaming with stolen steel, their edges reflecting the flickering flames of nearby torches.
Inside the main cavern, where the heart of their makeshift stronghold beat, the air was thick with power. Herbs hung from the stone ceiling in careful bundles, jars of crushed minerals and preserved beast cores lined the walls, and underfoot, the stone was etched with a glowing cultivation array—its glow faint, but unwavering.
Mu Chen stood at its center, green mist coiling around his hands like snakes, his breath steady, his back straight. His skin glistened with sweat, but his expression held calm certainty. Then came the shift. A surge. A pulse that snapped through the chamber like a heartbeat.
His eyes opened—serpentine slits staring forward.
Qi Vein Level 7.
He exhaled slowly, as though releasing more than breath. As though releasing the past twenty days of relentless training and pain.
Behind him, the demi-human illusionists moved forward. Their forms flickered—half-real, half-shadow—as if they stepped through their own reflections. One moment they were whole, the next, three copies split away in different directions before merging back into one. When they stopped, a wave of pressure rolled out from them—sharp, cold, and precise.
Qi Vein Level 7. Both of them.
They fell to one knee in unison, fists pressed to their hearts.
"Master. We have broken through."
At the rear of the chamber, standing like a statue carved from midnight, Xuan Long watched. His arms were crossed, expression unreadable, eyes glinting with approval.
"Good," he said. "Stay united. Keep training. Support one another."
They bowed lower, heads nearly to the stone.
In a shadowed alcove, Hei Mo sat in silence, violet flames spiraling slowly around his wrists. The tattoos on his arms pulsed with life, feeding on the fire, resonating with something ancient and buried deep. His expression was distant, lost in meditation. Though he remained at Qi Vein Level 8, his aura had changed. It no longer lashed out like a wild beast. It was colder now. Controlled. Coiled like a serpent waiting to strike.
Xuan Long approached him, boots quiet on the stone floor.
"Hei Mo," he said.
The young man opened his eyes. They held calm, but underneath—pain, history, regret.
"You must understand something."
Hei Mo said nothing. He listened.
"The world will always see demon cultivators as enemies," Xuan Long continued, voice steady but sharp. "It does not matter what you've done. It does not matter who you've saved. Their judgment is fixed."
Hei Mo's smile faltered. His gaze dropped.
"I know," he said quietly. "I've lived it."
"Then you must adapt," Xuan Long said. "From today forward, you begin training in aura masking, disguise techniques, and false spirit manipulation."
Hei Mo's brow furrowed.
"Those techniques are rare," he said. "Even demonic sects hoard them."
Xuan Long's lips twitched—just slightly.
"If we don't find them, we'll make them. If they exist, we'll steal them. Until then, you do not leave this mountain without my word. Not even to breathe."
Hei Mo nodded slowly, shoulders tense.
"Yes, Master."
There was a pause. Then, softer—almost too soft to hear—Xuan Long spoke again.
"There's something else you need to understand."
Hei Mo met his gaze, cautious.
"Most demon cultivators follow a path of destruction," Xuan Long said. "They consume innocence. They feed on fear. And in doing so, they awaken karma—not just from heaven, but from the world itself. The stronger they grow, the faster they burn."
Hei Mo inhaled sharply. His voice trembled.
"I know. Every time I advanced… I lost something. A memory. A feeling. A part of myself."
Xuan Long nodded.
"There is another way," he said. "If you direct your darkness only at the corrupt—the liars, the slavers, the ones who hurt the helpless—then your path narrows. But it purifies. It becomes a path of balance, not madness."
Hei Mo's eyes widened, hope flickering like a candle in a storm.
"You mean I can grow… without losing my soul?"
"Yes," Xuan Long said. "If you follow my will."
He stepped closer, eyes hard.
"When I say kill, you kill. When I say wait, you wait."
For a moment, Hei Mo said nothing. Then his head dropped, tears glistening in his lashes.
"You've given me more than orders," he whispered. "You've given me something I never thought I'd have again."
Xuan Long placed a hand on his shoulder. Not as a master. Not as a commander. As a man who understood.
"Then prove you deserve it."
Far beneath them, the earth trembled.
Deep within the Bloodstone Caverns, a place carved by war and hatred, the Blood Fang Stronghold pulsed with violent energy. Red torches lined the halls, their flames flickering like angry spirits. Bones hung from the ceilings—trophies of old hunts, shattered skulls, crushed spines.
In the heart of the fortress, the Blood Fang Leader knelt in a sealed ritual circle. Blood-red runes etched the ground, glowing softly as if whispering secrets. Around him lay the remnants of his offering—beast bones, scorched scrolls, half-consumed spiritual pills. The air buzzed with tension.
Then, without warning—an eruption.
BOOM.
The pressure exploded outward. Lightning forked across the ceiling. Stone cracked beneath him. The runes flickered violently, nearly breaking.
His eyes snapped open.
They were red—not with rage, but with something deeper. Something unnatural. Something cursed.
Qi Vein Level 10.
He rose slowly, every muscle thick with power, veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. The axe beside him—forged from the spine of a spirit beast—seemed to hum with bloodlust as he lifted it.
He turned to the entrance, his voice low and steady.
"Call the army."
The guards outside didn't hesitate.
"Yes, Blood Lord!"
As they scrambled, the Blood Fang Leader took a long breath. The ground still trembled faintly beneath his boots.
"We march in seven days," he said. "Prepare every blade. Every beast."
He paused at the threshold of the sanctum, looking toward the far-off mountains.
"There is one on that peak… the one who sends back coffins. I will end him myself."
His words rang out through the stone like thunder. In the camps, warriors began to gather. Weapons were drawn. Banners raised. Drums pounded like war cries. Over two hundred strong, the army began its final preparation.
But high above them, hidden in the cliffs, a shadow sat still.
Eyes narrowed. Breath held.
Watching.
Waiting.