The Black Dragon faction had grown. Over the years, the whispers of the "Slayer" had become a constant hum in the southern territories, a vibration that even the lowliest bandit and the proudest lord could not ignore. The victories at the Southern Conclave, the rise of numerous disciples, and the meticulous cultivation programs designed by Lu Mao had forged a faction that was no longer merely surviving—it was asserting dominance.
From the jagged cliffs of Black Dragon Mountain, the crimson scales of the fire drakes glimmered faintly, their once-fierce energy now a calm hum, reflective of the controlled power that Lu Mao had brought into the heart of the faction. Shen Mu's presence loomed over every decision, yet it was Lu Mao's hand that now guided the finer threads—allocation of new recruits, refinement of pills, coordination of missions, and the silent but deadly cultivation of future War Blood practitioners.
Lu Mao's days in seclusion had been long, deliberate, and painstaking. Every hour spent in meditation, every pulse of qi funneled into his God Devouring Veins, every refinement of pills and potions, all aimed to consolidate a foundation strong enough to rival even the top-tier sects. He had passed through the three stages of Martial General in the War Blood Realm, and now, stepping into Martial King Stage One, the world felt… different.
The streets of the city sprawled beneath him as he descended from the remote mountains of his seclusion. Black robes draped over his form, unassuming, carrying nothing but the weight of his presence. Spatial rings held his treasures, his Moonveil Dagger safely sheathed within the folds of shadowed qi. Two years had passed, yet every step, every breath, carried the refinement of a man who had transcended his peers—not just in strength, but in understanding.
The markets were alive with the clamor of life: merchants hawking goods, children darting between stalls, the scent of spices and sizzling meat filling the air. Lu Mao's gaze swept through the crowd, noting patterns, movements, weaknesses, and opportunities—not for theft, not yet—but for awareness. Reports from Li Xian came periodically, updates about faction affairs, recruits' progress, and whispers of rival factions watching the rising Black Dragon.
It was then, in a fleeting second, that the world itself seemed to tilt. A flicker of crimson—a presence so commanding it seemed to draw the very sun's warmth into its orbit—crossed his vision.
Lu Mao froze, momentarily. His heart betrayed him, pulsing with a rhythm that matched the inexplicable surge in his God Devouring Veins. For a moment, the clamor, the chaos of the streets, faded. All that existed was that figure. A woman, young, striking, radiating an aura that could topple mountains. Crimson robes clung to her form as if woven from the essence of fire itself, her presence so pure, so powerful, that even a seasoned War Blood practitioner would have faltered.
He did not move toward her. And yet, his instincts screamed, approach, understand, measure. The woman strode forward with purpose, unaware or perhaps indifferent to the myriad gazes falling upon her. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly as she noticed Lu Mao, pausing for an instant—a hesitation that betrayed the fleeting recognition of a challenge she could not yet define.
The street seemed to hold its breath as Lu Mao's voice, calm but deliberate, broke the silence. "Will you… be mine?"
The words echoed, almost impossible in their audacity. Yet, they carried the weight of his presence, his conviction, and the unshakable confidence of a man who had clawed his way through the chaos of cultivation, war, and politics.
Before comprehension could settle in, a palm, enormous and suffused with the aura of a Martial King-level War Blood cultivator, slammed toward Lu Mao's chest. Time seemed to slow, the gust of air from the strike carrying the scent of ozone and iron. Lu Mao barely had a moment to react, twisting, sinking his qi into the impact, feeling the bone-deep resonance of power that could have toppled entire sects.
A golden-robed man stepped forward with deliberate arrogance, voice sharp as a whip. "How dare a gutter-born insect ask for my fiancée?" He gestured, and the aura of his surrounding guards radiated like coiled vipers. Each warrior's presence alone carried enough force to challenge an entire tier of lower factions, and each was calibrated to respond instantly to the prodigy's slightest command.
Lu Mao's eyes scanned the formation: the goddess in crimson, the golden-robed heir, and the wall of armored War Blood practitioners surrounding them. Each carried the mark of experience, training, and power that had been nurtured by centuries of sect influence. Yet, amidst the pressure, the God Devouring Veins pulsed—a phenomenon even he could not entirely comprehend. A surge of hunger, of potential, surged through his limbs, making the air vibrate with latent power.
"You don't understand what you just stirred," Lu Mao muttered to himself, a faint smirk ghosting his lips. He could feel it—the resistance, the anticipation, the raw challenge that had been unspoken yet deeply felt.
The golden-robed prodigy's lips curled, eyes flashing with disdain as he moved forward, initiating a series of strikes designed to humiliate. Lu Mao's muscles coiled, his Moonveil Dagger whistling through the air, his techniques—Wind Fist, Ways of the Dagger, and the weaving of phantom doubles—executed with precision and intent. Each strike parried, countered, and deflected with a blend of defensive mastery and opportunistic assault.
Yet, despite the elegance and lethal precision of Lu Mao's movements, the golden-robed heir pressed harder. Every feint was met with a sharper counter, every lunge with a disciplined redirection. The crowd, unaware of the intricate dance of power and qi, only saw a display of pure War Blood confrontation: the earth groaning under the force of movements, stones cracking under the impact of qi-enhanced strikes, and the wind itself splitting in the wake of rapid martial maneuvers.
Yan Mei and the Black Dragon team arrived just as the clash intensified. Her crimson whip-blade flickered like living lightning, ready to intercept threats, injure lightly, and defend without overexposing herself beyond her Spirit Accession stage. Chen Yuan, Bao Fu, and Li Xian flanked strategically, maintaining distance but prepared to intervene if the balance shifted unfavorably.
The golden-robed prodigy's attacks grew increasingly aggressive. He sought to humiliate, to assert dominance, but every move was met with a calculated resistance. Lu Mao's counterattacks were not intended to kill—yet the pressure and precision forced the golden boy back, inch by inch.
Anger flared in the heir's chest. "How dare this vermin resist?" His voice thundered across the streets, commanding an elder to step forward—a War Blood cultivator whose aura rivaled Shen Mu himself. The elder's presence was suffocating, a wall of authority and experience.
Lu Mao recognized the danger immediately. If he engaged fully, the consequences could be fatal—not just for him, but for the surrounding Black Dragon disciples. Yet he could not submit. The blood in his veins flared, his fists clenching, teeth grinding. Thieves never kneel, they steal.
Shen Mu appeared as if born from lightning, intercepting the elder's blow, his presence stabilizing the chaos. The golden-robed heir sneered, mocking, and insisted that even Shen Mu kneel, further pressuring Lu Mao into submission.
The aura crushing him was almost unbearable. His eyes blood-red, fists bleeding from pressure, Lu Mao's mind raced through possibilities. He could not falter; he could not kneel. But the intervention from Lady Yan, appearing like a phantom, shifted the tide. Her voice carried authority, weaving diplomacy with power, securing a path for both respect and resolution.
Shen Mu's Soulcoil Pagoda emerged from his spatial ring, a treasure whose aura alone demanded recognition. The elder, acknowledging the power, stepped back, and the golden-robed prodigy, though humiliated slightly, could not escalate further without risking catastrophe. The goddess in crimson departed, leaving Lu Mao to process the shockwaves of this encounter.
The streets settled, the crowd dispersing slowly, whispers of the incident spreading like wildfire. Lu Mao, regaining his composure, realized that the world had shifted beneath his feet once again. Black Dragon faction's influence would expand, allies and enemies alike taking note of this event.
And in the silent aftermath, a thought crystallized in his mind: to grow unbound, to steal what was his by right of strength and cunning, and to return to challenge the heavens on his terms.
He turned to his team—Li Xian, Yan Mei, Chen Yuan, Bao Fu—his gaze steady, resolute. "Our sect thrives," he said softly, "but my path lies beyond these walls. I will return when the score is settled."
The air vibrated with unspoken agreement. They knew his intentions were not abandonment—they were strategy, growth, and the relentless pursuit of strength. And as Lu Mao walked away, the sun setting behind him, the streets of the city bore witness to the silent rise of a legend—the Slayer who would no longer kneel to any, yet leave his mark on all.
The winds whispered through the alleys and mountains: the Black Dragon faction had reached a turning point, and Lu Mao's path was now uncharted, filled with danger, promise, and the untamed fury of a man unwilling to bow.