Beneath the crimson sky of the Drunken Path, the thunder of hooves heralded the arrival of a company of warhorses, perhaps a score, their riders clad in the panoply of war. Leading this charge were two figures. One, armored in azure steel, possessed a face of striking, almost unsettling beauty, framed by flowing violet hair. Yet, a gruesome scar, a ridge of angry flesh, marred his right cheek, shattering the perfection of his visage.

The aesthetic allure vanished, replaced by an aura of wicked menace. Beside him, astride a war-steed of equal stature, sat a gaunt man, his pallid complexion contrasting sharply with the keen fire in his eyes. He recognized, even at this distance, Wang Lin approaching, a flicker of peculiar understanding crossing his gaze.

Neither company slowed their relentless advance, each seeming to will the clash, like two beasts of prey locked in a deadly dance. The scarred warrior’s gaze remained fixed upon Mo Lihai, as if the world itself held no other.

The earth trembled beneath the mounting tension, the distance between them shrinking with terrifying speed.

Just as collision seemed inevitable, Mo Lihai roared with laughter, drawing back his fist and unleashing a blow that carried the howl of a gale and the crumbling void. It hurtled towards the scarred fiend, each inch gained echoing with a sound like thunder.

Before the fist could land, a series of sharp snaps echoed from the scarred man’s hand. His right arm flickered, his fingers flashing, the forefinger stabbing forth, then the middle, each digit joining the dance until all five aligned into a point, thrusting forward with devastating intent.

A discordant resonance cracked the air between them, sending out a rippling wave that swept across the Drunken Path for three dozen feet. The wave quickly dissolved, leaving the city architecture untouched.

The two fighters demonstrated precision, minimizing any collateral damage.

The scarred warrior reeled, his warhorse emitting a mournful shriek before its legs shattered, its form dissolving in an explosion of gore. The warrior, using the death throes of his mount as purchase, backpedaled three steps, each landing shaking the ground with equal measure.

“The Fist of Ten Bursts!” he snarled, eyes locked on Mo Lihai.

Mo Lihai also staggered, his warhorse stumbling backwards, but unharmed. Wang Lin, observing from the side, subtly reached out with his hand, channeling his own power into the space between them. Mo Lihai gasped, his balance restored.

Mo Lihai drew a deep breath, steadying himself as his horse regained its footing, seemingly unscathed. “Six-Fingered Demon Sword! Overrated.” he said, his voice full of contempt.

The scarred man, his piercing gaze shifting from Mo Lihai to Wang Lin, spoke in a low, dangerous voice. “Outsider, what name do you bear?”

Wang Lin simply stared back, silent.

The scarred man frowned, but then his gaunt companion spoke softly, “His name is Wang Lin.”

Mo Lihai’s eyes narrowed as he looked between Wang Lin and the gaunt man.

“Ah? You know each other?” the scarred man asked, surprised.

“He is a brother apprentice from my sect,” the gaunt man replied, his gaze fixed on Wang Lin.

“Long time no see, Brother Sun Tao. You seem to have suffered grievous wounds, requiring years of seclusion to heal,” Wang Lin replied, his voice level, revealing nothing of his thoughts.

The instant he had seen Sun Tao, he sensed the profound injury, a wound that had reached deep into the very essence of his spirit. Though forcibly suppressed, his cultivation had plummeted from the peak of Soul Transformation to merely Perfect Nascent Soul.

Sun Tao met Wang Lin’s gaze, his initial shock fading. He, in turn, had instantly perceived Wang Lin’s leap in cultivation, jumping two stages from mid-Nascent Soul to the pinnacle.

“Brother Wang Lin, it seems you have found your own opportunities! But know this, within Tian Yao City, you must be wary of the Great Luo Sword Sect. It was they who inflicted these wounds upon me!” Sun Tao spoke, a trace of suppressed anger creeping into his voice, directed not at Wang Lin, but at the Great Luo Sword Sect.

Wang Lin considered this in silence, then reached into his storage pouch, withdrawing a vial of pills. Though not particularly potent for Sun Tao’s condition, it was a gesture of goodwill. He tossed the vial over, remounted his steed, and started to ride forward, leaving the scene behind.

Mo Lihai gave the two a knowing glance, then guided his soldiers past the scarred warrior, following Wang Lin. They left the pair standing alone on the Drunken Path.

The scarred warrior cast one last, scornful glance at Mo Lihai’s retreating back, then turned to his companion. “What do you make of him?”

Sun Tao pocketed the vial, considering the question. “Before my injury, I could have slain him.”

“Don’t underestimate Mo Lihai. He wields three powerful arts. The Fist of Ten Bursts is but the first. The Ocean of a Hundred Waves is the second. And the third, a technique passed down by the Demon Emperor himself, holds immense power!” The scarred warrior sighed. “Had you not been injured, I would have had complete confidence in our success in the demon general competition!”

Sun Tao fell silent, then spoke. “With the right materials, I could concoct a Heaven Essence Pill. It could, temporarily, restore me to the early stages of Soul Transformation.”

The scarred warrior nodded. “Worry not for the materials. I have already sent men to gather them.”

He paused, then changed the topic, “And what about your brother apprentice? What do you make of him?”

A complicated emotion flickered across Sun Tao’s face. “Strong! Very strong! Even if his cultivation were merely mid-Nascent Soul, one should not provoke him lightly!”

The scarred warrior’s eyes sharpened. He had known Sun Tao for a long time. This level of praise was uncharacteristic. It was the first time he had ever heard him speak of another cultivator with such deference.

Along the Drunken Path, Mo Lihai glanced at Wang Lin, a smile playing on his lips. “Thank you for your assistance back there, Brother Wang. Without it, my mount would likely be nothing more than a puddle of blood.”

“It was nothing, Brother Mo,” Wang Lin replied, shaking his head.

“That man is named Shi Jian. His Six-Fingered Sword Art is unpredictable and powerful! With your brother apprentice at his side, he will be one of my fiercest rivals in the upcoming competition!” Mo Lihai stated with confidence.

The group rode on, soon coming to a stop before an elegant courtyard. Though modest in size, the space was filled with carefully crafted miniature mountains and tranquil pools, an oasis of beauty in the city of chaos.
In the Southern Quarter of the city, nestled beyond a labyrinth of crafted stone, lay Wang Lin’s abode.

Mo Lihai, having assigned two soldiers to attend Wang Lin, departed for the Imperial City, there to report to the Demon Emperor.

“Await my return,” he declared before leaving, “and we shall greet the wind with wine.”

Within his chamber, Wang Lin sat in contemplation. The journey to the capital held more than merely honoring his pledge to Mo Lihai; the coveted title of Demon General was also within his sights. This, the heart of the Heavenly Demon Prefecture, teemed with warriors of formidable power. Only by surpassing them could he gain the Demon Emperor’s attention, thereby paving a smoother path to his desired rank.

“Duo Tao, a cultivator of the Intermediate Soul Transformation stage, was wounded and his power diminished to the pinnacle of Infant Transformation. He claimed the disciples of the Great Luo Sword Sect were responsible. Though a dozen or more of their order have ventured into the Demon Spirit Land, they could not, individually, inflict such grievous harm.”

After much rumination, Wang Lin inhaled deeply. His offering of medicinal pills to Duo Tao was a gesture of goodwill. Though their fellowship in Heavenly Demon City was recent, they were still brethren. Against the Great Luo Sword Sect, internal strife could not be tolerated.

Lost in thought, Wang Lin closed his eyes, entering a meditative trance.

As twilight descended, Mo Lihai returned, a glint of triumph in his eyes. He shared wine and stories with Wang Lin, divulging secrets of the powers possessed by other Demon Generals of comparable strength in the Heavenly Demon Prefecture.

Days swiftly turned into a week, then another. For four days, Wang Lin secluded himself within Mo’s manor, immersing himself in cultivation. He refined demonic energy, transmuting it into celestial power to fortify his foundation.

The date of the Demon General trials remained unspoken. Wang Lin understood that when his time came, Mo Lihai would inform him. Patience was his ally. When not cultivating, he wandered among the garden’s artificial mountains, lost in contemplation of the Slaughtering Celestial Art. The carnage he had witnessed in the Ancient Demon City had granted him a deeper understanding of this potent technique.

His time in the Refinement Soul Tribe’s valley had been spent in much the same way: meditating on the Slaughtering Celestial Art between periods of intense cultivation.

Only the location had changed; his mindset remained unwavering.

Wang Lin’s composure did not go unnoticed by the two soldiers who attended him. They watched, and slowly their respect grew. To maintain such dedication to training even at Wang Lin’s level of power suggested to them that he was destined to become a Demon General.

Mo Lihai, in these days, was a whirlwind of activity, constantly paying visits to the various Demon Commanders and their deputies. He also met with trusted Demon Generals, sharing information and forging alliances.

He sensed a storm brewing over Heavenly Demon City, a tension that thickened the air. This tension would break during the Demon General trials.

Meanwhile, Wang Lin remained in quiet residence in Mo’s manor. After four days, he emerged from his cultivation chamber, sitting cross-legged in the courtyard. His hands moved in rapid succession, forming a series of arcane gestures, each infused with the essence of the Slaughtering Celestial Art.

Wang Lin remained in this posture for seven days!

At first, the two soldiers stood guard at a distance, observing. But as they watched, a chilling aura of bloodlust began to creep into their minds. They felt their hearts pounding, their eyes burning with a primal fury, their reason fading.

Just as their bloodlust reached its peak, threatening to overwhelm them, Wang Lin opened his eyes from his meditative state. Clarity shone within them.

The soldiers met Wang Lin’s gaze and were jolted back to their senses as if doused in icy water. Their demonic power had been drained, leaving them terrified. They retreated, never again daring to look upon Wang Lin as he cultivated.

“The Slaughtering Celestial Art: to transform slaughter into life-giving essence and fuse it into one’s very being. I have slain countless beings, yet the energy of slaughter within me remains insufficient. There must be a reason!” Wang Lin murmured, his eyes filled with deep thought. He meticulously reviewed each successful refinement of the Slaughtering Celestial Art.