Yanwei dedicated an entire month to perfecting his arcane array, tirelessly adjusting its parameters and refining his binding techniques. At first, progress was agonizingly slow. The corpse stubbornly resisted his attempts, and the vacant Growth Space within him remained frustratingly inert. His eyes narrowed as he channeled an ever-increasing torrent of spiritual energy into the array.
“It’s too unstable…” he muttered, stepping back to study the chaotic interplay of energies. “The flow is off—I must rebalance it.”
For countless hours, he toiled with meticulous care. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the corpse’s limbs began to twitch. A feeble glimmer sparked in its eyes, a silent testament that his process had reached fruition.
A small, triumphant smile tugged at Yanwei’s lips. “Not bad for a first attempt,” he murmured. “Crude, yet sufficient.”
His attention shifted to the void—the empty expanse of his Growth Space. In that hollowness lay untapped potential, a space that could one day house a formidable arsenal if only he could find a way to fill it. “If I can refine these corpses and channel them into my Growth Space,” he mused, “I might create a mobile force that none can defy.”
A cold laugh bubbled from deep within him as his thoughts turned darker. “I still have to hunt cultivators,” he whispered, the conviction in his voice echoing his ruthless ambition. “Their strength will accelerate my progress, and their bodies will form the bedrock of my new army. I will intercept those scattered cultivators—the fools who dare challenge the secret realm—and use them to fuel my rise.”
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He cast his gaze back to the half-refined corpse puppet, its limbs now stiff and unyielding. “This is only the beginning,” he vowed. “I’ll transform death into my loyal army and reclaim the power I once wielded as a Rank 9 demon cultivator. Though that glory is behind me, the fire still burns.”
…
Rumors and Reckoning
Two months into his relentless pursuit, the secret realm loomed ever closer. Linglong, frustrated and desperate, still hadn’t managed to pin Yanwei down. As her fervor waned, rumors of a new “Demon Cultivator” began to surface—a killer whose actions were as silent as they were deadly.
This new figure targeted Rank 1 cultivators without discrimination, whether they were fellow demon cultivators, sect disciples, or rogue practitioners. The sects grew alarmed; even a Rank 2 was dispatched to stem the tide. Whispered accounts connected this ruthless killer with the massacre at the chamber of commerce, yet, despite dispatching the Rank 2, the enigmatic demon remained unscathed. Every Rank 1 he touched vanished without a trace, leaving investigators confounded and terrified.
Disciples began to retreat—returning to their sects or melting into the market crowd—fearing the unseen predator. Elders were incensed; even a Rank 1 represented valuable manpower. In this chaos, Yanwei’s plans advanced with grim precision.
After half a month of covert hunting, Yanwei had fashioned 53 Rank 1 corpse puppets. With only one and a half months left to execute his grand design, he allowed himself a rare moment of grim satisfaction.
“Finally done,” he whispered, a twisted smile curving his lips. “This army will be the strongest in the secret realm. But now… I must concoct an odorless, tasteless poison.” His voice dropped to a low, determined murmur as memories of his former glory—a time when his power as a Rank 9 demon cultivator was both feared and revered—flashed behind his eyes. That past still propelled him forward.
“Who cares about rank 9, i desire a higher level than that.”