The mountains loomed in silence as Hei Wushang stood at the foot of a path long abandoned. The narrow trail wound upward through cliffs of black stone, disappearing into the throat of the mountain that had once been his place of refuge — a family property, passed down through generations, where the young heirs of the Hei Clan would come to temper their bodies and minds.

A year ago, this was where Wushang came to train in secret, seeking to rise beyond his Second Rank Warrior state. A year ago, he left in failure, his heart heavy with shame. But tonight, he had returned.

The air was sharp with the scent of pine and cold stone. His boots crunched upon loose gravel as he ascended, step after step, until at last he reached the mouth of the cultivation cave. The world behind him was the world that mocked him. Before him was the chance — however small — to change his fate.

He entered. The cave greeted him like an old enemy, its chill cutting through his robe. Wushang lit no torch; he knew every crack of these walls, every stone beneath his feet. He moved to the center of the chamber where, long ago, he practiced the blade with quiet desperation.

Drawing his sword, he began to move. The techniques were simple, taught by minor masters — cuts, thrusts, steps of evasion. His blade sang softly through the still air. But as the memories of failure rose within him, the rhythm faltered. Rage swelled. His strikes grew wild.

With a cry, Wushang slashed at the cave walls. Stone split beneath his fury. The walls cracked, dust falling like ash in the dimness. And then — a hollow sound. A hidden weakness revealed.

The stone before him gave way, a narrow passage opening like the mouth of the mountain itself, long hidden behind layers of time.

Wushang stared, breath unsteady. A narrow, broken stair led down into blackness.

“What is this?” he murmured, his voice trembling between fear and curiosity. “A hidden path… here all along?”

His heart raced, but the fire of resolve burned brighter than the chill of dread. He stepped into the passage, feeling the weight of the mountain close around him. For half an hour, he walked, the path winding deeper and deeper. The air grew heavy, thick with age.

Then he felt it — an aura that chilled his blood. An ominous, oppressive force that pressed against his spirit, as if the mountain itself sought to crush his will.

At last, the passage opened into a vast chamber.

A single tomb stood at its center, carved from stone dark as night. Upon it rested a sword, its blade crimson like fresh blood, its aura sharp as death itself. The Asura Sword.

Wushang froze, his hands clenched at his sides. The power that seeped from the sword was like nothing he had ever felt — wild, hungry, demonic. His mind raced.

“Is this… the Asura? The spirit of destruction, the right hand of the ancient Demon God himself?”

Fear gripped him, but so too did wonder. He took a step forward, his breath shallow.

A voice echoed through the chamber, deep and cold.

“Come. Receive the legacy.”

Wushang drew his sword in terror. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

Images flooded his mind — fragments of memory. A man of towering strength, his face hidden behind a mask of flame and shadow.

“I am Hei Mozun,” the voice said, low as the grave. “Ancestor of your blood. A thousand years I have waited. I sought to step beyond Saint rank, to claim the path of the gods — and failed. Here I perished, but not before sealing my will and my sword. Now at last, my successor stands before me.”

Wushang’s thoughts reeled. Hei Mozun — the ancestor of the Hei family, a Transcendens Saint Master who tried to break through the heavens and fell short. And the sword — Asura — the blade of the ancient demonic spirit, the servant of the Demon God whom even the Cult revered.

The voice spoke again.

“This is Asura. Within it, I sealed every technique I forged in my final years. Had I created these arts earlier, I might have broken through to godhood. But it is too late for me. My will remains only to pass them to one worthy. And now I ask you — will you bear my legacy?”

The chamber fell silent, waiting for his answer.

Wushang’s heart thundered. “Why me? Why choose me?”

“Because your heart holds both hunger and sorrow. Because you have known defeat and yet stand unbroken. Because you are my blood.”

Wushang gazed at the sword, the crimson blade seeming to pulse with life. Slowly, with trembling hands, he reached out. His fingers closed around the hilt — and the mark of Asura carved itself into his flesh. Twin black-red horns rose upon his brow, and spectral wings unfurled from his back, vanishing into his soul.

The power of the Asura Sword entered him, and with it the knowledge of countless techniques: Saint rank arts, Spirit rank treasures, First rank mastery beyond measure. And most precious of all, the technique Hei Mozun had forged at the edge of death — the Blood Devouring Breathing Technique.

It was a forbidden way, merging the wielder’s breath with Asura’s might. Through it, the blood of any slain being would be devoured, refined into pure demonic energy, feeding both the sword and its master. It would strengthen Qi, restore life, and make stamina endless in battle.

Now Wushang understood why the Cult was named demonic. Other cultivators drew upon yin and yang, balancing gentle and fierce. The Cult’s arts embraced the demonic force hidden within nature, a ruthless energy born of blood and struggle. Yet even the Cult relied on blood-refining pills made from beast blood, for pure demonic energy was beyond their reach.

But Wushang was no longer bound by such limits. He could feed upon blood itself, forging his path through battle alone.

The legacy complete, the power surged through him. His Qi broke its chains, rising to First Rank Warrior, his core swelling with demonic force.

He stood in the silent tomb, a smile curving his lips — not of joy, but of sorrow born in hell’s depths. His voice rang out, low and fierce, echoing through the chamber:

“It’s time for domination.”