Like this, the figure stalked Yu Xuan and Lingluo's every step. Silent, patient, and relentless.
Each time they clashed with a guardian or their underlings, the figure remained unseen, watching from the edges of the battlefield. He never interfered. He never struck. He simply waited.
When the victors departed, he would emerge, with a crimson crystal in hand.
The fallen corpses — whether guardian or underling were always devoured into its depths. Blood and souls seeped into the crystal's core until it pulsed with a baleful aura, as though it were becoming a living heart.
And so it continued.
At the first node. The second. The third. The Fourth and the Fifth.
Each bloody confrontation, each vanished battlefield. By the seventh day, the cycle was complete.
The cloaked figure stood at the final node of the pentagram, the bloody moonlight warping against the aura that surrounded him. He looked down at the blood crystal, now nearly red, brimming with malice.
