The four Soul Devourers didn't glide; they scrambled, their boots skidding on the volcanic glass that coated the ridge. They moved in a jagged, desperate formation, their hands extended like claws. The spiritual threads they launched weren't cinematic ribbons of light. They were grey, oily strands that smelled like stagnant pond water and wet wool. As the threads snagged against the air, they made a sound like a wet rope being pulled taut. They aimed for the center of the chest, seeking the soft entry point of the spiritual core.
Inside the body of Lei Ze, Kūn Zhān didn't feel a sense of epic destiny. He felt the itch of a vessel that was too small. The skin on Lei Ze's forearms felt tight, the muscle fibers straining against the bone as the Demon King's intent surged. Kūn Zhān forced the mouth into a grin—a motion that made the dry skin of Lei Ze's lips crack and weep a thin line of red.
He didn't move. He let the parasitic threads latch onto the fabric of the robe, sinking through the linen and biting into the dermis. The moment the grey oil touched his skin, it felt like a thousand freezing needles. Kūn Zhān didn't use a technique; he simply released the pressure.
The black Qi didn't flow. It erupted. It was a thick, viscous sludge that smelled of charred meat and old iron. It didn't "consume" the threads—it crushed them under its weight. The eruption sent a spray of black grit into the air, coating Lei Ze's face in a layer of soot.
The Devourers recoiled. One of them tripped over a jagged rock, his heel snapping off with a sharp crack. They were sweating now, the salt stinging their eyes as they stared at the man who stood in the center of the black stain. Kūn Zhān raised Lei Ze's right hand. The movement was heavy. The air around the palm thickened, turning into a wall of dense, abrasive pressure that felt like a sheet of cold lead.
"Weak souls," he muttered. The vocal cords weren't his; they vibrated with a raw, grating friction that made his own throat ache.
Two of the Devourers tried to flank him, their feet pounding a frantic rhythm on the scorched earth. Kūn Zhān didn't "blur." He pivoted on a locked knee, his joint popping loud enough to be heard over the wind. He swung a heavy, flat-footed hook. The ripple of energy he threw wasn't a blade; it was a concussive shove.
It hit the first Devourer in the sternum. The sound was like a heavy boot hitting a bag of dry leaves. The man's chest didn't just cave—it withered. The moisture was sucked out of his pores in a single, violent instant, his skin turning into the texture of gray parchment. He hit the ground and shattered like a dropped clay pot. No blood. Just ash and the smell of a guttering candle.
The remaining three froze. Their eyes were wide, tracking the black soot that stained the air. They huddled together, their palms touching, trying to channel a combined beam. It came out as a flickering, sickly yellow light.
It hit Lei Ze dead center.
Kūn Zhān felt the ribs groan. The impact sent a jolt of white-hot heat through his solar plexus, making his vision swim with gray spots. This body was a Mid-Golden Core vessel—fragile, brittle, and prone to shock. A wave of nausea hit him, the stomach acid burning his throat. He felt the muscles in his legs start to tremble, the lactic acid building up until his thighs felt like they were made of wood.
"Insolent... pests," he wheezed.
He slammed his palms together. The friction of the skin-on-skin contact was sharp. From the collision, four black tendrils shot out. They weren't clean. They were jagged, pulsating things that looked like flayed muscle. They whipped through the air, the sound like a leather belt hitting a stone wall.
They wrapped around the Devourers' throats. The men didn't scream of "violation"—they choked. Their hands clawed at the black sludge, their fingernails tearing into their own necks as they tried to breathe. Kūn Zhān felt the rush of their heat flowing into his palms. It was a sickening, greasy sensation, like swallowing warm fat.
In three breaths, it was over. The bodies didn't vanish; they slumped. The robes hit the ground with a soft, dusty thud, the bone and meat inside having been reduced to fine, dry grit.
Kūn Zhān exhaled. The borrowed lungs burned. He turned his gaze toward the cave. It was a jagged, unremarkable hole in the side of the volcano, smelling of sulfur and ancient dust.
"I am coming back for you," he rasped.
He didn't "fly." he launched himself forward in a clumsy, powerful leap that ended with his boots cratering the dirt. He slammed his fist into the rock face beside the opening. The impact sent a jar through his elbow that he knew would bruise black by morning. The stone didn't just break; it exploded outward in sharp, lethal shards that nicked his cheek.
Behind the stone stood the Bloodfire Halberd.
It was a heavy, ugly piece of work. The gold was dark, the color of a bruised sunset, and it looked heavy enough to break a man's wrist. The runes on the shaft weren't glowing with "beauty"—they were etched deep, looking like scabs on a wound. The crimson hair tied to the guard didn't sway hungrily; it was matted, smelling of old salt and copper, clinging to the metal like wet fur.
Kūn Zhān smiled, his teeth coated in a thin film of grit. "Hello, friend."
He gripped the rock and tore it away, the grit digging under his cuticles. The moment his hand touched the metal, the Halberd revolted.
It wasn't a spiritual rejection; it was a seizure. The metal turned freezing—so cold it felt like his palm was being fused to the shaft. A violent pulse of raw, unrefined malice shot up his arm, hitting his brain like a physical blow. Kūn Zhān's essence was shoved back, his consciousness retreating into the dark corners of the spiritual sea like a kicked dog.
Lei Ze woke up.
He was standing in a crater. His head felt like someone had driven a nail through his temple. He couldn't remember the fight. He couldn't remember the walk. He only saw the terrifying piece of iron at his feet. His hand moved on its own—a petty, curious reflex he would regret for the rest of his life.
He touched the gold scales.
The shock hit him first. It wasn't "thousands of volts"; it was the feeling of his arm being snapped and reset in a single second. His fingers locked. He couldn't let go. The dark gold runes on the shaft began to heat up, the smell of singed skin rising from his palm.
The pain was a physical wall. It made his eyes water until he couldn't see the volcano, only a blur of orange and gray. A dark symbol seared itself into the center of his hand. He could feel the skin bubbling, the smell of his own cooking flesh making his stomach roll. A single drop of blood squeezed out from the wound, thick and dark, and the gold metal seemed to suck it in with a dry, metallic hiss.
The energy that followed wasn't a "blaze." It was a flood of cold, heavy mercury. It rushed through his veins, forcing the Demon Seed in his Dantian to expand until he thought his abdomen would tear open.
His vision shifted. The world became sharper, the colors muted and gray. The whisper of Kūn Zhān roared in his ears, a sound like a landslide.
"Consume."
The Halberd felt weightless, but it was a lie of the nerves. He knew if he let go, the weight would crush his feet. He was no longer just a cultivator; he was a tethered animal. He raised the weapon high.
The Halberd pulsed. A wave of energy tore through his meridians, the friction so intense he felt his bones grow hot. The barriers of his cultivation didn't "shatter"—they were ground down by the weapon's malice. He felt the sudden, sickening surge of power as he hit the Late-Golden Core stage. His heart skipped a beat, then slammed against his chest as his body tried to catch up to the new, violent reality.
The volcano was silent. The only sound was the wind and the wet, heavy breathing of a man who had just traded his soul for a piece of gold-plated iron.