The morning mist clung to Azure Sky City like the breath of ghosts, heavy and cold. In the cramped hovel that had become their sanctuary, six figures stirred beneath patched blankets and stolen cloaks. What had begun as Fatty Jin's simple refuge was now something else entirely—a gathering place for the broken, the desperate, and the defiant.
Shen Zhen sat cross-legged in the corner, studying the black mark that had grown overnight. The veins now stretched past his wrist, creeping toward his elbow like hungry roots. When he pressed his palm flat against the wall, hairline cracks appeared in the stone. When he relaxed, warmth pooled in his chest, and the golden seal beneath his ribs hummed with contentment.
The power was growing. But so was its hunger.
"Devil Emperor," Ling Yue's voice cut through his concentration. She knelt beside him, her dark eyes sharp with curiosity and something else—a heat that made his pulse quicken. "Show me."
Shen Zhen glanced around. Fatty Jin was dividing their meager breakfast with mathematical precision. Tie Hu and the twin brothers, Gan and Gen, practiced punching forms Ling Yue had taught them the night before. The sixth member of their group—a silent girl called Mei who'd appeared at dawn with a knife wound in her shoulder—watched everything with wary eyes.
"Show you what?" Shen Zhen asked.
Ling Yue took his marked hand in both of hers, ignoring his sharp intake of breath. Her touch was warm, electric. "This power. I can feel it—like lightning waiting to strike. You saved us all, but you're holding back."
"Maybe I should hold back," he said quietly. "This thing... it doesn't just heal. It devours. I can feel it wanting more—more pain, more blood, more everything."
She smiled, a expression both tender and fierce. "Then feed it what it needs. Channel that hunger into strength for those who follow you."
Before he could respond, Fatty Jin's urgent whisper cut across the room. "Disciples. Three of them, asking questions."
Everyone froze. Through the gaps in the patched walls, they could see Azure Sky Sect disciples moving through the alley, their blue robes pristine despite the mud and filth around them. The leader, a young man with cruel eyes and perfectly groomed hair, gestured dismissively at the cowering beggars.
"—saw him here yesterday," one beggar was saying, voice shaking. "Devil child, they call him. Black marks on his hands, fights like a demon possessed."
The disciple's lips curved in distaste. "Demonic cultivation in the slums. How... typical." His gaze swept the ramshackle buildings. "Find him. The sect has questions."
Shen Zhen's blood began to boil. The casual arrogance, the way they looked at his people like insects—it awakened something primal and furious inside him. The black mark flared with heat.
Ling Yue's hand tightened on his arm. "Not yet," she whispered. "Wait for the right moment."
The disciples continued their search, growing closer to their hideout. One kicked over a beggar's food bowl just for sport, laughing when the man scrambled to salvage the spilled rice.
Something snapped inside Shen Zhen.
He stood, pushing past Ling Yue's restraining hand, and stepped into the doorway. The morning light fell across his lean frame, illuminating the black veins that crawled up his arms like living tattoos.
"Looking for me?" he called out.
The three disciples turned as one. The leader's eyes widened slightly as he took in Shen Zhen's appearance—the faded bruises, the defiant posture, the unmistakable aura of someone who had stared death in the face and laughed.
"So," the disciple said, his voice smooth as silk over steel. "The famous Devil Emperor. You're smaller than the stories suggested."
"Stories have a way of growing," Shen Zhen replied. "Like power."
The disciple's two companions flanked him, hands resting on sword hilts. The leader studied Shen Zhen with the calculating gaze of a predator sizing up prey.
"I am Zhou Ming, inner disciple of the Azure Sky Sect. You've been causing... disturbances. The elders are concerned about reports of demonic cultivation practices among the rabble."
"Concerned?" Shen Zhen's laugh was harsh. "About rabble? How touching."
Zhou Ming's expression hardened. "Mock us at your peril, street rat. The sect's mercy has limits."
Behind Shen Zhen, his companions emerged from the hovel. Fatty Jin clutched a meat cleaver with theatrical menace. Ling Yue moved like a dancer, every step precise and deadly. The others spread out, forming a loose circle.
"Mercy?" Shen Zhen stepped forward, and the black mark on his hand began to pulse with visible light. "When did your sect ever show mercy to anyone in these alleys? When children starved while you feasted? When old men froze while you warmed yourselves with expensive oils?"
"Enough!" Zhou Ming's hand moved to his sword. "You speak of things beyond your understanding, worm. The strong rule, the weak serve. That is the natural order."
"Natural order," Shen Zhen repeated, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Then let me show you something natural."
The rage that had been building inside him—not just from this moment, but from every beating, every humiliation, every night spent hungry and cold—exploded outward. The black mark flared like a star, and power coursed through his body.
He moved.
Zhou Ming's sword cleared its sheath with practiced speed, but Shen Zhen was already inside his guard. The punch that connected with the disciple's ribs carried the force of accumulated fury and newfound strength. Zhou Ming flew backward, crashing through a wooden fence.
The other disciples attacked simultaneously. Shen Zhen caught one's sword arm, the black mark burning against the man's wrist. The disciple screamed as dark veins spread up his arm, sapping his strength. A kick sent the third disciple tumbling into a pile of refuse.
But the effort cost him. Pain lanced through Shen Zhen's skull as the power receded, leaving him gasping. The black mark had spread further, now reaching nearly to his shoulder, and his vision swam with exhaustion.
Zhou Ming struggled to his feet, blood trickling from his mouth, eyes blazing with humiliated rage. "You... you dare strike a disciple of Azure Sky Sect?"
"I dare much more than that," Shen Zhen said, though his voice was strained.
"This isn't over, Devil Emperor." Zhou Ming spat blood into the mud. "The sect will not forget this insult. We will return with proper force."
"Good," Ling Yue stepped beside Shen Zhen, her blade gleaming in her hand. "We'll be waiting."
The disciples retreated, Zhou Ming casting venomous glances over his shoulder. The gathered crowd of beggars and street dwellers watched in stunned silence.
Then, slowly, they began to cheer.
"Devil Emperor! Devil Emperor!"
The sound echoed through the alley, growing louder as more voices joined in. Shen Zhen felt a strange mixture of triumph and foreboding. He had crossed a line today—struck back at those who had always been untouchable.
There would be consequences.
Fatty Jin waddled up, grinning broadly. "Well, that was either the stupidest or bravest thing I've ever seen. Probably both."
"Definitely both," Ling Yue agreed, but her eyes shone with pride and something warmer.
As the crowd dispersed and his companions gathered around him, Shen Zhen made a decision. If the Azure Sky Sect wanted war, he would give them one. But not as a lone street rat fighting in alleys.
"Gather everyone," he said, his voice carrying despite his exhaustion. "Every beggar, every thief, every broken soul in these slums who's tired of being stepped on. We're done hiding."
"What are you thinking?" Tie Hu asked, eyes wide.
Shen Zhen looked at each of his companions—these people who had chosen to stand with him despite the danger. "I'm thinking it's time to stop being victims. It's time to become something more."
He raised his black-marked hand, letting the power pulse visibly through the dark veins. "From this day forward, we are the Void Reaper Legion. And we bow to no one."
The words hung in the air like a promise and a threat. Around him, six pairs of eyes reflected determination, loyalty, and the first flickering flames of hope.
The revolution had begun.