Ashes of Victory
The Night Lotus Demon has perished, and with their fall, the seemingly eternal Orthodox–Demonic War came to an end.
Across the vast martial realm, people rejoiced. Bells rang in mountain temples, fireworks lit the skies above great cities, and countless martial artists shed tears of relief. The dreaded Night Lotus Cult, once a shadow that threatened to swallow the world whole, was gone. The age of peace, long promised and long denied, seemed at last within reach.
Yet peace was not the only thing left in the wake of war.
The Alliance of the Ten Clans had bled dearly. Two of its strongest sects—staunch defenders of the Orthodox Faction—were reduced to ashes. One of the Four Noble Clans collapsed entirely, its ancestral grounds nothing but scorched ruins.
A myriad of martial artists fell. Even the revered Heavenly Paragons, figures once thought immortal, met their end under the Night Lotus Demon's hand.
Yes—the war ended in victory. The Night Lotus Demon lay dead, and their cult lay shattered. But the scars remained, deep and unhealed.
So much was lost.
And no one could say how long it would take before the martial world regained its former brilliance.
Still—
Even though the land was steeped in shadows and ash, though despair clung like smoke, something endured. Someday, from those ashes, seeds of hope would sprout again. Someday, new heroes would rise, destined to shoulder the trials of tomorrow and to carve justice from ruin.
…As for me?
I never cared about any of that.
"Where are they?"
The voice cut through the silence like the edge of a sword. A woman's voice—serious, unwavering.
The torchlight in the underground torture chamber flickered, illuminating her lone figure. She stood at the center of the cellar belonging to the Alliance of the Ten Clans.
Her skin was pale, almost luminous against the gloom. Her frame was slender, fragile at a glance, but every movement carried a quiet strength. Her hair was tied back messily, strands falling free as if she had no time or patience to tend to appearances. Yet even in such disarray, her presence carried a nobility that could not be dimmed.
She shone, an unyielding star in a crumbling world.
Who would have thought this woman—the same one who now stood before me—was the one who severed the Night Lotus Demon's throat, ending the nightmare that had devoured generations?
Who could have imagined that this young woman, once hailed as nothing more than a promising disciple, would rise to become the strongest under the heavens?
She was Isabella, the Divine Sword.
The direct disciple of the Blade Sovereign, who himself had perished at the hands of the Night Lotus Demon. And now—the unrivaled Zenith Under the Heavens, crowned by the world after the end of the war.
Perhaps some whispered that her rise was convenient—that without the Three Heavenly Paragons, the path to supremacy had been left vacant.
But anyone who had witnessed Isabella split mountains with a single stroke, who saw her unleash storms of swordlight that drowned hundreds of demons in a single instant… anyone who beheld her three-day duel with the Night Lotus Demon that shook the heavens themselves—knew the truth.
Her throne was not inherited. It was earned.
And that same woman now stood before me.
"I won't ask again. Where are they?"
My vision blurred from blood loss. My body screamed with agony from the hours of torture, yet my eyes still managed to focus on her.
Her robe, once pure white, was stained black with soot and ash.
Her demand was clear—but I couldn't answer. My vocal cords had been crushed long ago.
Of course, Isabella knew this. She wasn't ignorant of my condition. Yet her frustration pushed her past patience.
"You, of all people, should know where the remnants of the Night Lotus Cult are hiding."
And she was right. I did know.
Not only that—I wanted to tell her.
"If you still have any conscience left…"
Her voice trembled, a rare crack in her unshakable tone. She gestured toward the shackles binding me, and with a flick of her hand, they fell loose.
It wasn't a risk for her. To the world's Zenith, freeing a wretch like me posed no danger. I, who couldn't even stand upright, had no power to resist.
But even freed, I remained bound.
The true shackles were not iron or chain. They lay deeper.
No matter what Isabella did, all I could do was stare at the floor in silence.
Thud.
Pain exploded through my body as her strike landed, sending me crashing against the wall. The stone groaned with the impact. How much strength had she used for my body to sound like that?
"This is your last chance. If you tell me what I need to know, then even if the entire world hunts you, I will protect you."
This was the woman hailed as the Zenith after the war. And yet…
"So please. I'm begging you."
Her words faltered, softening, breaking.
I could feel it—the desperation.
Why was she so desperate? Hatred for the cult? Vengeance for her master?
No. Something deeper. Something more important.
The Stone Blade.
Everyone knew of the bond between Isabella and Henry White, the man known as the Stone Blade.
Henry White, leader of the Alliance of the Ten Clans. A hero who inspired thousands. Her betrothed.
And now—rumored to have been captured by the remnants of the Night Lotus Cult.
It had to be because of that.
The world's strongest, a woman mightier than armies, restless and undone—all because of one man.
"Hurry up and answer! Where are they hiding?!"
Her glare burned into me, fierce enough to set me alight.
Somehow, it made me laugh inside. Not outwardly—my body was too ruined for laughter. But deep down, I felt the irony.
Once, we weren't meant to be like this. Not enemies. Not strangers.
But fate twists. And choices rot.
I had chosen my path.
I betrayed my own kind, sold my soul to the Night Lotus Demon, and became a traitor. While she… she became a hero beloved by the world.
When I still refused to respond, Isabella's hope broke. She flung me aside like discarded waste.
My body smashed against the stone again. Pain barely registered. My nerves had been destroyed long ago.
"If I had known how vile you would become when we first met, I would have killed you the moment I saw you."
Her voice was low. Not meant for me to hear. But I did.
And it pierced deeper than any blade.
Regret. My greatest regret.
What was she like, back then? When we first crossed paths? I couldn't even remember clearly anymore. Maybe I never cared enough to. Maybe that memory had long been buried under my sins.
But buried or not—it still weighed on me.
Why did I bury it so deep?
Creaaak.
She turned, ready to leave the chamber. The door groaned open.
But she froze.
Because I moved.
My mangled body scraped against the stone. My broken bones creaked as I forced my head up.
Isabella's eyes widened, her bright gaze flickering with fragile hope.
With trembling hands, I dipped my finger into my own blood and began to write on the floor.
Every line carved into stone cost me. My heart convulsed violently, blood pouring from my lips.
Because of the curse.
The oath of the Night Lotus Demon.
Don't betray the Demons.
Four words. That was the brand that bound my life.
Anyone who broke it died. No matter their power, no matter their will. Their heart would shatter in their chest like brittle glass.
I thought—hoped—that with the Night Lotus Demon dead, the curse would fade.
But it didn't.
Why?
Was it my stubborn will that let me endure this long? Or were the heavens granting me one last chance to redeem myself?
Whatever the reason, I knew the end was near.
"Huh? What's happening—"
Isabella's voice reached me dimly, as though from underwater. She rushed forward, eyes widening with alarm.
I ignored her. I had to.
This was my last act. My last defiance. My last… atonement.
The beating of my heart became a hammer against my ribs. With every throb, more blood spilled from my mouth.
Still—I wrote.
One letter. Then another. My vision swam. My body shook.
Isabella's hand reached out, trembling, trying to steady me. But she didn't stop me. She couldn't. She understood.
Finally—finally, I finished.
The curse took me the instant I placed the last stroke. My heart burst apart.
On the stone floor, etched in blood, lay the location of the cult's survivors.
I collapsed. But Isabella caught me, pulling my ruined body into her arms.
Not out of pity. Not out of hatred. But to keep my writing from being smeared.
I saw her face for the last time—shocked, pained, conflicted. Then darkness claimed me.
What a mess.
Why had I lived like this?
What reason did I have? None that mattered. None that anyone would believe.
I was Davis Fireheart of the Fireheart Clan of Emberhold.
Once an Orthodox martial artist. Then a traitor. Then a tool of the Night Lotus Cult.
Captured, broken, and used as nothing more than a key to their remnants.
A life fit to be summarized in a single line. A life no one cared to remember.
And I thought that was how it would end.
…Until—
"Want a potato?"
"Huh?"
That voice. That absurd, out-of-place voice.
It should have ended here.
But fate, it seemed, wasn't done with me yet.