It was a cold night, the kind of cold that crept into your bones and refused to leave. The howls of wolves echoed through the dense forest, their cries piercing the heavy darkness like the mournful wails of lost souls. The moon hung high in the sky, a pale, ghostly orb casting its eerie light over the landscape. Its cold glow reflected off the lake's surface, turning the water into a shimmering mirror, disturbed only by the occasional ripples from unseen fish darting just beneath.
Tall trees surrounded the lake, their twisted branches stretching skyward like skeletal fingers clawing at the heavens. The dense canopies above were a tangled mass, blocking out all but the faintest slivers of moonlight, which filtered through in eerie, fragmented beams. Shadows danced between the trunks, shapeless and unsettling, as if the forest itself were alive and watching.
The wind picked up, a frigid, invisible force that whispered through the trees with a sinister hiss, rustling the leaves and causing the canopies to sway ominously. The cold air carried the scent of damp earth and decaying. An occasional crack echoed from the depths of the woods—the sound of a branch breaking or something moving just out of view—adding to the growing sense of unease. Each gust of wind seemed to penetrate deeper than the last, sending shivers through the night and disturbing the eerie stillness. The moon's reflection on the lake rippled and distorted, resembling a pale, ghostly face in a shattered mirror, as if something beneath the surface was stirring, watching, waiting.
By the edge of the lake, two men stood in the shadows, their voices barely audible above the howling wind. "Have you prepared the sacrifices?" demanded the tall man, his voice thick with urgency. Cloaked in a long, hooded dark cape, his entire body was hidden from view. From his head to his feet, every inch was concealed beneath the heavy fabric, except for the demon mask that concealed his face. He loomed like a shadow, his massive form outlined beneath the cloak, exuding a menacing presence.
"Y-Yes, but... we're still short two sacrifices," stammered the other man, dressed in the same attire. He was shorter, his voice quivering with panic.
"Then take some from the village nearby," the tall man replied, as if the solution were obvious, his tone cold and dismissive.
"No... no, it’s the Lin Family’s village," the short man whispered, his voice breaking. "Last time, we took too many, and the Lin Family sent their immortals to investigate. We only survived because the Master intervened."
"But the Master already dealt with those Lin Family immortals," the tall man retorted, dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand.
"What if they send more?" the short man asked, his fear palpable. "Stronger than the Master..."
"If we don't bring enough sacrifices, we’re dead anyway," the tall man snapped. "We’re damned either way, so I’d rather take my chances with the Lin Family’s village than face our Master’s wrath."
"Fine, then," the short man muttered, resigning to the grim reality. But before he could take a step, the tall figure before him was suddenly severed in half at the waist, his upper body sliding off in a grotesque, slow-motion collapse. Blood sprayed into the air, splattering the short man’s face in warm, sticky droplets. The tall man’s torso hit the cold ground with a sickening thud, his blood pooling and spreading like ink, staining the dirt a deep crimson.
The short man stood paralyzed, the sight was so sudden, so violent, that it took a moment for the his’s mind to process what had happened. A chill gripped him as he stared at the grotesque scene, his heart hammering in his chest. His legs gave out, and he felt the warmth of his own urine trickling down, soaking his trousers. His eyes, wide with terror, finally lifted to see an old man standing just a few paces away. Long white hair and a flowing beard whipped in the cold wind, and in his hand, he held a bloodstained sword that gleamed in the moonlight. The old man casually flicked the blade, sending droplets of blood scattering to the ground.
Those cold, unfeeling eyes bore into the short man, making him shiver. Each step the old man took echoed in the unnerving silence, his light footfalls sounding unnaturally loud, as though the forest itself was holding its breath. As he closed the distance, the short man’s heartbeat quickened, hammering so fiercely it felt like it would burst from his chest.
"Take me to your Master," the old man commanded in a voice that could freeze fire, his gaze locking onto the shorter man with the disdain of a god looking at an insect.
"Y-yes, Great Immortal, but... if the Master knows I betrayed him, he’ll kill me," the short man stammered, his voice trembling as he pleaded for his life, though he knew deep down there was no escape.
"Do what I say, or the next time you open your mouth, I'll slice you into pieces," the old man replied coldly, leaving no room for argument.
The short man nodded frantically, leading the old man deeper into the forest to a hidden cave. The entrance was almost invisible, concealed by overgrown vines and jagged rocks, but once inside, it opened into a vast underground passageway. As they descended, the air grew thick with the putrid stench of blood and decaying flesh, a nauseating blend that clung to the back of the throat.
"This is it, Great Immortal. The Master is inside," the short man whispered, his voice cracking. He dropped to his knees, hands clasped together, begging. "Please… let me go, Great Immortal."
"Piss off," the old man snapped, his voice dripping with disdain.
The short man scrambled to his feet, bowing repeatedly, tears streaming down his face. "Thank you... Thank you, Immortal," he sobbed before darting out of the cave. Bursting into the open air, he looked up at the sky, his heart flooding with relief. "Thank the heavens, I’m alive!...I swear, I’ll stay away from those immortals...forever!" But before he could finish his thoughts, his vision blurred, and his skin split open. Blood spurted from every inch of his body as if a thousand invisible blades had sliced him into tiny pieces. He crumpled to the ground, his body disintegrating into a pile of mangled flesh and scattered bones, the earth beneath him soaked in a fresh coat of crimson.
Deeper inside the passage, the old man moved forward, his footsteps echoing in the cold silence. The stone floor beneath him was littered with the remains of a twisted nightmare. Rows of corpses lay scattered, abandoned like broken dolls in a forgotten playroom. The bodies of pregnant women lay lifeless, their eyes wide with terror, frozen in the final moments of their agony. Their mouths were stretched open in silent screams, twisted in expressions of unimaginable pain and fear. Their nails, splintered and soaked in blood, had been driven deep into the earth, as if they had desperately clawed for a salvation that never came.
Gaping holes marred their abdomens, jagged and raw as if something monstrous had ripped them apart with razor-sharp claws. The flesh around the wounds was torn and ragged, the umbilical cords hanging limply, dripping with clotted blood that formed dark, sticky pools beneath them. The cords swayed gently, like grotesque vines in the stale air.
Worse still were the bodies of the babies—tiny, innocent lives brutally snuffed out before they had even begun. Their small forms were twisted and deformed, their limbs bent at unnatural angles, heads crushed beyond recognition. The fragile bones had been shattered, and the soft skin was torn and bruised, showing how violently they had been dugout from their mothers’ wombs. Their lifeless bodies were scattered across the floor like discarded refuse.
The air was thick, almost choking, with the stench of death and decay. The scent was overwhelming, a nauseating blend of rotting flesh and old blood that clung to everything, lingering like a dark, suffocating cloud. Every breath felt tainted, as if the very air itself was steeped in the suffering and torment that had occurred within these walls.
Suddenly, a soul-piercing scream echoed through the passageway, tearing through the silence like a knife. The old man rushed forward, drawn by the chilling sound, until he reached the end of the tunnel. There, in a circular stone chamber lit by flickering torches, he saw the source of the screams—a young woman, bound to a stone table, her abdomen sliced open and her flesh splayed. She writhed in pain, her nails digging into her own palms, blood gushing from her gaping hole in rivers that cascaded off the table.
Beside her stood a man in tattered dark robes, His disheveled hair hung in greasy strands over his face, which was twisted into a maniacal grin. His nails were long and sharp, more like claws than human fingernails, caked with blood as he dug them into the woman’s torn abdomen. With a sickening squelch, he pulled out a tiny, blood-soaked form—the newborn baby, still attached to its mother by the umbilical cord.
The baby’s first cries filled the chamber, mingling with the echoes of the woman's dying screams. The man’s twisted grin widened as he severed the umbilical cord with a single swipe of his claw-like nails, holding the baby up as if it were a prize. His laughter rang out, a maniacal cackle that reverberated off the stone walls. "Ha... ha... with this baby, I can finally break through to the Origin Refinement Realm!" he crowed, his voice filled with madness.
The man leaned in closer to the crying infant, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. "Oh, don’t cry," he cooed mockingly, "you’ll feel nothing when I devour your soul... ha... ha..."
His fingers tightened around the baby's fragile skull, ready to crush it in an instant. But just as he moved to strike, the baby vanished from his grasp, slipping through his fingers like smoke.
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"What—?!" The man staggered back, eyes wild, scanning the shadowy chamber. His gaze snapped to the figure now standing before him—the old man, silent and grim, the baby cradled in one arm, and a blood-smeared sword gleaming in the other.
"Who the hell are you?!" the man in dark robes shouted, voice cracking with a mix of rage and fear. His bravado wavered as his eyes locked onto the old man’s, a sharp glare sending shiver to his spine.
The old man’s expression was cold, unreadable. "Who I am is irrelevant," he said , his voice calm but carrying a chilling edge, like steel drawn across ice.
The dark-robed man’s sneer faltered. "Why are you here? What do you want?!" he demanded, though his voice was already tinged with desperation.
The old man didn’t respond, his silence more damning than any insult. The oppressive aura he exuded weighed on the dark-robed man, suffocating, like being dragged beneath a crushing tide.
The man in dark robes took a shaky step back, his breath hitching as the old man’s overwhelming presence bore down on him, each second stretching into an eternity. “L-Listen, old man,” he stammered, his voice breaking as terror sank its claws deep into his heart. “We don’t have to do this. I don’t want trouble—I just… I just want to live! Let me go, and I swear you’ll never see me again! Just—just let me go!”
He felt his chest tighten, his breath quickening as the walls of the chamber seemed to close in on him. He was trapped, and he knew it. His eyes darted around frantically, searching for any escape, but the oppressive atmosphere left no openings—only the creeping dread of his impending death. Summoning the last of his courage, he snarled, forcing bravado into his voice. "Old man, don’t push me! I’m not as helpless as you think! If I’m going down, I’ll take you with me!"
The old man didn’t flinch. He stepped forward, each footfall deliberate and measured, his sword glinting ominously in the dim light. The baby in his arm was now covered in a barrier of shimmering white light, a protective aura that pulsed with a soft, serene energy, shielding from any harm. "You talk too much for a dead man," the old man said, his voice a low, guttural growl, every word dripping with lethal intent.
The demonic cultivator’s eyes widened, then narrowed, glowing a sickly red as fury overtook him. "You forced me!" he hissed, his voice twisted with rage. His hands shot up, fingers twitching as his power surged. The room quaked as swords, knives, and jagged shards of metal were ripped from their places, hovering in the air, their sharp tips aimed directly at the old man. With a furious wave of his hand, the weapons shot forward, slicing through the air with a deafening screech.
The old man’s expression remained unchanged, cold and indifferent. As the first blade neared his face, he deflected it with a casual flick of his wrist, his sword ringing out in a sharp, metallic *clang*. More weapons followed, a deadly barrage of steel aimed to impale him, but his movements were a blur—his sword slashing and spinning like a whirlwind. Each strike sent sparks flying, metal clashing against metal as he deflected every assault with a practiced, ruthless efficiency.
The chamber echoed with the cacophony of clashing steel, the old man’s blade moving faster than the eye could follow. His feet danced across the floor as if in a ballet, each step precise and controlled. As the last sword hurled towards him, he leapt into the air, planting his foot on the flat of the blade to propel himself forward. In one fluid motion, he spun, bringing his sword down in an arc aimed at the neck of the demonic cultivator.
The man in dark robes barely had time to react. Panicking, he clapped his hands together, and the scattered weapons converged, forming a jagged wall of steel in front of him. The old man’s sword collided with the barrier in a resounding crash, the force sending the demonic cultivator sprawling backward. He slammed into the stone wall with a sickening thud, blood spraying from his mouth as the impact rattled his bones. The makeshift shield shattered, blades scattering across the floor in a chaotic mess.
The old man landed lightly, his gaze unwavering. He tilted his head, assessing his opponent with cold disdain. "If this is all," he said, his voice dripping with scorn, "then you can die."
The old man’s sword began to glow, a brilliant white light enveloping the blade. The air around it churned, whipping into a violent gale that tore through the chamber, snuffing out the torches and plunging the room into a flickering, chaotic darkness. The wind roared, pulling dust and debris into the air, as if nature itself was bending to the old man’s will. "Now, die!" he snarled, his voice a command that cut through the storm.
He slashed the blade downward, releasing an arc of wind that screamed through the air, a crescent of razor-sharp energy hurtling toward the demonic cultivator. The man in dark robes, still slumped against the wall, tried to raise his hands in a feeble attempt to defend himself, but it was too late. The wind struck with the force of a hurricane, tearing through his flesh with a grotesque ripping sound.
The arc of energy sliced through the demonic cultivator’s torso, splitting him cleanly in half. Blood sprayed across the chamber in a violent explosion, painting the stone walls in a slick, crimson sheen. The man’s scream was cut short, his mouth frozen in a twisted expression of horror as his body fell apart in a sickening, wet thud. His eyes, still glowing faintly red, rolled lifelessly in their sockets as his remains slumped to the floor in a pool of blood and viscera.
The arc of wind did not stop, tearing into the stone wall behind him, carving a deep, jagged gash that cut several inches into the rock wall. The force of the attack shook the chamber, dust and chunks of debris raining down from above. Finally, the deadly wind dissipated, its energy spent, leaving only silence and the stench of blood hanging heavy in the air.
The old man carefully examined the baby in his arms. It had been quiet during the battle, remarkably calm. Now, it slept soundly against his chest, its tiny body still covered in blood. With a gentle hand, he pulled out a cloth from his storage ring, cleaned the baby, and wrapped it in a soft white blanket. The movement stirred the baby, causing it to wake up. But instead of crying, it giggled, reaching up to tug playfully at the old man’s beard.
“Aren’t you a lively one,” the old man said with a smile, his weathered face softening as he looked down at the child. The baby, seemingly satisfied with its play, soon drifted back to sleep.
With the child safely asleep in his arms, the old man turned his attention to the remains of the demonic cultivator. The rock wall behind the demonic cultivator was a grisly scene, littered with blood and gore. All that was left of his foe was a body cleaved cleanly in two, lying in a pool of its own blood, and an old, tarnished ring that had rolled a short distance away.
The old man bent down and picked up the ring, feeling its cold, metallic surface against his fingers. He channeled his spiritual Qi into it, causing the ring to hum faintly as its hidden contents were revealed to him. Inside, he discovered few ancient scrolls, their edges frayed and yellowed with age, a small diary bound in cracked leather, and a few other miscellaneous items—some vials of unknown liquid, a handful of rare herbs, and a small pouch of spirit stones
The first scroll caught the old man’s eye—*Soul Devouring Manual*, a forbidden soul cultivation technique. Sensing the malevolent energy emanating from it, he set the scroll aside for now. Instead, he reached for the diary, its leather cover cracked and worn from age. As he opened it, the yellowed pages crackled softly, releasing a faint, musty scent. The diary told the tale of the demonic cultivator’s descent into madness.
The entries began innocuously enough, describing how he had once been a simple hunter, living a quiet life in a remote village. But his life took a turn when he stumbled upon a hidden cave deep within the forest. Inside, he discovered a concealed passageway leading to an ancient stone hall. At the center of the hall was a stone platform, and atop it sat a skeletal figure, cross-legged in eternal meditation. The skeleton’s tattered clothes hung loosely on its bones, but what truly caught the hunter’s eye was the ring on its bony finger. The ring glowed with a sinister red light, almost as if it were beckoning him to take it.
From birth, the demonic cultivator had been gifted with an innate awareness of his surroundings, perceiving the world even without his eyes. He instinctively knew that this ring was no ordinary trinket. Overcome with curiosity—and perhaps something more—the hunter slipped the ring onto his finger. The moment he did, he felt a strange sensation, as if a new dimension had opened up inside his mind. He could feel the space within the ring, and the treasures inside. Among them were few scrolls, one of which had an aura filled with dark, enticing power.
He picked that scroll, it contained the *Soul Devouring Manual*, a cultivation technique that can strengthen one’s soul by devouring it again and again. But the process was excruciatingly painful, far beyond what he could endure. Driven by desperation and a growing thirst for power, he began to experiment, seeking a way to bypass the pain. His early attempts were crude—he tried devouring the souls of chickens, but while he was successful, the experience was not so pleasant. For a full week, he believed he was a chicken, losing all sense of self until the effects gradually wore off.
Undeterred, his experiments grew bolder. He moved on to larger animals, but even these proved insufficient for his ambitions. It wasn’t long before he set his sights on human souls. Through his research, he discovered that the souls of unborn babies were ideal for his needs—pure and untainted, without a sense of self. Consuming these souls would grant him power without the side effects he had experienced before.
The diary’s tone grew heavier as it recounted how the demonic cultivator began kidnapping pregnant women from his village. At first, he acted with caution, but his growing power made him reckless. One day, he was caught in the act, forcing him to flee. Eventually, he found refuge in a village under the Lin family’s protection, far from his old home. There, with the help of two loyal minions, he resumed his usual deeds, abducting more women and feasting on their unborn children’s souls.
The diary’s final entries detailed how the Lin family sent cultivators to investigate the mysterious disappearances of women. By this time, the demonic cultivator had grown incredibly powerful, his soul strengthened by the countless souls he had devoured. When the cultivators of Lin family arrived, he ambushed and slaughtered them.
The old man’s expression grew grim as he read the last page of the diary. He closed it with a heavy heart and held the diary over the torch’s flame, watching silently as it caught fire and burned to ash, ensuring that no trace of it would remain.
He then picked up the second scroll, and as he read the title, his hands began to tremble. His eyes widened, filling with tears, and his voice quivered as he spoke, "A...after so many years... finally, I can break through." Tears streamed down his face as he clutched the scroll titled Dantian Nourishing Manual.
In his youth, the old man had been a genius, the pride of his clan. But an injury to his dantian had halted his progress, leaving him stuck at the half-step Foundation Establishment Realm. He had tried every method, every technique, but nothing had worked. Decades of frustration and despair had worn him down, but now, he had some hope.
After collecting the remains of the Lin family’s fallen cultivators, the old man returned to the Mansion, carefully handing the baby to a maid to care for.
The old man then made his way to the far end of the library hall, where a secluded room lay nestled among shelves of thick, leather-bound books. The room was empty, just as he had left it. His chair was pushed back, and a small stack of open books lay scattered on the desk. He took a seat, intending to pick up where he had left off before the earlier commotion. But just as he reached for his book, he heard the light sound of footsteps approaching his door, followed by a knock.
“Third Elder, may I come in?” a voice called from outside, respectful and hesitant.