Whispers of the Demon Lord
Saint Lu Qi's sharp gaze settled on Xiao Yan, lingering far longer than usual. For the first time since Xiao Yan had become his disciple, his master's expression wavered—caught somewhere between disbelief and quiet curiosity.
"You…" Lu Qi said slowly. "You saw him in your dreams?"
Xiao Yan nodded without speaking. The image of the blue-robed figure remained etched painfully clear in his mind—the calm eyes, the crushing presence, the way the heavens themselves had parted for him. Even now, recalling it made Xiao Yan's chest tighten.
Lu Qi exhaled deeply.
It was not the steady, controlled breath of a seasoned Saint, but something heavier—burdened with memories he had long buried. A rare trace of awe flickered across his normally composed face.
"This…" Lu Qi murmured, almost to himself. "This is a rare occurrence."
He turned his gaze toward the distance, as though staring into the past.
"Few mortals—few cultivators, even among disciples—ever perceive him in dreams," he continued. "For you to see him… it is almost unheard of."
Xiao Yan clenched his fists.
"Master," he said urgently, his voice steady despite the storm in his heart. "Tell me. Who is the Ansha?"
Lu Qi's eyes darkened.
He gestured subtly for Xiao Yan to sit. Xiao Yan obeyed immediately, lowering himself onto the stone floor. Silence followed—long and suffocating. Outside, the wind whispered through ancient trees, brushing leaves together as though nature itself leaned closer to listen.
Finally, Lu Qi spoke.
"Over a thousand years ago," he began, his voice low and measured, "the world was consumed by endless battles."
Xiao Yan listened, unmoving.
"Entire realms were razed by greed, malice, and ambition. Lives were lost so casually that death itself became meaningless. At that time, I was no Saint. I was merely an ordinary cultivator, struggling to survive amid chaos."
Lu Qi paused.
"The Ansha," he continued, "was known then as the Demon Lord."
Xiao Yan's stomach tightened.
"He was more than a man," Lu Qi said slowly. "More than a being. He was a force—an embodiment of destruction. Wherever he walked, blood followed. Wherever he stood, fear ruled."
Lu Qi's gaze sharpened as memories resurfaced.
"One day, on a cliff surrounded by the burning smoke of war, the Saints and Immortals gathered in secret. We believed strength in numbers would be enough. We believed we could end his terror."
His voice dropped, heavy with regret.
"But we were wrong."
Xiao Yan held his breath.
"The Ansha slaughtered them," Lu Qi said quietly. "Eleven Saints. Countless Immortals. All fell before him."
Xiao Yan's hands trembled.
"Even injured… even bleeding… he could not be stopped," Lu Qi continued. "And when the battlefield lay silent, he vanished into the void. No trace. No corpse. Nothing."
Lu Qi's eyes returned to Xiao Yan.
"And now," he said gravely, "he has returned."
The weight of those words struck Xiao Yan like a physical blow.
"So…" Xiao Yan asked, his voice barely above a whisper, "who exactly is he searching for?"
Lu Qi shook his head slowly.
"I do not know."
A trace of sorrow flickered in his eyes.
"But remember this, Xiao Yan," he said firmly. "The Ansha once stood above all of us. He possesses the power to kill Saints. If he cannot find what he seeks… none of us will be spared. Not even the strongest among the Seven Saints."
Xiao Yan staggered slightly as the words settled in his mind.
Two months.
That was all he could think of.
Two months… before the Ansha returned.
Two months… before the world might collapse.
Lu Qi straightened. "You must rest now," he said. "Soon, I will meet with the other Saints to prepare for what may come."
Xiao Yan nodded numbly. His thoughts spiraled—fear, dread, and an unbearable sense of helplessness weighing heavily on his chest.
A gentle tap interrupted his thoughts.
He turned sharply.
Mi-An stood there.
Her expression was calm, composed as always, yet her eyes were sharp—observant, unreadable. For a fleeting moment, relief warmed Xiao Yan's chest, and a small smile nearly surfaced. But just as quickly, he remembered the cold distance she usually maintained.
He forced his face into neutrality.
"Why did you step forward?" Mi-An asked, her tone measured, almost teasing. "Do you want to get yourself killed?"
Xiao Yan hesitated. "I… I don't know," he admitted quietly.
Her gaze lingered. "Were you trying to impress me?"
"I—it's not like that," he stammered, caught completely off guard.
Mi-An studied him in silence. Then she said calmly, "Fine. I'll give you a head start."
Xiao Yan blinked.
"Two months," she continued. "If you can beat me by then… perhaps I will consider you."
Two months.
Again.
Xiao Yan swallowed hard. That's if we're even still alive by then, he thought bitterly.
"Why aren't you answering?" she asked, a hint of impatience slipping into her voice.
"I… Mi-An… okay. No problem," he replied, forcing confidence into his tone.
"Good luck," she said lightly.
And just like that, she turned and left, her figure disappearing down the path before he could find another word.
Xiao Yan stood alone once more.
Then—
A faint sound reached him.
"Xiao Yan… Xiao Yan… Xiao Yan…"
The voice was soft at first, almost a whisper. But with each repetition, it grew clearer—more insistent.
"Who… who is there?" Xiao Yan asked, fear threading through his voice.
The air rippled.
In an instant, a figure appeared before him.
The wind twisted unnaturally. The world seemed to still.
A blue robe fluttered gently.
A fiery, overwhelming aura pressed down upon him.
The same figure from his dreams.
The Ansha.