The sky above Mount Hua was shrouded in darkness. Gray clouds gathered thickly, rolling like wailing spirits as they embraced the cold peak where tragedy was about to unfold.
Guang Lian knelt at the center of the stone altar, one knee pressed against the blood-stained floor. His tattered white robe fluttered violently in the biting night wind, the fabric soaked crimson from the wounds that refused to close.
Three swords and a golden spear were embedded in his back, their blades piercing through to his abdomen.
His long, disheveled hair was matted with blood and dust. Each breath came ragged and shallow, every exhale a torment in itself.
Guang Lian's vision blurred. Around him, dozens of figures stood in a half-circle, watching without pity. Some bore wounds of their own. The corpses of fallen soldiers lay scattered across the dimly lit hall, their blood pooling over the once-pristine marble floor.
The night pressed heavily on every soul present.
"Ugh—!" Guang Lian gasped, coughing violently. Thick, blackened blood poured from his lips. A bluish hue spread from his chest up to his neck. His stomach twisted in agony, his body trembling uncontrollably.
"Poison… How could you—?" Guang Lian's voice broke. His pale face contorted with anger and disbelief as his gaze swept over the people before him.
He still recognized their faces—the same ones that had once smiled warmly at him, the same voices that had once praised him. Back then, they revered him, calling him the Angel of the Orthodox Faction, and trembled before his strength.
Now, those same people surrounded him with cold, murderous intent.
"That poison is the deadliest in all of Jianghu… and yet, he still fights."
A soldier whispered from within the ranks. His voice trembled—not from awe, but from fear. The armor on his shoulders was punctured, blood dripping steadily from beneath the steel plates.
"For the purity of Orthodoxy, you must die, Guang Lian."
The one who spoke was an old man standing directly before him. His hair, white as frost, was tied neatly in a bun; his long beard reached his chest. Guang Zhi. He stroked his beard calmly, emanating an air of wisdom that only deepened the chill of his cold, merciless eyes.
"Why, Father?!" Guang Lian's hoarse voice cracked, heavy with rage and betrayal. "I only revealed the corruption within! Is it wrong to want this Faction to be truly holy, as you always claimed?"
Seven figures stood in the front row, each wearing the ceremonial hanfu of the Elders. Their heads lowered slightly. Their faces hardened—tinged red with shame and arrogance intertwined.
They said nothing. But their silence was louder than any confession.
"You… damn Elders…" Guang Lian's eyes burned with fury and sorrow. "What hypocrites you all are!"
'He's too clean… too honest… too strong. The scariest part—he can't be controlled.'
One of the Elders, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache and a scar across his cheek, clenched his fists as that thought crossed his mind.
"Guang Lian…"
A heavy voice echoed from the back of the crowd. Footsteps approached swiftly. A young man emerged, wearing the same clan hanfu, but with a silver emblem engraved with a peacock on his left breast. A long sword was strapped across his back.
"Guang Wei…" Guang Lian whispered weakly. "Don't tell me… you too?"
"I'm sorry, little brother. But the path you've chosen… will destroy everything—Father, the Faction, even the Orthodox world itself."
Guang Wei's bitter smile looked like the mask of a man performing a sacred duty.
Guang Lian shook his head slowly, disbelief in his eyes. "So, you'd rather stand with them than stand with the true truth?"
Guang Wei stepped closer. Rain began to fall, drenching the stone altar. Thunder rumbled across the mountains, as if nature itself mourned—or perhaps condoned—the betrayal.
"The truth can be shaped, little brother," Guang Wei said coldly. His straight black hair fell forward as he leaned down, whispering right beside Guang Lian's ear.
Guang Lian looked up at the gray sky that had begun to weep. Then he laughed—a broken, hysterical laugh that split the night.
"If you despise upright angels… then I'll become a cruel demon!" He coughed violently, blood spurting from his mouth once more.
His body was failing, yet his eyes burned with vengeance. "Even in my next life… I will kill every one of you!"
A flash of lightning tore through the clouds.
And in the same instant—steel flashed.
"Khugh—!"
The blade struck deep. Cold. Swift. Merciless.
Guang Lian's vision blurred as blood gushed freely, soaking the robe that was now fully crimson.
"You don't have to dirty your hands."
"I couldn't stand listening to his delusions any longer."
Lightning struck again, illuminating the altar in blinding white.
Guang Lian's gaze fell—and in that moment, he saw his own body still kneeling, leaning against the spear… headless. His body trembled, not from pain, but from an unforgivable betrayal.
Those eyes—the clear, earnest eyes of an honest man—slowly dimmed into hollow darkness.
"You know, Wei… even after this… they might not follow you."
"I know."
The voices of those who had killed him still echoed faintly, even as his vision dimmed into shadow.
Guang Lian could no longer feel anything. The world grew distant, its sounds fading into oblivion. Thick darkness embraced him.
Yet… something within refused to die.
It was silent.
The pain was gone.
He slowly opened his eyes.
A dim yellow light flickered somewhere above. He turned his head weakly. The space around him was narrow, shabby, and drenched in dust. The stench of damp earth and dried blood clung heavily to the air, as though this place were an abandoned tomb.
"Where… am I?" he murmured softly.
He tried to move. With effort, he sat up, shaking his head several times.
"What happened?"
A faint light seeped through a crack in the wall.
Within that faint glow sat a teenage boy—long, messy black hair, lean and wiry build—inside a dark red ritual circle drawn with dried blood.
The room was unfamiliar. But what was even stranger… was himself.
"What is this?" he whispered, staring down at his own hands and body.
The swords, the spear, the blood—the agonizing pain—all of it was gone.
Strange… A deep, heavy voice echoed within his mind, slow and foreign.
His eyes widened. He was shirtless, and his body was smaller—clearly that of a teenage boy.
"This isn't my body!"
He stood up abruptly, examining his hands. They were thinner, shorter—not the powerful hands he once knew, the ones filled with pure qi and honed strength.
This body is shorter… weaker… I can't even sense any qi at all!
Yet, the most important thing of all—This body was alive.
"I'm not dead?" he muttered under his breath.
Memories still swirled vividly inside his mind.
The poison.
The ambush.
The betrayal.
The blade that took his head.
His jaw tightened. The veins in his neck bulged as his fists clenched. "Those bastards…"
Suddenly, a wave of dizziness hit him. His skull throbbed violently; his ears rang as if struck by a hammer.
"Argh!"
He fell backward, curling up as the pain engulfed him.
Flashes of memories stormed through his head like a tidal wave:
A beautiful woman gazing down at him…
A short-haired man with a proud, cold smile…
Laughter, insults, disdainful eyes…
A sword gleaming under the sun…
A forest, a hill, an old man teaching him how to fight…
A book beneath a wooden table…
A candle flickering beside a circle of black cat's blood…
The fragments spun chaotically—too fast, too bright—yet strangely, he could slowly begin to comprehend them.
When the flood of memories finally subsided, the dizziness faded, leaving him lying on the cold floor, clutching his head.
Those unfamiliar recollections—memories that belonged to someone else—made one thing clear:
this body was not Guang Lian's.
Now… this body was—
"Mo Long!"
The voice came from behind the door, sharp with irritation.
"Mo Long, come out!" another shouted.
"Hurry up and open it!" a third voice barked even louder.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
The door rattled under repeated, violent bangs.
"Mo Long? Ah, yes… that's the owner of this body," he whispered to himself, half in disbelief.
BRAK!
The door burst open.
A stocky boy with short, disheveled hair stepped in with heavy, confident strides.
Behind him followed two skinny boys—the taller one with long hair tied neatly in a bun and a sly, narrowed smile, while the shorter had a blank expression and his long hair tied back in a ponytail.
'Ah, the three bastards who used to torment this kid,' Guang Lian recalled from the fragments of memory that weren't his. He fell silent for a few seconds.
Then, slowly, a cold smile stretched across his lips.
'So, Guang Lian is dead. That name is gone. Now… I am Mo Long.'
PLAK! PLAK!
"Hey, what's with that stupid face of yours!" The stocky boy—Mo Fei—grabbed Mo Long's hair and yanked it hard, slapping him across the face again and again.
Mo Long only stared back at them, his expression flat and unreadable. Mo Fei froze for a moment, startled by those calm eyes.
PLAK! PLAK! PLAAK!
"This little bastard needs to be taught a lesson!" Mo Fei growled, striking him again.
This time, Mo Long smirked mockingly. "Hey, Pig… your punch is so weak."
"He's gone crazy," said Mo Shou, the thin boy with the ponytail. He patted Mo Fei's shoulder. "You're too soft on him, brother."
Mo Hu stepped forward slowly, picking up a book that had fallen on the floor. His slanted eyes studied the cover intently. "So this is what gave him courage, huh? Extreme Cultivation Technique. Where'd you get this?"
"Cultivation? So you think you're strong now?" Mo Fei clenched his fists, black qi swirling around his palm.
Before the punch could land, Mo Long drove his elbow straight into Mo Fei's solar plexus.
"Argh!"
Mo Long's palm struck upward, connecting sharply with Mo Fei's chin. A split second later, his foot shot out—A solid kick slammed into his opponent's stomach.
Mo Fei's massive body was sent flying, crashing into the wooden staircase until it shattered into splinters.
"Damn it!"
Mo Shou lunged forward, his leg swinging with a surge of black qi aimed straight at Mo Long's face.
Mo Long threw his body backward, his right elbow deflecting the incoming leg to the side.
BOOM!
Dust exploded into the air as the black qi-imbued kick struck the earthen wall, leaving deep cracks across its surface.
Through the settling dust, Mo Long's leg flashed again—a swift, brutal kick connecting squarely with Mo Shou's shin.
CLACK.
"Argh! Bastard!" Mo Shou screamed, curling up and clutching his broken leg.
Mo Hu was the only one still standing. Sweat drenched his forehead as he stared wide-eyed, his mouth agape. "Mo Long! How could you—?!"
Inside, Guang Lian's soul burned with fury. The face before him blurred and twisted—
In Mo Hu's terrified features, he saw Guang Wei, his treacherous brother, the one who had murdered him.
Mo Hu stepped backward, trembling. "H-Hey, stop it. This won't end well if you touch me!"
Mo Long advanced slowly, his expression cold and cruel. His voice came out low, almost a growl, directed at the shadow of his brother.
"After what you did to me… you think you'll live?"
"I—I'm sorry! I won't bother you anymore! Mo Shou and Mo Fei— they'll be my witnesses—"
BUK!
A fierce punch slammed into Mo Hu's stomach. He fell to his knees, gasping in pain.
"You… damn it!" Mo Hu tried to get up, struggling for balance.
But before he could stand, Mo Long's foot whipped forward, smashing into his face.
Mo Hu toppled backward, but before his body hit the ground, Mo Long seized his wrist.
"Argh!"
His scream echoed through the small room as Mo Long tightened his grip mercilessly. Then came the blows—Fist after fist rained down on Mo Hu's face, relentless, savage, unstoppable.
Blood splattered across the floor. His features became unrecognizable.
"Please… stop…"
That broken plea snapped Mo Long back to his senses.
The vision of Guang Wei's shadow faded from before his eyes.
He released his grip. Mo Hu collapsed onto the floor, his once-neat hair now in disarray, his face a swollen mess.
Mo Long stood among the three unconscious boys, his breath heavy, his hands trembling slightly.
He raked his fingers through his hair and exhaled a long, uneven breath.
"This is… real."
He stepped past the fallen boys, walking calmly toward the shattered staircase. As he was about to leap over the broken steps, something caught his eye—the book that Mo Hu had dropped earlier.
He bent down and picked it up, his brow furrowing. "Extreme Cultivation?" he murmured softly.
He folded the book and took it with him, tucking it carefully under his arm as he walked down the narrow, dim hallway.
"I…" Mo Long chuckled, voice trembling. "This… is not a dream." He stared at his hands and at the body he now inhabited, unable to hide the shock.
"I've been reborn!"
A laugh escaped him—sharp, terrifying. A demonic sound that echoed coldly through the cramped passage.
"If Heaven rejects Angels… then witness this—I am reborn as a Demon!"
The serene, handsome face that once bore wisdom was gone. Only a visage of rage, vengeance, and ambition remained.
"I will drag you all down to Hell."
He reached the end of the corridor and stood before a small door, barely taller than his frame. Mo Long glanced upward at the ceiling as if searching for an answer. "What awaits me next?"
He pushed the door open slowly. Morning light flooded in, forcing him to squint against its brightness. For the first time since his rebirth, he felt the sun's warmth on his new skin.