The battlefield stretched endlessly beneath a torn, crimson sky. Mountains had collapsed, rivers had boiled dry, and the stench of blood choked the air. Amid this desolation stood Lu Seng—the world's most feared Demonic Cultivator, his body trembling, his breaths heavy, his robes torn apart by countless wounds.
All around him, thousands of powerful cultivators lay dead. Their shattered weapons glittered faintly among broken earth. But even in this sea of corpses, hundreds of formidable enemies still remained—cultivators whose names once shook empires, whose power commanded nations.
Yet none dared step closer.
Lu Seng wiped the blood from the corner of his lips, his vision blurring. Still, a cold, resolute fire burned in his eyes.
"I will fight," he growled, voice deep and ragged. "Fight for myself… fight for my goals. I will never stop—not until the moment I die."
Thunder cracked above, responding to his will. Demonic qi surged violently, staining the sky a darker shade of night.
But inside, his thoughts were bitter.
In my previous life, I was nothing but a loser.
Perhaps that's why—even after gaining this power—I never became as strong as I should have.
If only I hadn't wasted that life on regret and weakness… no one would have had the courage to push me this far today.
He stepped forward.
Then another.
Each movement tore open the wounds across his body. Yet he kept fighting—crushing the enemies who approached, refusing to yield even as his knees threatened to buckle.
At last, his body failed him. His knees hit the blood-soaked earth.
A ring of surviving cultivators surrounded him from afar, fear etched in their faces. None dared attack; none dared turn away. They simply watched the dying devil who had slaughtered hundreds of their elites.
Lu Seng exhaled deeply… and reached into his space pocket.
His fingers closed around an ancient, purple-gold scroll.
The Soul-Reviving Pagora.
A legendary artifact said to grant a single chance—one chance to step backward in time.
He had refined it for thirty years, sacrificing blood, soul, lifespan, and sanity. He had never used it.
Until now.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"This ends here," he whispered. "But my story… begins anew."
His consciousness dimmed. His heart slowed. The demonic aura that once shook the heavens dissolved into ash.
And Lu Seng, the world's strongest demonic cultivator, died.
---
Time Shift — 400 Years Earlier
A burst of light—cold, sharp, disorienting.
When Lu Seng opened his eyes again, he felt strange. The world felt brighter, calmer… weaker. His limbs were thinner, his skin younger, his cultivation—almost nonexistent.
He staggered to a nearby mirror.
A sixteen-year-old boy stared back at him.
My body…
This is the Lu family's ancestral residence.
Three hundred years ago…
No—four hundred.
The realization struck him like lightning.
He had done it. He had gone back in time.
The distant sounds of an academy courtyard reached his ears—students talking, teachers lecturing, bells ringing. All so peaceful compared to the inferno of war he had just left behind.
Lu Seng stood still, taking in the gentle world around him.
Then slowly, his expression hardened.
In his past life, he had been a good person—soft-hearted, trusting, kind. And everyone around him had taken advantage of him. Betrayed him. Used him for their own rise.
Not this time.
Not in this life.
He looked at the sky with cold, unwavering eyes and whispered, voice like a quiet storm:
"Once, many exploited my kindness…
But in this life, rivers of their blood will pave my path forward—
and I shall walk upon them without mercy."
A new journey had begun.
And this time, Lu Seng would not be the one bleeding.