Volume –1
The Demonic Land was a savage expanse of black stone and endless mountain chains, where the sun’s light seldom reached and the wind carried the stench of blood and earth. The peaks rose like the fangs of great beasts, tearing the sky asunder, and the valleys below were choked in mist as old as time. Here, the weak did not survive, and even the strong moved with care. This was the northern edge of the Tanxian Continent, where no emperor’s flag flew and no Murim sword dared point.
This was the domain of the Heavenly Demonic Cult, one of the five powers that shaped the fate of the world. The continent belonged to strength, and strength alone. The Empires ruled by law, their banners shining over cities and fields. The Murim Righteous House Alliance guarded peace with sword and code, honoring the emperors with loyalty. The Unorthodox Sects walked the middle path, owing allegiance to no one. The Evil Factions hid in shadow, bartering souls for the favor of forgotten gods. And in the far north, the Heavenly Demonic Cult reigned, its will as unyielding as the mountains it called home.
Though peace held, it was peace born of fear. The Empires, Murim, and Cult each bound by ancient pacts of non-aggression, knowing that open war would bring only ruin. Yet beneath the silence, suspicion and old hatred smoldered, as deep and cold as the roots of the northern peaks.
The Heavenly Demonic Cult ruled with discipline. Ten Great Clans, sixteen Middle Clans, and twenty-two Lesser Clans governed their lands, all sworn to the will of the Demon Patriarch, Hei Tianzong. His law was absolute. In his domain, no clan, whether mighty or humble, could defy his rule and endure.
Hei Tianzong’s eight children were born from alliances and duty. Seven bore the marks of talent, their names spoken with respect. Only the youngest, Hei Wushang, lived without favor. His mother, Yuemei of the Yue Clan, had been the last hope of a fallen sect. She died bringing him into the world, leaving him with nothing but a name and a broken manor.
Wushang’s brothers and sisters shone brightly. His eldest brother’s fists shattered stone. His second brother’s palm froze the blood of his foes. His sisters’ arts were graceful and deadly, their steps as light as the falling snow. They were given treasures of technique, scrolls guarded for generations.
But Wushang stood alone, with no powerful clan behind him and no treasured scroll in his hands. At eighteen, he remained trapped at Second Rank Warrior, a stage most left behind before sixteen. His name was spoken rarely, and never with pride.
In the world of Tanxian, the path of cultivation was the path of survival. Martial ranks determined a warrior’s worth:
Third Rank Warrior — the level of common guards and raw disciples.
Second Rank Warrior — where talent first showed itself.
First Rank Warrior — the mark of a true martial artist, standing above the ordinary.
Early Gathering Master — one who began to draw Qi into the body’s core.
Gathering Master — one who formed the foundation of true strength.
Transcendens Gathering Master — a master of Qi gathering, ready to refine spirit.
Early Spirit Master — one who touched the essence of heaven and earth.
Spirit Master — who commanded Qi as easily as breath.
Transcendens Spirit Master — a warrior of great power, shaping Qi into will.
Early Eternity Master — who stood at the edge of mortality’s limits.
Eternity Master — whose Qi nourished body and soul beyond common life.
Transcendens Eternity Master — near the realm of legends, rare as stars at dawn.
Early Saint Master — one who bent the world’s Qi to his will.
Saint Master — a sovereign of the martial path, feared and respected by all.
Transcendens Saint Master — beyond Saint, touching the mysteries of the heavens.
In this age, none had passed beyond the Saint Master level. Across the continent, only eight Saint Masters remained: two in Murim, three within the Empires, one among the Unorthodox Sects, one within the Heavenly Demonic Cult, and one a wanderer who owed allegiance to none. Their names were few, but their power kept the world’s balance.
Techniques, too, shaped destiny. They were divided by their strength:
Third Rate Techniques — simple arts, common and crude.
Second Rate Techniques — solid and dependable, taught to disciples of minor sects.
First Rate Techniques — the pride of powerful clans, the mark of true talent.
Spirit Rate Techniques — rare treasures, kept in vaults or passed to chosen heirs.
Saint Rate Techniques — legendary arts, lost to time or sealed in ancient places.
The storm clouds thickened above the Demonic Land. Lightning lit the peaks like ghostly fires, and the wind spoke of the storm to come.
Hei Wushang stood on a narrow ledge, high upon the mountainside, far from the safety of any clan’s walls. His robe was black, plain, the hem frayed. His eyes, dark as the storm above, gazed at the mouth of a cave that yawned before him. From its depths came a cold breath, heavy with the scent of old earth and deeper things — a place where time had fallen silent.
There was no fear in him, only resolve.
“If I am to rise,” he whispered, the words stolen by the wind, “let it begin here.”
He stepped forward, and the darkness swallowed him whole.
Thus began the first step on the path that would give birth to the Demon God of Asura.
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