Zhu Yan sat in the silence of the moonlit cavern, his breath shallow, his thoughts ablaze.
The whispers of the Manual had grown louder since his second awakening. Symbols burned beneath his skin, etched into his bones like brands from another world. They shifted with every heartbeat — ancient sigils from a forgotten demonic language.
The cavern was hidden beneath the ruins of the Crimson Sect, a place once sealed with celestial talismans and divine flame. But those protections had crumbled with time. Or perhaps... they had fled the return of their master.
He stood at the altar — black stone veined with red. At its center was a shallow depression: a handprint not carved, but melted into the rock.
Zhu Yan didn't hesitate.
He placed his palm into the mark.
The cavern pulsed.
Walls trembled. Blood-red light poured from the stone as runes crawled across the floor like living flame. The air grew dense, thick with the stench of ash and rage.
And then… a voice.
"You are not him."
Zhu Yan's eyes snapped open. "I am not the one who created this tomb. But I am the one who will inherit it."
A pause. Then laughter — deep, ancient, echoing from within the bones of the mountain.
"Inheritance demands blood."
Zhu Yan clenched his fist. "Then take it."
The altar flared. Needles of obsidian burst from the stone, piercing into his palm, wrist, arm. Blood splattered across the runes — and the tomb awakened.
From beneath the altar, chains unraveled, and a stone coffin cracked open. Inside lay a corpse — not rotting, but preserved in power. Skin like black jade. Eyes closed. Arms crossed over a scroll bound in bone.
The Demonic Ascension Manual.
The real one.
The copy etched in Zhu Yan's soul… was only a fragment.
He approached slowly, pulse pounding. "If this is mine by fate or by fire… then let it be done."
As he reached out, the corpse's eyes flew open.
Black lightning surged.
Zhu Yan screamed — not in pain, but in revelation.
Visions of ancient wars, of cities burning beneath demonic suns, of gods torn from their thrones — all flooded his mind.
He saw himself among them.
No longer a crippled disciple.
But a demon crowned in starlight and blood.
When he came to, the coffin was empty.
The scroll was in his hands.
And the voice whispered again — not from the tomb, but from within his very soul:
"Rise, Ascendant. The first gate has opened."