A thousand figures had gathered — warriors, elders, servants, and heirs. Banners of the 48 clans snapped in the mountain wind, black and red, marked with the symbols of serpent, flame, blade, and storm. From the ten high clans to the smallest of the low, all had come to witness the choosing of the next heir to the Heavenly Demonic Throne.

At the highest platform stood Hei Xuanyan, the Heavenly Demonic Patriarch. His crimson robe, embroidered with black flames, rippled with each breath of the mountain wind. His long black hair, streaked silver at the temples, framed a face carved by war and time. His dark gaze swept the gathered clans, sharp as a blade, deep as an abyss. He was a man who had led the cult through three wars, broken kingdoms beneath his feet, and earned his place as one of the Eight Saint Masters of the continent. His title was whispered with fear and reverence alike: Crimson Abyss Saint.

At his side stood Du Mo, the Heavenly Sabre Demon, clad in dark armor, his expression as cold and sharp as the twin sabres at his side. A Transcendens Eternity Master whose blades had ended rebellions before they began. His gaze flicked over the crowd, measuring strength, reading secrets in faces.

The war drums boomed, slow and deep. The mountain seemed to tremble with the sound.

Every soul fell to one knee. Right fists thudded to chests. Heads bowed low.

> “We greet the Heavenly Demonic Patriarch, Lord of the Demon Cult, Crimson Flame of the North!”

Hei Xuanyan raised his hand. The sea of bodies rose as one. His voice, when it came, was iron and storm.

“Today begins the trial of my blood. My children will face the abyss, and only the worthy shall rise from it. The weak shall fall, their names forgotten. The strong shall carve their mark into the bones of history.”

The silence that followed was thick as blood.

“You will face three trials. The Illusionary Blood Forest, where your fears shall take form and hunt you. The Demonic Beast Capture, where strength and wit must unite. The Tower of Blades, where the sword wills of the ancients will test your killing heart. Survive, and you may stand as a true successor. Fail, and you will die as nothing.”

He swept his gaze across the heirs.

“Day one: the forest. Day three: the beast. Day five: the tower. Day seven: judgment.”

The herald stepped forward. Names rang out.

First, Hei Yanzhuo, the eldest son. His scarred cheek, broad shoulders, and proud gaze spoke of many battles. Early Gathering Master, known as the Crimson Tiger of the North. His red robes shimmered in the morning sun.

Hei Jinyue, eldest daughter, the Ice Shadow Blade. Silver hair tied high, her cold beauty matched only by the sharpness of her eyes. First Rank Warrior, but her sword arm was said to be deadly beyond her rank.

Hei Liang, second son. Second Rank Warrior. No famed nickname, not yet. But his smirk spoke volumes, and his eyes gleamed with ambition like polished jade.

Hei Qingshan, third son. Early Gathering Master. The Silent Storm. He stood still as a mountain, his power hidden beneath calm like a storm yet to break.

Hei Mingyu, second daughter. First Rank Warrior. Called the White Orchid, graceful, soft-spoken, but known to strike as swiftly as a falling petal.

Hei Ziyan, fourth son. First Rank Warrior. The Dark Wolf, his wild eyes burned with reckless hunger for glory.

Hei Meilin, third daughter. Second Rank Warrior. The Shadow Fox, her charm concealing sharp wits and a schemer’s heart.

And last, Hei Wushang.

He stepped forward. His robe plain black, tied at the waist with worn leather. His black hair hung loose down his back. His face was pale, sharp, his dark eyes steady, cold, unreadable. His sword was nothing but a battered iron blade, unremarkable among the gleaming weapons of his siblings.

But unseen, beneath the robe, the mark of Asura burned faintly — two horns, two shadowed wings. Hidden power.

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

In the Yan Clan, Yan Bo, the Ghost Blade General, leaned close to his son. “See him? That one will not last the forest.”

In the Xue Clan, Hei Xuelan smiled thinly. “The boy’s courage is amusing. Pity it will end in the Blood Forest.”

But beside her, her second son, Hei Xuehong, frowned thoughtfully. “Mother… his gaze. It is not the gaze of a fool.”

In the Lin Clan, Lin Zhen watched silently, his fingers tapping his staff. There’s more to that boy. I wonder…

Not all scorned him. Some of the lower clan leaders watched with quiet curiosity.

Wei Rong, master of a mid clan, murmured, “Sometimes the quiet ones bite the hardest.”

Fang Yue, a low clan elder, nodded. “There is a storm in him. I can feel it.”

Among his siblings, thoughts burned bright.

Yanzhuo smirked. Let him die. His blood will feed the forest.

Jinyue’s eyes glittered with frost. A stain on our name.

Liang sneered. A dog pretending to be wolf.

Qingshan’s gaze lingered longer, unreadable. He is not as empty as they think.

Mingyu looked away, lips pressed tight, uncertain.

Ziyan’s fists clenched. I’ll be sure I outshine him.

Meilin’s smile was soft. The weak sometimes surprise us.

Hei Xuanyan’s voice broke the silence.

“Go. Let the trials decide your worth. Let blood decide who will stand.”

The war drums roared again.

The heirs turned from the dais, hearts heavy with ambition, malice, and hope.

Hei Wushang paused. The wind tugged at his robe. Beneath his skin, the mark of Asura pulsed like a heartbeat.

Let them laugh. Let them sneer. The storm is coming.

And so, the trials began.