The ruins were deathly still, the once-proud battalion of the Azure Sky Sect reduced to half their number by the cursed labyrinth of this forgotten land. Traps had shredded flesh, illusions had twisted minds, and the corpses of cultivators lay strewn across the broken stones like discarded offerings. The survivors—bloodied, limping, eyes wide with dread—had pressed on, driven by duty, by pride, and by the command of their Sect.
And then… they found him.
The cocoon of blood and shadow had ruptured. A figure stood amidst the wreckage, tall and unyielding, his presence eclipsing the last light of the ruins. His eyes burned like twin abyssal stars, and in his hand rested a weapon of unnatural elegance—a scythe, curved like the smile of death itself, gleaming with a hunger of its own.
The battalion froze, silence gripping their throats.
For an instant, there was no clash, no battle cries, no explosions of techniques. Only the low hum of resonance—the sound of Heaven and Earth holding their breath.
And then he moved.
One swing. That was all.
The scythe carved through reality itself, its arc impossibly vast. Darkness poured from its edge like a tidal wave, sweeping across the ruins. Screams erupted, only to be silenced in the same heartbeat, bodies cleaved as though they were paper before the storm. Armors shattered, spirit shields cracked like fragile glass, and cultivators—men and women who had trained for centuries—were reduced to ash and mangled flesh in a blink.
Blood sprayed in fountains. The ground drank it greedily.
He did not roar. He did not laugh. There was no cruelty in his eyes—only indifference. The battalion had been insects crawling upon his path, and now they were gone, their legacies erased by a single flicker of his will.
The battlefield became a grave.
Only one remained.
A young commander, trembling, his knees buckling as he collapsed in the pool of blood left by his comrades. His lips moved soundlessly, his eyes wide with incomprehension, his cultivation shattered by sheer terror. He tried to stand, tried to draw his blade, but his body no longer obeyed.
The figure walked toward him, each step echoing like thunder across the silence.
The commander wept.
"W-what are you…?" His voice broke into a whisper. "No… no… this cannot… this cannot exist in this world…"
The figure paused, tilting his head slightly. His lips parted, and in a voice older than the stars, he uttered words that had not been spoken aloud for eons. Words that should never have been remembered.
"Primordial Chaos Demon Dragon."
The commander's breath stopped. His heart clenched in primal recognition. Though he had never heard the phrase in his life, the blood of his ancestors recoiled, screaming of an ancient enemy that devoured heavens. His pupils shrank to pinpricks.
He tried to speak, to carry this revelation back to his Sect, but blood poured from his mouth. The scythe had not moved—but his life was already claimed. He collapsed, lifeless, joining the mountain of corpses around him.
And then the silence deepened.
The blood soaking the ruins quivered, as though drawn by an unseen hand. It slithered across the broken stones, converging toward the scythe. Rivers of crimson twisted upward, wrapping around the weapon in serpentine coils. The scythe pulsed, its hunger revealed—it was evolving, drinking deeply of the massacre it had wrought.
The figure's hand tightened around the handle as it vibrated, resonating with his very soul. Dark sigils crawled across its length, reshaping it into something alive. Its blade lengthened, its edge sharper than law, its aura thick with bloodlust. Yet it was not complete—it writhed, as though gestating, demanding time to fully awaken.
The process would take a month.
Above, thunder rumbled, though no storm should have existed within these cursed ruins. The Heavens themselves recoiled, watching the birth of something that should never have returned.
The figure looked skyward, his eyes reflecting neither fear nor reverence—only inevitability.
All around him, corpses melted into blood, merging with the crimson altar forming beneath his feet. The battlefield itself became his domain, a sacred ground consecrated in slaughter.
And then there was nothing.
No cries. No voices. No heartbeat but his own.
The ruins were silent, as though the world itself had died.
And in that silence, one truth became certain:
This was not the end. It was the beginning.