The cultivator frowned at his reply. “No?”

“No. Great power, maybe. Far in the past, before my imprisonment,” the man admitted freely. “But a Demon? Never.”

Zhong’s mind spun, trying to divine the cultivator’s purpose. Why would the boy ask such questions? Surely the Clans had already found the truth, despite whatever suspicion they held about his origins. They were not that incompetent.

“There are times when one may deem blindness to be preferable to wisdom.”

Did they hide the truth from their own people? Did the cultivator before him truly not know? For that to be the case, Heaven must be working very hard indeed to cover the mess Zhong made before his imprisonment.

Regardless of the reason, the youth did not like his answer.

“All the records I’ve read claim without a doubt that you are a Demon,” the boy insisted. “You have made Binding Pacts before — those corrupted parodies of the promise once made between Gods and Cultivators. Only Demons are capable of crafting Binding Pacts. You granted your followers power and protection, in exchange for their undying fealty. There are even records of you helping other cultivators achieve impossible breakthroughs in exchange for future favours and alliances. There has never been a recorded instance where either you or those whom you dealt with betrayed one another before, which means they had to be Binding Blood Pacts.”

Zhong snorted. “Pacts? I hardly made Demon Blood Pacts, boy. I made laws, promises, and bargains. That my followers and I have often upheld our end of promises does not make me a Demon. It simply makes me virtuous. Or have you cultivators become so comfortable with the profitability of deception that the concept of an honest deal is no longer understandable to you?”

The cultivator frowned further. “Why do you deny that you are a Demon?”

Zhong chuckled. The cultivator’s frustration was amusing. What puppy-like naivete. It was adorable. “Why do you insist that I am one?”

“Is this inane denial entertaining to you?” the boy demanded. The youth’s voice remained calm, his sitting posture elegant and refined, but the spike in his unstable qi told a different story.

The man tilted his head. The firelight glinted off his fangs. “Explain yourself, boy. Give me clarity. Why must I be a Demon? Why must I be a fallen god? Why must I be anything you claim I am?”

The cultivator’s qi rose sharply before it sputtered and backlashed as he strained himself too far. To the youth’s credit, the only noticeable reaction from him was a grimace, despite the blood filling his mouth and the pain that must be wreaking havoc among his meridians.

“It was you who led the invasion of the Grand Demonic Host from the Underworld into the Qiangyu continent,” the boy accused after taking a moment to recover. “It was you who devoured the Eighteen Clans of the Jade Coast when they tried to stop your army’s advance. It was you who desecrated the White Peak Monastery, killing our Zhenren — our dearest True Ancestor! — before consuming her flesh in Unholy Matrimony. And during your battle against the Hegemon Immortals, before you were captured, there are records of you fighting the combined might of the Five Hegemon Gods by transforming into a, a … s-something else.”

The cultivator stuttered at the end, unable to bring himself to say that word. Zhong hummed curiously.

“To deny the existence of a word is to cripple a part of its power.”

Even now, they dared not acknowledge his nature? It seemed that the Jade King’s tyranny still ran deep within the hearts of mortal men.

That meant his rebellion likely failed after his capture, then.

The youth pressed on. “There is no doubt that you are a Demon. There is no possibility that you are not one. No cultivator would ever do the things you did. No human would ever sink to your level of depravity.”

Zhong smiled. “No.”

The cultivator looked him in the eye. “No? You dare deny your deeds, Zhong? Your crimes against millions, tens of millions?”

“The deeds, true,” Zhong shrugged. “Led the Demonic invasion. Devoured many people. Killed your precious Zhenren. Fought the ‘Immortal’ Patriarchs of your proud Core Clans, and lost. But I didn’t do that as a Demon.”

“You could not have led the Demonic army without being a Demon!” the boy snarled, before doubling over and coughing.

The man sighed.

“And why must you be a Demon to lead a Demonic host?”

“What? What nonsense are you—”

The man interrupted him. “Demons make Pacts, remember? I can’t create a Pact, but I can certainly be the blood giver to a Demon in a Pact. The right price, with the right persuasion, and you could bind Demons to do anything. Even to invade another continent.”

“They gleefully gave their blood to the contract, not knowing they were binding their fates to a monster worse than all the horrors of the Underworld — a Worm that slept within the heart of her God.”

“But, but there were thousands!” the boy hissed. “Tens of thousands! Inhuman creatures, every last one of them! And you bound them all? Do you honestly expect me to believe such tripe?!”

“As for depravity,” Zhong continued, unbothered by the cultivator’s accusations. “There are no depths to a cultivator’s depravity. In the end, for anyone who is genuinely willing to pursue immortality to the ends of the earth, what a man can do is what a man will do. And I was very willing to see my objective through, regardless of the cost. Even if it meant killing and eating thousands.”

The cultivator’s neutral expression finally broke. Disgust was apparent on his face, but Zhong pushed on.

“But there is one more thing that you wanted to accuse me of. An undeniable truth rooted in you that made you certain that I must be a Demon, rather than a mortal cultivator.”

The man leaned forward, and the cultivator recoiled when he saw the monstrous glow of the man’s eyes.

In the end, it always came to a need for power. Power to cultivate. Power to dominate.

“The power of an Immortal.”

“No creature could have possibly achieved the heights of my strength without being of Immortal blood,” Zhong mockingly said. “I held the strength of Ancient Gods, and since I had waged war against Mount Tai and their armies of Heaven, I could not have been kin to the Celestial Court. With no other alternatives, that must mean I am a Demon. A fallen god.”

The chained man grinned, vicious fangs and inhuman yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. “After all, how could a mere mortal accomplish so much? The very thought of it, the sheer humiliation of it, must have been unthinkable to your masters. Even after they verified the truth of my origins with their own eyes. That I am, undeniably, human.”

Zhong leaned back. Neither spoke for a time. The man was content to wait for the cultivator’s response.

“Who do you claim to be, then?” The cultivator finally asked.

“A man who thought he was a cultivator, but instead realised he was actually a worm,” he answered. Zhong’s lips curled back into an expression of genuine amusement. “And a worm who knew he was a worm, but instead likes to occasionally pretend he was a Dragon.”

The cultivator flinched back at that last word. The word he could not bring himself to say. A taboo never to be utter, under Heaven’s Law.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Depravity without equal. Hunger without equal. A creature worse than any rebel. Any demon. Any God.

Dragon. / “That Which Once Devoured Divine Destiny.”

“Your name, cultivator?” Zhong asked. The youth hesitated.

Rather than reply, the boy drew a knife from his sleeve instead.

Zhong glanced at the blade with more curiosity than caution. The blade was sharp, unnaturally so. And very well-crafted. Leagues above even the impressive spear the cultivator carried on his back.

“Kunlun Steel. Forged in the volcanic blood of its namesake mountain.”

The youth stood up in a single fluid motion and stepped forward. Zhong regarded him with amusement.

“Do you plan to kill me, cultivator?” At the man’s current qi reserves, he stood next to no chance of defending himself, not from such a high-level cultivator. Zhong wouldn’t accept dying quietly, but any techniques he could use in his condition would barely hinder the youth, much less defeat him. Injured as the boy might be, a practitioner of the Fifth Realm would not be so easy to slay.

Still, the man had long accepted his death could come at any time. At least he had the privilege of a proper conversation before his end — one that did not involve the wraith in his unbeating heart.

“How cruel of you to say, my foolish God. Yet I would ask that you cease such depressing thoughts, and steel yourself for what’s next to come. The boy is neither exonerator nor executioner.”

“He is a supplicant.”

The cultivator approached, but to Zhong’s astonishment, the boy kneeled before him instead, placing himself vulnerably close to the man. The youth’s neck was tantalisingly close, and though it was a struggle not to immediately lash out and bite, Zhong refrained from attacking.

For the first time in a long while, his curiosity won out over his incessant hunger.

“I came here because I thought I would find the most powerful Demon in Qiangyu; a monster who once led the host of Eighty-Thousand Horrors out from the Underworld itself.” The cultivator bowed his head before him. “I don’t know if you really are a Demon, but all the same, I want to make a Pact.”

The boy’s blood was so close. Zhong could practically feel his heartbeat. He held the hunger back, gritting his teeth at the effort. “I cannot make Pacts, boy.”

“A deal, then. A promise. An exchange. Call it whatever you want. So long as you honour your word.”

The cultivator brought the blade to his own upper left arm. Before Zhong fully realised his intent, the youth slashed down upon himself, cleanly severing the limb in a single stroke. Fresh blood spilt in a crimson deluge onto the ground, filling the air with the scent of sweet iron, but Zhong was too shocked to care.

The cultivator hissed in pain, his face paling and covered in sweat. With a trembling hand, he brought his dismembered left arm before Zhong.

“A Fleshborne Pact.”

“My Clan is on the verge of being destroyed by the Celestial Army for crimes we did not commit,” the cultivator said between bloody breaths. “My Father is dead. My sister now fights a hopeless battle against a foe we cannot win. She might already be slain. Most that I love is gone, and the rest of my people will soon follow. There is nothing I can do to save anyone any more. Except, maybe this.”

The boy bowed his head lower.

“Save what’s left of my Clan, Zhong, you who once terrorised an entire continent. Swear upon your name, and upon the Heavens, that you will save the ones I love. For your might, I would give up the rest of my flesh willingly.”

The cultivator bowed lower, but Zhong could see tears mixing with his blood. “I beg the Dragon Who Once Devoured Divine Destiny. Please, help us.”

Zhong was silent. The cultivator's arm trembled. Blood continued pooling onto the ground, until it grew large enough to reach the man’s chains. Then, Zhong opened his mouth—

—and closed it. The cultivator looked up, startled by the sudden weightlessness of his palm.

The severed arm was gone. There had been no sound, no sudden rush of movement. Nothing.

But the arm was still gone. And Zhong was chewing. The sounds of squelching flesh and crunching bone reverberated through the gaol. The cultivator paled further but, to his credit, made no further reaction.

Zhong swallowed noisily, the bulge going down his throat far smaller than what it should have been. The sight was no less disturbing for it.

“Fifth Realm, Seventh Step.”

“A worthy offer. Your blood tastes strong.” Zhong licked his lips thoughtfully. “A Young Master? So, your father must have been the last Patriarch. Small wonder, then, that you have come for my help.”

The man’s body, previously emaciated and skeletal, suddenly grew flesh and muscle beneath his skin. His new body bulged and pushed against the Divine chains. The talismans flared erratically.

The restraints, carefully crafted by countless master artificers and diviners, pulsed once, before shattering to pieces.

The cultivator covered himself protectively with his remaining arm, but aside from a flash of heat, no harm came to him. When he finally dared to open his eyes, he saw Zhong freed before him.

The man was covered in rags, but his body was nothing like before. He stood, healthy and strong. Vibrant. The man’s gold-slanted eyes turned down to him.

Eyes that shine with the light of a Morning Star.

“I accept your offering, cultivator,” Zhong declared. “Though I will not swear upon the Heavens, I will swear upon my dread title to see our bargain fulfilled. But first, I still need your name, Young Master.”

The cultivator stared, unsure of what to think. Was this the right choice? Had he unleashed doom upon the continent? But then the boy remembered why he came down here, and how even now his home burned. Destroyed by the ones his family had served faithfully for countless generations. He resolved himself.

“This one’s name is Li Shen, Young Master of the Reaping Floods Clan.”

“This man is but a worm, but you already know that,” the man grinned, mouth bloody and filled with razor-sharp incisors. “But you may keep calling me Zhong, Eighth of the Twenty-Five Demon King Patriarchs. Though my rank is but an Honorary one, among that hallowed company, I alone hold the title of Strongest. Keep the rest of your flesh, Young Master; My appetite requires space for when I devour the Heavens.”

Zhong looked up. The man laughed, wild exhilaration flooding his being, as his body roared with qi once more. “But have no worries about my hunger. To your enemies, I shall say: Hand over your heads, for you clearly have no use of them if you stand with your Divine Tyrants! Come, Li Shen of the Reaping Floods. Immortality awaits!”

His Heart, silent for years, pulsed. A figure finally appeared at the edge of his vision, invisible to all but himself. His constant companion. His eternal curse.

She was the same as the day he consumed her. The one creature in all of Hell that he could not destroy with his rapacity. A woman in the guise of a Worm.

Blood of hair. Ash of skin. And baring the lone, baleful eye of a Demon Unending.

The phantom voice of his Beloved rang in his ears, as beautiful and damning as the day she first buried herself in his Heart.

“When the madman runs, everyone who is not mad starts running.”

She turned to him. Her smile was as gentle as the first rays of the dawn.

“I greet you, Dragon of the Morning Star. Let us sing of Heaven’s end once again.”

The declaration of his Heart drummed throughout all of Heaven and Earth. Men and Gods trembled at its roar, for it signalled once more the coming of the Apocalypse.

And so began anew the War Against Heaven, a conflict that would stretch for an entire century. A conflict that would see the Gods destroyed, and end with the total and complete victory for Mankind.

A victory that would see the rise of a new Imperial Empire, and a Humanity that would decline into a far more wretched and depraved existence than even the Gods could ever dare imagine.

----------------------------------------

“Hell Descending”

“I saw it. I don’t know how that monster did it, but it came from above. It broke through the Jade Clouds of our King like it was nothing. That thing… I cannot describe it, cannot remember it! It is madness incarnate, it is not something that could be of this world!

I saw wings, scales, and claws, but my eyes failed to comprehend anything else. It swooped down and crushed the Skinless Vanguard like the Divine was made of glass, slashed the Tripartite Menagerie in two with a single strike like they were paper! And then, it opened its mouth, and, and…

I saw Hell. It is inside that thing, festering, boiling, alive and laughing! It swallowed our Gods as they screamed like they were mere morsels to be devoured! The First Celestial Army and the Deities that accompanied us stood no chance, we had to flee! We had to tell the others! The very Underworld itself has risen from beyond the Abyssal Ridge and is coming to consume our King! We have to warn him, he must escape! Not even His Celestial Highness can hope to stand before that creature. It was Madness! True Madness! A Star-Cannibal that had swallowed Hell itself!

That, that DRA—!”

— Account of a Celestial Army human deserter, shortly before being executed for treason and cowardice.

~~~

Years later, the Celestial Court was obliterated in a massive explosion; the Divines slain to the last, and the Jade King impaled upon their starlight throne.

With their deaths, came the end of the Age of Gods; three millennia of Enlightened Rule concluded in blood and horror.

With their deaths, came the beginning of the Age of Cultivators; of a future governed by Hunger and Ambition alone.

~~~

And what of Zhong, the Vile Dragon of the Dawn?

Betrayed in his final moments by a traitorous Primate and a scheming Fox, the Divine Cannibal was never seen again.

… Until now, nine hundred years later, at the turning of the new millennia for a Human Empire.

When his Heart shall beat for him once more.