Avinash's gaze was cold as ice as he looked down at Smriti.
"Do you think I care about your body made of mere flesh and bone?" he said, voice calm yet chilling. "What I saw in you... was potential. Now, open your mind. Let me plant my mark."
Smriti flinched. Her eyes trembled with unease.
"But... if you place a mark on me, I'll become your slave. My life and death—" she paused, voice tightening with fear, "—will be in your hands."
Avinash's eyes narrowed. "Do you think power comes without a price?" he said, stepping closer. "If you truly wish to become stronger... then be prepared to pay."
"But how can I trust that you'll even make me powerful?" Smriti snapped, despite the fear twisting in her chest. "You're asking me to give up my freedom without even offering a guarantee."
Avinash chuckled softly, the sound devoid of warmth.
"Do you have another choice?" he asked, turning his back to her. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be lying in a pool of your own blood. Do you think I need to go through all this just to kill you?"
He walked toward the door, voice steady. "If you're afraid, I'll leave. Live your life as you wish."
Just as he reached the threshold, a small hand clutched the back of his robe. He halted. A faint smirk tugged at his lips—I knew she wouldn't disappoint me—but it vanished in an instant. When he turned around, his face had returned to its usual indifferent expression.
"I'll trust you," Smriti said, her voice no longer shaking. Her eyes met his, filled with a newfound resolve. "Do it."
Without a word, she opened her sea of consciousness.
Avinash stared at her for a moment, then nodded.
"Of course you can trust me," he said, his tone low and serious. He raised his hand, dark energy gathering at his fingertips. With a precise motion, he pressed his palm to her forehead, planting a mark deep into her soul.
The moment Avinash planted the slave mark, a subtle connection formed between their souls. He could feel it—an invisible thread linking him to Smriti. With a mere thought, he realized, he could end her life... or issue commands that would echo directly into her mind.
Smriti, too, felt the shift. Her breath hitched as the bond took root. It was as if a part of her now relied on Avinash—as though her very existence was tied to his will.
Then, Avinash spoke in a calm, almost indifferent tone.
"Now, I shall give you what you desire most—the Heaven Devouring Sutra."
Smriti froze. Her heart pounded. Her mind went blank for a second—then raced wildly.
Heaven Devouring Sutra?
That name alone was enough to send tremors through the entire Upper Realm.
It was a forbidden cultivation technique, shrouded in legend. Said to have been created by an unknown, taboo existence countless epochs ago, its origins were a mystery—its reputation, undeniable. It was feared and coveted in equal measure.
Why did people fear it? Because it didn't merely absorb the Qi of heaven and earth. No—its true horror lay in its ability to devour living beings. It could steal bloodlines, physiques, cultivation bases, even souls—and transfer them directly to the user, enhancing their strength without limit.
Even the so-called righteous immortal clans searched for it in secret. Demonic cultivators waged wars for even a hint of its whereabouts. And the man who called himself the Heavenly Emperor was rumored to be hunting it personally.
And now... it was being handed to her. By a boy who looked no older than sixteen. A mere Core Realm cultivator—yet her master.
What kind of monster is he... really?
At first, she thought he might share his bloodline with her through the slave mark—that maybe, just maybe, that was the gift he planned to bestow. But she had been completely wrong. She had underestimated him.
This was no simple master.
This was someone who moved in shadows deeper than she had ever imagined.
Smriti clenched her fists, eyes burning with newfound determination. She had made a gamble when she accepted the mark—and now, she realized, it was the best decision of her life.
With this technique, she could rise.
With this technique... she could finally take her revenge.
"Thank you… Master," Smriti said softly, her voice filled with both gratitude and awe.
Avinash didn't turn back. His voice echoed coolly through the cave.
"Hmph. Don't contact me unless it's important. Focus entirely on cultivating the Heaven Devouring Sutra. Don't disappoint me."
He reached the entrance of the cave, lifting a hand. The surrounding formation shimmered, then dissolved into motes of light, releasing the cave from its isolation.
Just before stepping out, he paused and added casually,
"Oh—and one more thing. Make as much trouble for that Ye Chen as you can."
With that, he vanished into the mist outside, leaving behind only the fading ripple of spiritual energy... and a girl whose destiny had just been rewritten.
Meanwhile, at that moment…
Ye Chen knelt on the stone courtyard, shoulders slumped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His arms hung limp at his sides, dislocated at the joints. Breathing was a struggle—every inhale scraped like fire through his cracked ribs.
Around him stood the so-called "friends" and retainers of Young Master Ming, the pride of Norway City. Their eyes were full of disdain, a mixture of amusement and disgust as they watched the beaten youth before them.
In front of him stood Ming, arms crossed, his embroidered robe fluttering slightly in the mountain breeze. His gaze was cold and superior, like one staring at a crushed insect.
"Still alive?" he said with a laugh, kicking Ye Chen in the chest and knocking him flat on his back. "You lowborn piece of trash really don't know your place. You dared to fight back against me—me? And now you're even dreaming of Princess Smriti?"
His voice dropped, becoming darker. "She's mine. She's already mine in every way that matters. You don't get to even look at her."
Ye Chen's fingers twitched against the gravel.
He couldn't accept this.
He didn't want to die—not like this.
Not as a joke in someone else's story.
Not as a worthless commoner stepped on by young masters who thought the world belonged to them.
He gritted his teeth, blood pooling behind his molars.
He had no strength left.
But inside him, somewhere deep, that sense of unwillingness burned like an ember. He wanted to live. To rise. To make all those who looked down on him… kneel before him.
Ming raised his hand, a thread of spiritual energy condensing into a sharp arc of Qi. Its edges shimmered, cutting the air with a high-pitched whine.
"Time to kill the dog."
But before the strike could fall—
The ground shook.
A low tremor rippled through the mountains, subtle but undeniable. The wind stilled. The birds in the nearby trees took flight all at once.
And then—
A deep, guttural roar echoed from the mist-covered lake beyond the courtyard walls.
The guards turned sharply, alarmed.
From the surface of the lake, ripples spread—then waves. Water surged upward as a colossal, serpentine form emerged, coiling and rising from the depths.
Dark scales gleamed under the sunlight. Golden eyes locked onto the courtyard.
A black Dragon.
In the cultivation world, Flood Dragons were rare—beasts that had inherited traces of true dragon bloodline. This one was no illusion. Its aura weighed down the air like a lead curtain.
The guards panicked. Some turned to flee, others froze in place.
The dragon moved, not with rage, but with precision. Its tail lashed out once—cleaving the treetops, scattering those too slow to run. Cries rang out as soldiers were flung aside like dolls.
Ming's talismans flared, trying to activate, but the pressure in the air crushed them before they could ignite.
With bloodied clothes and fear in his eyes, Ming stumbled back and fled into the forest, abandoning all pride.
When the dust settled, only Ye Chen and the beast remained.
Ye Chen could barely lift his head, but he felt it.
The dragon didn't strike.
It stopped.
Its gaze lingered on him—not hostile, but curious.
Drawn to something.
Something stirring in Ye Chen's body.
A faint pulse of power—unawakened, half-asleep, but ancient.
The Beast Emperor Physique—rumored to be extinct, a constitution capable of making divine beasts submit. And now, for the first time, a trace of it had emerged from the depths of Ye Chen's broken body.
The Flood Dragon lowered its head, slow and deliberate. Not attacking.
Bowing.
Acknowledging.
Ye Chen couldn't speak. Couldn't move. But he felt it in his bones.
The world had changed.
He wasn't just a beaten commoner anymore.
He was someone the heavens had not yet finished with.