The sky was bleeding.
Dark crimson clouds churned above the mountain range, reflecting the massacre below. Trees lay in ruin, rivers ran red, and the land itself trembled beneath the fury of battle.
At the heart of it all, a lone man ran—wounded, bloodied, yet still terrifying to behold.
Ling Xian.
Feared as the God of Destruction, revered as a tyrant and savior in equal measure, he now moved with unsteady steps, his body cracked like fractured jade, his spiritual sea barely holding together.
Behind him, a tide of cultivators surged—more than a hundred elites from ancient sects, demon clans, rogue empires, and forgotten kingdoms. Their cultivation levels ranged from peak Nascent Soul to Half-Step Immortal. They had cast aside grudges and pride for one purpose alone:
To kill the man they could never defeat alone.
Each of them had tasted Ling Xian's wrath before—sect leaders humiliated, patriarchs crippled, holy lands scorched. Some had lost lovers. Others had lost bloodlines. And yet, they all shared one thing:
Fear.
"Ling Xian! You butchered my clan for looking at your woman the wrong way!" one roared from behind.
"You destroyed my sect over a few words! You damned devil!"
"You're not a god—you're a curse upon the heavens!"
The insults were loud. The hatred louder.
But Ling Xian heard none of it.
He ran, not for his life, but for hers.
His heart burned, not from the pain, but from failure.
She had been taken—Yu Ruoxi, the soft-spoken yin cultivator whose soul had once fused with his during a celestial dual cultivation rite. They had soared through lightning tribulations together. Shared dao comprehension beneath a soul moon. Her essence was entwined with his.
And now, it was fading.
She's gone, he realized, as he reached the broken cliff overlooking the fortress where she'd been held. There was no trace of her qi. No voice. No resonance.
Too late... again.
His knees buckled. A crack ran through the ground—and through his soul.
For the first time in a thousand years, Ling Xian—the man who once split an entire continent to retrieve a stolen hairpin from one of his consorts—felt powerless.
"Ling Xian!" A voice bellowed. A dozen silhouettes landed around him, weapons drawn. "You're cornered now. No more miracles."
More figures appeared, until the entire mountain glowed with killing intent.
Yet Ling Xian stood.
He faced them, silver hair matted with blood, eyes dull yet defiant. The divine light that once flared from his body had dimmed—but his aura still bore the pride of someone who had stood above the world.
"Isn't it funny," he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper, yet everyone heard it, "how it took a hundred of you… to chase one man."
"ENOUGH!" a female cultivator shouted, her face contorted with madness. "You crippled my cultivation just because I insulted your dual partner! Die!"
Ling Xian slowly smiled. A tired, broken smile.
"I killed countless for my people… slaughtered sects because they threatened my women… crushed prodigies for daring to covet what's mine." His gaze lifted to the storm-filled sky. "And even now… I don't regret it."
He drew a dagger from within his robe. It was plain, undecorated, meant not for enemies—but for himself.
A final act of will.
"I will not be your trophy," Ling Xian said. "You'll have nothing of me. No body. No bones. Not even my name."
He looked skyward one last time.
"Ruoxi… wait for me."
And then, without hesitation—
He drove the dagger into his heart.
A soundless explosion rippled across the land.
No screams.
No mourning.
Only stillness.
The cultivators froze. Some stood in disbelief. Others let out shouts of victory. A few fell to their knees, not in triumph—but from the weight of something... wrong.
Because just as Ling Xian's body collapsed, a golden strand of light rose from his corpse—a faint, flickering soul.
It drifted upward, unnoticed.
Until the sky… split.
The clouds parted with a soundless roar, and a pressure older than the stars descended.
Time stilled.
Even the wind dared not move.
Every cultivator—no matter how proud or powerful—dropped to their knees as an ancient presence swept through them like a tidal wave of eternity. Their thoughts turned to dust. Their hearts trembled as though they stood before the truth of the universe itself.
It was not celestial. It was not demonic.
It was primordial.
"He is not yours," a voice echoed—not in their ears, but in their very souls.
They couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Couldn't even breathe.
The golden soul vanished into the void… pulled away by a force that none of them could comprehend.
And then—just as suddenly—it was gone.
The sky healed.
The silence broke.
The cultivators stared at one another, unsure if they had imagined the last few seconds. But deep within, every single one of them understood:
Ling Xian was not dead.
And whatever had taken him… was something even they should fear.
To be continue....