The leader always believed that the book was penned by an individual with a severe alcohol addiction, as it seemed unrealistic, implying that an old pure-blooded clan had once defeated gods and such. However, the first line in the book stated clearly:
"Even a single ounce of blood cannot be altered by any entity."
Even that weird, bullshitter writer had written that it was impossible.
At first, the leader was bewildered, but he quickly composed himself, realizing that the brat in front of him was only a Blade Sentry Level 6.
The night air of the jungle pulsed faintly with dark qi, like the world itself was breathing. Faint crimson mist drifted between the trees, and the ground trembled softly as if the planet's will was watching this small fight.
Blade-Sentry and Magic-Sentry were the first steps for any Flicktor.
A Flicktor was a being who harnessed the power of the planet itself—its qi, its blood, its soul—to fight. Blade Sentrys used physical power drawn from their inner qi veins, while Magic Sentrys shaped their energy into spells and techniques.
These were only the lowest of the major cultivation realms. Above them came Sentry, Protector, Defender, and Overseer. Each realm was divided into ten levels, and beyond them lay the abyss—those who touched the Conflictor realm, walking calamities that broke heavens.
"How did you do it?" the leader asked, his voice firm but shaking slightly under the weight of Omen's aura.
Omen, who was standing before him, didn't answer. He knew that even if he told the truth, there was no chance he would be allowed to live. Still, he had to try. Meaningless death was not an option.
He tried to summon his black sword again—but his hand flickered, the blade refusing to form.
The leader's hand flashed from under his hood. His nails stretched like blue claws charged with ghostly qi. He slashed once.
Omen didn't even have time to react. The blow tore through him completely.
His body exploded into a burst of blood and mist—like a water balloon.
Only a fine red spray floated in the cold air.
"Was he stupid?" Ace11 muttered, his tone somewhere between irritation and disbelief.
"Boss, our job here is done. Let's not forget we're in a dangerous place," one of the shadows said, his voice trembling, eyes darting nervously between the black trees.
"I know. We were fifty when we entered this cursed forest… Now look at us." Ace11's tone hardened. "If this weren't such a damned place, I would've taken that brat alive, even if it offended that old man."
He turned and began walking in the direction they came from, the remaining shadows following like ghosts.
Far away from the jungle, outside a massive palace of pale stone, an old man walked slowly up a set of white marble stairs. The moonlight reflected off his purple robe and the small silver crown on his head. His pace was steady until, suddenly, he stopped.
Everyone behind him froze as well.
The curse is gone? he thought, eyes narrowing. So they killed him. If my calculations are correct… those bastards won't make it out alive.
"Is something wrong, Grandfather?" asked a young man walking beside him—his hair golden, his silver eyes glowing faintly like stars. His face resembled the old man's.
"Nothing," the old man replied calmly. "Let's go. The Emperor is waiting."
He continued walking as though nothing had happened.
In the jungle, the remaining eighteen shadows were moving quickly. The forest around them was unnaturally still, the air thick with spiritual pressure.
They were far from the place where Omen's body had burst apart, yet unease coiled in their hearts.
Suddenly, the leader's body stiffened. He stopped and raised one hand. The rest halted immediately.
Before them, the trees grew enormous and twisted, blocking out the moonlight entirely. A deep silence fell.
Then the ground began to tremble.
The vibrations grew heavier with every passing breath, like something colossal was moving through the forest.
Leaves fell. Branches snapped.
A massive shape emerged from the darkness—an enormous black bear, its fur glistening like metal, its eyes two pits of green fire. It towered nearly sixty feet tall.
Ace11 swallowed hard. He recognized it instantly.
It was the same beast that had attacked them when they first entered this jungle. Back then, they had been fifty men. Thirty-two had died within minutes.
His pulse quickened. Overseer level… maybe even higher.
Even a Protector like him—Level 7—was no match for a monster like this.
This was no ordinary jungle. This was the Forbidden Jungle of Aisenmoor, a cursed land to the west of the planet. Nobody knew its true depth. Even Conflictor-level beasts—creatures powerful enough to destroy cities—were seen near its edges.
Now, they stood in its heart.
The bear sniffed the air. The shadows didn't move, didn't breathe, and didn't blink.
Ace11 could feel the sweat trickling down his back. His qi refused to flow, suppressed by the beast's overwhelming aura.
The bear turned its head slowly—too slowly—and locked eyes with one of the assassins.
That man froze. His legs trembled. Then, shamefully, a dark patch spread across his pants.
The bear sniffed once. Its nostrils flared.
Then it roared and charged.
"Fuck. Prepare to engage!" Ace11 shouted.
The ground shattered as the two sides collided.
BOOM!
Trees exploded. Qi waves tore through the night. Blood splattered across the forest floor as one shadow after another was torn apart.
Screams echoed briefly, then stopped.
Moments later, the jungle was silent again—except for the sound of chewing. The massive bear crouched, feasting on the corpses one by one.
Not a single assassin survived.
Back at the clearing where Omen had been destroyed, the air trembled. The blood mist that had scattered began to swirl.
A single red droplet floated upward. Then another.
The two merged, and more followed. The droplets gathered into a mass, pulsing faintly like a living heart.
The mass twisted, stretched, and slowly took shape—a silhouette forming from liquid blood.
After an hour, the form solidified. A naked man stood amidst the haze, steam rising from his skin.
Omen opened his eyes.
He looked down at his own hands, watching fingers form from flowing blood. His heart thudded once, then again.
"I'm… not dead?" he whispered.
He clenched and unclenched his fists.
"Is this the power of a pure-blooded vampire?"
He felt both awe and fear. The forest wind howled, cold against his skin, and he shivered.
"What would've happened," he muttered quietly, "if I wasn't pure-blooded?"
For a moment, the thought lingered—then the cold seeped into his bones.
He looked around the corpse-littered jungle, the shadows of the trees twisting above him like specters, and whispered to himself,
"...It's freezing."