The afternoon sun sank slowly toward the jagged horizon, its light bleeding across the Black Blood Mountains in shades of bruised crimson and dying gold. Shadows stretched long over obsidian spires and blood-iron bridges, clinging to every crevice like living things. The air thickened as the day waned, heavy with pressure and expectation, as though the mountains themselves sensed the coming rise of the blood moon.
Cheon Ye-mok continued his descent through the sect.
He moved without haste, yet the world seemed to clear before him. Disciples felt his presence long before they glimpsed his silhouette—an invisible weight pressing against their chests, forcing breath to still and thoughts to scatter. Conversations died mid-sentence. Footsteps faltered. Heads lowered.
No command was needed.
He passed beneath towering arches etched with ancient demonic scripts, their meanings long lost to all but a few. Each rune pulsed faintly as he walked by, responding instinctively, as if recognizing their master.
Ahead loomed the War Council Hall.
It was carved directly into the mountainside, its entrance a vast stone maw flanked by statues of ancient demonic beasts—creatures whose names had vanished from modern records. One bore six horns and wings of serrated bone, frozen mid-roar. Another crouched low, claws dug into stone, eyes carved with such detail that they seemed almost alive.
Within, the hall stretched wide and deep, its ceiling lost in shadow. A massive round table of thousand-year demonic ironwood dominated the center, its surface scarred by countless meetings that had decided the fates of sects, cities, and bloodlines.
The five great elders were already present.
His direct disciples.
Baek Cheon-il stood at the head of the table, posture straight as a drawn blade. His white hair was bound in a severe knot, his face lined by time yet untouched by age. His eyes scanned the reports laid before him with relentless focus, fingers occasionally tapping the table in measured rhythm.
To his left sat Hyeon Mu-geuk, thin and scholarly, surrounded by stacks of scrolls and intelligence dossiers. His sleeves were marked with faint ink stains that never seemed to wash away. He traced symbols along a parchment with absent-minded precision, as though calculating possibilities invisible to others.
Opposite them lounged Jin Sa-ryung, one boot propped casually against the table's base. A slender dagger spun between his fingers, flashing silver in lazy arcs before vanishing and reappearing as if by sleight of hand. His smile was easy, but his eyes were sharp—always watching, always weighing.
Behind them, half-swallowed by shadow, stood the twin sisters.
Mok Ryeo-hwa.
Mok Ryeo-yeon.
Identical in face and form, clad in dark robes that seemed to drink in light. They did not sit. They did not speak. Their presence was subtle yet oppressive, like blades resting just beneath the skin.
When Cheon Ye-mok entered, all five bowed as one.
The air shifted.
The hall felt colder.
"Master."
He took his seat at the head of the table—a plain chair of black iron, unadorned, yet commanding. In its presence, even the ancient ironwood table seemed secondary.
"Report," he said.
His voice was calm.
Unraised.
Unquestionable.
Baek Cheon-il straightened, sliding a marked map forward.
"The Righteous Alliance remains quiet on the surface," he began. "Too quiet. Our informants report increased purchases of Nine Yin Grass across multiple regions—quantities far exceeding medicinal demand. The transactions are deliberately scattered, but the pattern is clear."
Hyeon Mu-geuk unrolled another scroll.
"They have also recalled several reclusive experts from closed-door cultivation. Elders who vanished from the world decades ago. At least three confirmed sightings near Kunlun borders."
Jin Sa-ryung's dagger halted mid-spin.
A slow grin curved his lips.
"Let them gather," he said lightly. "The last time they tried unity, we turned the Kunlun foothills into a graveyard that bled for three years."
The twins said nothing, but their gazes flicked briefly toward Cheon Ye-mok, then away again.
He listened without interruption.
Without expression.
His presence settled over the chamber like deep water—still on the surface, crushing beneath. Even Jin Sa-ryung's grin faded slightly under that quiet weight.
When the reports ended, Cheon Ye-mok spoke.
"Strengthen the outer blood mist formations. Double patrols along the eastern passes. Seal all minor gates after dusk."
He paused.
"But do not provoke them openly."
Baek Cheon-il bowed deeply.
"As you command, Master."
There was no debate.
No hesitation.
His word was not strategy.
It was law.
Cheon Ye-mok rose.
The elders bowed again, lower this time.
He departed without another word.
Outside, twilight settled over the sect like a shroud.
Training grounds emptied as disciples moved toward their respective halls, footsteps echoing softly along stone paths. The strict hierarchy of the sect revealed itself even in hunger.
Outer disciples gathered in vast open courtyards, sitting shoulder to shoulder as they ate simple meals of spirit rice, demonic beast meat, and thick herbal broth infused with low-grade qi. Laughter was muted. Conversation restrained.
Inner disciples dined beneath covered pavilions, their meals supplemented with refinement pills and spirit fruits that glowed faintly in the dark.
Core disciples retired to private chambers, where servants presented dishes cooked over controlled spirit flames—food meant to nourish cultivation as much as flesh.
And the Heavenly Demon?
He ate alone.
His pavilion stood on the highest cliff, overlooking the entire sect. A single structure of black stone, open to the wind and sky.
Inside was a single table.
A single chair.
A single bowl of blood spirit soup, steam curling faintly upward.
One pair of chopsticks.
He ate slowly.
Deliberately.
Below him, the sect came alive beneath the rising blood moon. Thousands of crimson lanterns ignited one by one, bathing the mountain in scarlet light. The glow reflected off obsidian walls and flowing qi rivers, making the entire fortress seem submerged in blood.
The wind carried distant sounds—the clang of a final spar ending, the subdued roar of a tamed beast acknowledging curfew, the murmured voices of disciples speaking in hushed tones about the coming ceremony.
Tomorrow, the thousand-year anniversary would begin at dawn.
Delegates from allied demonic sects would arrive under banners of truce.
The Righteous Alliance would watch from afar, unwilling—or unable—to interfere.
The Thousand-Year Blood Wine, brewed a century ago under his direct supervision, would be unveiled.
There would be demonstrations of power.
Rituals steeped in ancient blood rites.
Declarations of unity and dominance.
And at the center of it all, he would sit upon the throne.
As always.
Cheon Ye-mok finished his meal and set the bowl aside.
He stepped to the edge of the cliff.
The wind surged, tugging at his long black hair. Below, the sect stretched endlessly, a domain built on blood, ambition, and unyielding will.
The blood moon rose higher, its reflection burning in his crimson eyes like fresh spillage.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to feel the weight of two centuries.
The wars won.
The enemies erased.
The disciples forged.
The legacy secured.
And beneath it all, something stirred.
Not doubt.
Not fatigue.
Something colder.
Something patient.
Something that watched.
And waited.
Far below, in the War Council Hall, the five elders remained long after his departure.
Baek Cheon-il stared at the maps without blinking.
Hyeon Mu-geuk rolled a small vial between his fingers—a clear liquid that caught the light in unsettling ways.
Jin Sa-ryung smiled at nothing at all.
The twins stood motionless in the shadows.
None spoke.
But the air between them thrummed, tight with unspoken intent.
Above them all, the blood moon reached its zenith.
And the night deepened.