Whoosh!
His Hell Serpent Zodiac, once a titan of malevolent force, hissed and flailed, retreating upward.
But it didn't make it far.
Clutch!
An unseen force caught it in midair—a swirl of Qi encasing it with seamless ease. Bound in a colorless orb, it shrank, screamed, twisted—and then fell silent, suspended like a fossil in a gemstone.
Dao Wei said nothing. He only walked forward slowly.
Step.
Petals stirred.
Second Step.
And Time stopped.
Diteyi lifted his eyes. The fear in them was no longer hidden behind arrogance. They were wide, confused, and trembling.
"W-what... are you?" he choked.
Dao Wei didn't respond. He knelt before Diteyi's broken form, and for a heartbeat, he almost looked like he was observing a rare creature.
Then, with unceremonious precision, he plucked the Crimson Jaggered Spear from the ground.
"Nice," Dao Wei said, turning the weapon over in his hand. The spear hissed with latent infernal power, but Dao Wei silenced it with a single flick of his finger.
Ting!
"Don't... touch that," Diteyi wheezed.
Dao Wei ignored him. One by one, he began stripping the defeated prodigy of everything.
The Abyss Sky Robe. Dao Wei held it up, nodding with an amused smirk. "Elegant. Shame about the bloodstains."
Diteyi groaned.
Next, scrolls. Dao Wei opened one, whistling softly.
He rummaged casually through Diteyi's spatial ring, shaking it like a pouch of coins. Cultivation pills tumbled out, sacred relics, maps, golden artifacts, and tokens from sect alliances. Dao Wei smirked.
"This could start a small sect," he chuckled. "Not bad."
Swoosh!
He poured everything into his own Spatial Ring, a black-glass orb that pulsed with a devouring hum. The moment it opened, the very air twisted, as if space itself was being pulled inward.
Finally, he stood, and Diteyi felt a shiver down his spine.
Dao Wei placed his hand upon the Demon Childe's neck.
"What are you doing?!" Diteyi gasped.
Dao Wei smiled.
A cruel, and sinister grin
"HRGGHAA!" Diteyi screamed.
His soul began to flicker. Threads of memory and essence were drawn into Dao Wei's palm—visions of a childhood in the Myriad Mortal Worlds, fragments of divine experiments, whispered names of Celestial Chosen, ancient pacts with unknown gods...
Dao Wei's expression changed. And for the first time, his eyes glowed—not with darkness, but with something dark.
A voice echoed.
Not Diteyi's. Not Dao Wei's.
But a whisper from the void. "And so... it begins."
Dao Wei's grip tightened, and the final shiver passed through Diteyi's body. Then he fell limp. Silent.
Thump!
The leaves continued to fall. The spring never ended.
A pale mist clung to the high ridge far away from the Southern Vast Desert. hidden atop a distant mountain peak, sheltered by a translucent mirrored barrier, three figures stood in silence.
Swordswoman Mei clutched her jade pendant tightly, lips pursed. Her eyes still lingered on the distant remnants of the Spring-like Domain where Dao Wei had delivered the final blow. "He flicked a leaf," she said, her voice a whisper of disbelief. "A leaf."
Feng, arms crossed, shifted his stance uneasily. "It wasn't the leaf, Mei. It was the will behind it. The sword intent within. That was… beyond comprehension."
Tian Xu, white-bearded and still as a sculpture, exhaled slowly. His voice trembled not from fear, but awe. "No longer the Sword Childe," he said. "Not even the Death god of Lower Shura. What we saw today..." He looked up at the sky, the drifting petals still lingering in the air like ghosts of beauty. "...was a Reaper. The Mortal World has birthed a Reaper."
This was an entity shrouded in mystery and almost long forgotten, with only a fraction of people who knew of its story.
Mei shook her head violently. "No. No, he can't be dead. Diteyi… he's a Demon Childe. Born of darkness. Touched by the abyss. They say he couldn't really die."
"Then what do you call this?" Feng asked. "Sword Childe took everything. The spear. The robe. Even the ring. Did you not see how he walked? That wasn't triumph. That was judgment."
Tian Xu turned away, his gaze falling toward the world beyond. "We feared the Demon Childe's cruelty. But perhaps we were watching the wrong one all along."
Meanwhile, elsewhere, in an undisclosed location far removed from the mortal world's light and the Divine Realm's order, torchlight flickered across obsidian pillars etched with screaming faces frozen in eternal torment. A long crimson carpet stretched into the darkness, bordered by looming statues — each one twisted in agony, representing the ancient Devils: Wrath, Greed, Lust, Envy, Sloth, Pride, and Gluttony. Their hollow stone eyes seemed to follow any who walked past, judging all and forgiving none.
The air was thick with incense made from ash and bone, burning slowly in black iron braziers. Every breath here carried weight — the kind that clung to the soul and refused to let go.
At the far end of the grand hall, on a dais sculpted from a single slab of volcanic glass, nine robed figures knelt in a crescent before a throne that pulsed with dark intent. Upon it sat a masked Lord, his entire form draped in coiling shadows that slithered and hissed like living serpents. Around him, the Seven Sin Lords stood in stillness — each one the embodiment of their respective Devils, cloaked in layered silks and sigils older than empires.
Then—a figure stepped forth from the silence, his footsteps muffled by the blood-red carpet. He bowed low before the Lords, his voice cutting through the oppressive hush like a blade through silk.
"The Demon Childe has fallen," he said, the words reverberating in the cold, cursed stone. "The unfilial son still lives."
A long pause followed.
And then from within the gloom came the rustle of parchment. Slow and purposeful.
"Prepare it," the Masked Lord growled, his voice echoing like distant thunder cracking over a battlefield. "Prepare the Crimson Death Bounty."
Gasps filled the chamber.
It was as if the name itself summoned old ghosts.
Even among the Seven Lords, the weight of those words could be felt—a pressure in the chest, a ringing in the ears, like a storm that had begun behind the veil of night.
"It hasn't been issued in centuries," one of the cloaked assassins whispered, barely audible.
Another muttered, "A letter of no return. A blood-forged edict. He has courted death, then."
The Crimson Death Bounty was not merely a contract—it was a curse, a soul mark. A death sentence that went beyond vengeance, deeper than a vendetta. It meant the subject was to be erased, not only from the world of the living but from remembrance itself. Once issued, no haven, no sect, no heavenly patron could shield the condemned. It was an open invitation to every assassin bound to the Hall, every agent of the Nine Sins, every beast with bloodlust in its marrow—to hunt, to kill, and to obliterate.
In the assassin community, it was the most sacred call to arms. A vow inked in blood, flame, and silence.
The scroll was brought forth. A blood-red parchment, weaved from the silk of Nether Widows and soaked in the essence of the condemned's Qi signature. It pulsed faintly—already resonating with Dao Wei's soulprint. A black blade was drawn, and with it, the scroll was dipped into molten wax drawn from the Pit of Echoing Wails—the seal of death.
A second scroll, identical, was pressed over it, sealing it in fire. The twin scrolls shimmered briefly with eldritch light, then burned into fate—one to be carried into the mortal world, the other to be stored in the Vault of Eternal Silence.
The masked Lord leaned forward, and with a voice like the grinding of bone, declared:
"Let the world know: Dao Wei is to be executed."
The shadows stirred. Somewhere far beyond the hall, bells tolled—silent bells, heard only by those sworn to the blade and the sin. The hunt had begun.
While amidst an endless sky of the Divine World, floating pagodas drifted over golden clouds. The Celestial Summit shimmered like a painting brought to life. Here, where only the Chosen gathered, discussions were already ablaze.
Zaldora's Chosen, the Zodiac of Gluttony, stood with his arms spread wide, laughing wildly. "So! The Mortal Realm breeds monsters now? That… that is delightful! I must taste his power. I must know what drives a man to become Death incarnate."
Across from him, the Chosen of Thalor, the Zodiac of Wisdom, frowned. "This is no laughing matter. He has crossed a threshold. The power he wields now—is untethered. Unmeasured. Not Light. It's not Dark. But something else entirely."
"Which is why I like him," Zaldora's Chosen grinned, licking his lips. "A man of appetite."
Thalor's Chosen turned to the divine mirror. Dao Wei's form was still etched within it, standing amidst the floating petals, hand on Diteyi's broken body.
"He was not meant to ascend so soon. And yet..."
"And yet, here we are," said Zaldora's Chosen, his shadow stretching unnaturally long. "The true hunt had just begun."
While the petals continued to fall with a silent witness, a Du Clan elder crushed his jade teacup, eyes burning with rage.
At the same time, somewhere else, a lone cultivator in the frozen north lit incense, whispering Dao Wei's name with reverence.