In a vast, open field beneath a gray sky, blood flowed like a small river among the corpses of thousands of holy warriors and martial artists. The wind carried the metallic scent of blood and the black smoke from the burning remnants of sect banners.
The stiff hands of fallen warriors still clutched the broken hilts of their swords, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky, devoid of all hope. The martial world they had once prided themselves on had been utterly destroyed.
Amid the mountain of corpses stood a lone figure clad in black robes. His long hair fluttered in the wind, and his eyes burned like unquenchable hellfire.
He was the Lord Demonic.
His body was pristine—unscathed, without a single wound. Not even a strand of his hair had been touched by any blade.
He gazed upon the sea of corpses, his expression empty, before a faint, twisted smile crept onto his pale face.
"Hmph… So this is the strength of the so-called righteous warriors of the martial world?"
A cold, mocking laugh escaped his lips, its eerie echo reverberating across the silent battlefield, as if ridiculing the beliefs of the fallen warriors.
"How pathetic… Your martial arts, the peace you boasted about, the strength you held in such high regard—all of it was wiped out in an instant…"* His voice was low but clear, as though passing judgment on the thousands of dead souls.
He slowly turned his head to the right, eyeing the shattered remains of a sacred sword from a once-great sect. Then, he glanced to the left, where the torn and burning banner of a mighty clan now lay in ashes, leaving only a charred pole behind.
"All of this… is nothing but nonsense."
His face showed no emotion—only a terrifying calm that made even the wind cease its howling. The lingering smoke curled upward from the slowly burning corpses.
He lifted his foot, intending to leave this place, stepping over the lifeless hands of warriors and the empty, unseeing eyes of the dead.
But suddenly—
WHOOSH!
A streak of golden light shot through the air like a meteor, slicing through the wind with a piercing sound. Lord Demonic had no time to react. His eyes barely caught the golden flash before—
BOOOOM!!!
A fist wrapped in golden aura struck his chest with such force that the ground shattered, the air trembled, and dust and debris exploded in all directions. Lord Demonic's body was sent flying like a cannonball, hurled hundreds of meters backward before crashing into the earth, rolling violently and smashing through boulders in his path.
"Ugh…!"*l
For the first time, Lord Demonic felt real pain—an agony he had never experienced since becoming an untouchable entity. Fresh blood trickled from the corner of his lips, staining the dusty ground.
His eyes widened, his crimson pupils trembling as he searched for the source of the attack.
"Who… dares to strike me…?!"
Before he could steady his breath, the second attack came—even faster than the first.
BOOOOM!!!
The golden fist slammed into his abdomen, unleashing a shockwave that flattened hundreds of trees behind him, carving a massive crater into the earth and sending Lord Demonic flying once more, his body crashing through the shattered trunks like dry twigs.
"Ugh… AARRGGHH…!!"
Lord Demonic coughed up blood, his ribs shattered, his body convulsing violently. The dark aura surrounding him flickered unstably, as if terrified of the golden power.
He landed hard, skidding across the ground before finally coming to a stop. His body slumped, blood pouring from wounds on his shoulder and mouth.
"No… impossible… who… who is this…?!"
Lord Demonic struggled to rise, his hands clawing at the earth, his entire body trembling as he forced himself to stand. His crimson eyes burned with a mix of fury and fear.
Thick smoke and dust obscured his vision, leaving him blind to everything but the gray haze tainted with the stench of blood.
WHOOSSSHH…
The smoke suddenly dissipated in an instant, as though swept away by a gentle, soothing breeze. But Lord Demonic knew—this was no ordinary wind.
He slowly raised his head.
There, floating calmly in the air, was a figure enveloped in pure golden radiance. The light repelled all darkness around it, illuminating the desolate battlefield with an ethereal glow.
The figure approached slowly, as though walking on air. Each step carried an oppressive weight, causing the ground beneath to crack. The wind itself seemed to bow before him, carrying a faint, soothing fragrance that contrasted sharply with the scent of blood saturating the battlefield.
Lord Demonic froze, his eyes widening, his crimson pupils trembling as he stared at the figure.
"Wh… who are you…?!"
The figure drew closer, the golden aura illuminating his face—a man with long, silver-white hair that shimmered, sharp yet calm eyes, and a face that exuded wisdom yet coldness. The faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes suggested an age of around sixty, yet the power radiating from his body defied all mortal limitations.
His simple white robes fluttered gently in the wind, yet every movement carried an overwhelming pressure that made it hard for Lord Demonic to breathe.
Lord Demonic felt his heartbeat quicken, an unfamiliar fear creeping up his spine, making his hair stand on end.
He tried to steady his breath, to calm himself, but his gasps only sounded like terrified whimpers.
The figure stopped floating just a few steps away, his gaze fixed on Lord Demonic with a chilling serenity—as though he could see every sin Lord Demonic had ever committed, yet regarded them as utterly insignificant.
The golden light eroded the dark aura around Lord Demonic bit by bit, his skin burning as if scorched, forcing him to retreat half a step.
Lord Demonic gritted his teeth, his eyes bloodshot, suppressing the fear that now weighed heavier on his chest than the pain.
His trembling hand rose, pointing at the figure with wide-eyed confusion and terror.
A hoarse voice escaped his dry throat, breaking the silence of the death-filled battlefield.
"Wh… who the hell are you?!"
A faint smile curled on the old man's lips.
He stood tall upon the blood-soaked earth, his frail body buffeted by the cold wind carrying the stench of death from the thousands of fallen warriors scattered across the battlefield.
His gaze pierced through Lord Demonic with terrifying calmness.
"Lord Demonic…" the old man spoke, his voice low yet firm, each word striking like a hammer to the chest, "I have come to destroy you. To avenge all that you have done."
His voice echoed among the ruins of the once-great sects, merging with the wind that carried tattered, bloodstained banners.
The old man's eyes slowly closed, his eyelids trembling as memories dragged him far back—forty years of regret burning in his heart.
Flashback…
No… no… what should I do…
The sky back then was blue, the wind carrying falling plum blossoms that gently covered the white stone courtyard of the Blossoming Mountain Sect with their delicate fragrance.
The man was only forty years old at the time, dressed in white robes adorned with a plum blossom emblem on his chest. He was merely a librarian, spending his days dusting shelves, blowing away the grime from ancient books, occasionally smiling as young disciples passed by carrying their training bamboo swords.
His life was peaceful, simple, and full of gratitude.
But everything changed on what should have been an ordinary afternoon.
An explosion shook the earth. Screams tore through the air. Black smoke rose high, swallowing the blue sky with ash and fire.
"The sect… my master's home…"
He stood frozen, unable to blink as the once-fragrant plum blossoms now burned, their petals turning to charcoal, falling onto blood-soaked earth.
Buildings collapsed one by one. The disciples who had always smiled now lay motionless, their empty eyes staring at the sky. The wise elders of the sect fell with swords still tightly gripped in their hands.
"Master… when I was twenty… you asked me to protect this sect…"
In the corner of that courtyard, this young man had once sat cleaning the stone paths with his master. They had joked, laughed, and spoken of the next plum blossom season to come.
"But… forgive me, Master… from the moment you first found me… I was afraid of swords… I was afraid of battle…"
Masked warriors in black robes invaded mercilessly. They raised their blades, slashing, killing, burning everything in sight.
The man hid behind the burning ruins of the library, covering his mouth with both hands to stifle his sobs. His eyes locked onto the bodies of the disciples who had once called him "Big Brother Librarian"—now lifeless, never to move again.
"I… couldn't do anything…"
His tears fell silently, wetting the blackened earth as he fled the burning sect, abandoning all he had ever loved.
He ran… ran… ran… never once looking back.
Twenty years passed in exile. His black hair turned white, his back began to hunch, yet guilt and fear continued to gnaw at his chest. From the whispers he heard while hiding in small towns, only one name emerged with terror: the Demonic Sect.
Another twenty years went by. The martial world had crumbled. The great sects were now mere names. Those who had once boasted of their strength had fallen, one by one. Amidst all the destruction, the old man finally reappeared.
Now eighty years old, his hair entirely white, his face lined with wrinkles, his body frail—yet his eyes burned with determination. He stood upon the land that had once been filled with plum blossoms, now blackened and reeking of blood, where only the cold wind carried the scent of death.
Before him stood Lord Demonic, the ruler of darkness who had annihilated the martial world. The black-robed figure with crimson eyes swayed slightly, his body drenched in blood after the old man's earlier attacks.
"Bu… but the Blossoming Mountain Sect was destroyed forty years ago!" Lord Demonic shouted, his voice laced with fear.
He took half a step back, disbelief in his eyes.
"Don't tell me… you're from that sect?! But… how… your power… it's not the Blossoming Mountain Sect's martial arts!"
The old man raised his face, slowly opening his eyes to meet Lord Demonic's gaze. He exhaled deeply before a faint smile touched his lips.
"That's right," his voice was low but firm, "I was merely the librarian of the Blossoming Mountain Sect… a coward who never dared to raise a sword."
His gaze sharpened, an icy aura slowly spreading from his aged body.
"But with this power… I will repay everything you've done."
Suddenly, a long sword glowing with blue frost shot through the air from afar, slicing through the wind with a sharp cry before landing perfectly in his hand without the slightest tremor.
The sword vibrated, as though weeping in his grasp.
"No… impossible!!" Lord Demonic screamed, his face pale, his eyes bulging.
How could this old man summon a sword from hundreds of miles away with just a flick of his hand?! That sword had once belonged to the Northern Ice Sect's master—whom Lord Demonic had personally slain!
The old man gazed at the sword, gently stroking its blade as though comforting a crying child.
"Have you… ever heard a sword weep?" he whispered softly, his eyes still locked on Lord Demonic.
Lord Demonic stood frozen, unable to answer, his body trembling slightly.
The golden aura that had enveloped the old man slowly faded, making him appear frail once more. But as he raised the sword, an icy chill spread across the battlefield, dropping the temperature until their breaths turned to white mist.
The old man's steps were light, his movements graceful—like dancing amidst falling plum blossoms. Yet beneath that beauty, an icy aura wrapped around every motion, piercing to the bone of anyone nearby.
"H-How is this possible?!" Lord Demonic roared, his voice echoing. "A core technique can only be mastered once in a lifetime! If one chooses a core technique, they can never master another! That… is the law of the martial world!"
But the old man did not answer. He merely smiled faintly, his steps bringing him ever closer to Lord Demonic.
Suddenly, the old man raised his sword, swinging it gently. Each motion unleashed a different kind of sword technique—the Thousand Blades Sect's arts, the Northern Ice Sect's techniques, the Blossoming Mountain Sect's forms—all blending into one, forming a deadly yet beautiful swordplay.
"N-No way…" Lord Demonic's voice weakened, his body trembling, his face deathly pale.
He recognized those techniques—techniques he had faced before, techniques whose masters he had personally killed one by one—now emerging from a single man standing before him.
"IMPOSSIBLE!!"