The valley was drenched in smoke and blood, but Aadhir barely noticed. His senses were heightened to an almost inhuman degree. The metallic tang of blood, the heat of dying flesh, even the fear lingering in the minds of the betrayers—he could feel it all, as if the world had been turned inside out just for him.
He stepped over the smoldering corpses of the Lingxu Sect, twin dark blades forming in his hands as if they had always belonged there. The abyssal power inside him hummed, whispering forbidden secrets, and every fiber of his being ached to kill again, to destroy.
From the edge of the valley, a shadow moved. One of the traitors—Zhen Wu, his closest friend and the one who had driven the blade into his chest—stood trembling, clutching a bloodied sword. His eyes widened as he recognized Aadhir… or what Aadhir had become.
"You… you're dead!" Zhen Wu stammered, fear cracking his voice.
Aadhir's lips curled into a smile—not human, not kind, but predatory. "Dead? No… I've just begun."
Before Zhen Wu could react, Aadhir moved. He didn't run, he didn't jump—he blurred, moving faster than the human eye could follow. The twin blades sliced through the air with a hiss that sounded like the screaming of souls, and before the traitor could even lift his guard, the first blade cut across his chest, leaving a gaping wound from which black-tinged blood poured.
The second blade followed, carving a perfect line down his throat. Zhen Wu's scream was cut short, swallowed by the shadows that had become Aadhir's cloak. The valley echoed with a sound that had never existed before—the sound of death conducted by a devil.
But this was only the beginning. Aadhir felt the rush of stolen life energy, the dark power surging into him as the souls of his enemies screamed in despair. Each heartbeat made him stronger. Each death fed the abyssal blood magic within.
From the darkness, more traitors emerged, realizing that the Lingxu Sect's "heir" had returned as something unnatural, terrifying, and unstoppable. Arrows flew, blades clashed, and spells erupted, but Aadhir's body was already a weapon.
He didn't fight like a man—he danced death. His blades moved in impossible patterns, slicing through armor, steel, and flesh alike. Blood sprayed across the valley like a crimson waterfall, staining the rocks and his own body, but he barely felt it. Every slash, every strike, every kill was a symphony of power.
When the dust settled, the ground was littered with the broken, the dying, and the dead. The air smelled of iron and ash, and the shadows seemed to curl toward him in reverence. Aadhir sheathed his blades, letting the darkness recede into him.
He knelt briefly over the largest corpse—the one who had led the betrayal. Placing his hand on its chest, he felt the life force drain like water through a sieve. The power coursing into him was intoxicating, almost divine in its clarity.
"I am no longer weak. I am the storm that eats kingdoms," he whispered, voice low and filled with malice. "I am the Devil Emperor in waiting. Let Heaven and Earth tremble, for nothing will stop me."
The valley was silent once more. But beneath that silence, the world had already begun to shake with the echoes of his wrath. Birds scattered, beasts cowered, and somewhere far above, a faint celestial glow pulsed—warning that Aadhir's rise had begun.
For the first time in his new life, he felt truly alive. Alive not as a man, but as a devil whose hunger could never be sated.
And he would never stop feeding.
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