A thunderous roar, distant yet resonant, echoed from the depths of the Prison of Hung. A plume of dust billowed skyward as a triumphant cry escaped from the very heart of the prison. Then, a flash of silver, a celestial blade, streaked across the heavens, vanishing into the twilight.

Wang Lin, his gaze following the departing sword, chuckled softly. “That blade is like a restless child. It seems, unable to find me, it takes its frustrations out on the Hung Prison. How many times has it done this? Ten, perhaps?”

Across from him, Morohai sat, a wry smile etched upon his face. Yet, beneath the humor, awe stirred within him. He scrutinized Wang Lin, for despite sitting mere feet away, Morohai struggled to sense his presence, his very life force, with his own potent demonic senses.

The Emperor’s Sword, in its numerous forays, had flown right past Wang Lin without so much as a flicker of recognition. This alone confirmed the extent of Wang Lin’s mastery. Morohai recalled the day Wang Lin emerged from his subterranean seclusion, unseen, unheard, and unfelt, and his respect surged.

Beyond this newfound stealth, Wang Lin seemed irrevocably changed since his emergence from the Hung Prison. A strange glyph, pulsing with arcane energy, flickered on his brow, sending shivers down Morohai’s spine.

He dared not ask the details, but he surmised that Wang Lin’s presence within the Hung Prison, and the resulting ire of the Emperor’s Sword, were born of either a breakthrough in his cultivation or a fateful encounter with some unknown wonder.

“What is your strength now?” Morohai finally dared to ask, breaking the silence that had hung heavy between them. “How do you compare to when we met in Ancient Demon City?” He yearned to know, for upon Wang Lin’s power rested his own hopes in the impending Demon General Tournament.

The Demon General Tournament offered two paths to glory. Should a Demon General lose, their chosen champion could take their place. However, this champion had to be a foreigner, an outsider to the region. It was this stipulation that had led Morohai to seek out Wang Lin in the first place.

“Even without resorting to that singular strike, I can defeat you,” Wang Lin stated, his voice even and devoid of boastfulness.

Morohai met his gaze, and after a long moment, burst into laughter. “Good! Your words alone make my efforts worthwhile. Brother Wang, the Night of the Demon Spirits, a fortnight hence, marks the beginning of the Demon General Tournament. His Imperial Majesty will be in attendance. If you perform well, my endorsement could secure you a Demon Generalship!”

Wang Lin offered a small smile, saying nothing.

“Brother Wang,” Morohai continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Return early tonight. I wish to introduce you to a person of… considerable influence.”

Wang Lin nodded. “Fear not, Brother Morohai.” He rose, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

They exchanged a knowing glance and another hearty laugh. Morohai, feeling a lightness in his chest, quipped, “Then I shall not delay you from your customary evening of riverside melodies.”

Wang Lin’s penchant for listening to the music of the Huarang boat was no secret, and Morohai was well aware of his routine.

Wang Lin stepped forward and disappeared into the bustling city.

He found his usual spot by the river, a simple waterskin of wine in his hand. He drank slowly, his expression placid, his heart a tranquil sea.

For weeks, Wang Lin had sought solace in this place, awaiting the ethereal melodies that drifted from the passing Huarang boat. Though the music had shifted, the joyous tunes now veiling a deep, underlying sorrow, Wang Lin did not seek to change it. He was merely an observer, a transient soul watching the ebb and flow of life’s joys and sorrows.

He had not even bothered to glimpse the face of the musician. It was unimportant. What mattered was the music, and the quiet contemplation it evoked.

The notes touched upon the seals within his soul, awakening a forgotten sense of serenity.

The Huarang boat appeared, the music preceding it. A sorrowful air laced through the melody, rising and falling in the air as the boat slowly sailed.

At the head of the boat, a figure strummed along, their back toward Wang Lin. Before them sat a youth, perhaps twenty seven, whose ordinary look was offset by a clean energy. No demonic energy flowed from him as he listened to the performance.

“Please, allow me to hear your true song,” the youth asked.

The strumming halted before starting again.

The music spread across the water as ripples and sounds.

The ripples rolled onto the banks near Wang Lin, disappearing, but the music went on.

The youth closed his eyes to savor the moment.

Wang Lin, too, closed his eyes, and immersed himself in the music.

Two people. One on the boat, one on the shore. They were in different places and mindsets, but their connection was one and the same.

Wang Lin opened his eyes, turning to the Huarang. He glanced at the youth before landing on the musician.

The youth opened his eyes at the same time, meeting Wang Lin’s gaze.

They held each others’ eyes. Wang Lin raised his wineskin in greeting before taking a drink. The youth smiled and drank. The Huarang sailed away, leaving only echoes behind.

Upon the Huarang, the musician turned, but their eyes saw only black.

“There, I see someone,” the youth said.

Myungyoung said nothing before turning back.

“How interesting…” the youth chuckled.

That night, Wang Lin met with Morohai, who led him into the Xuan city through the western gate.
The Obsidian Citadel, though akin to the Crimson Hold in size, was a world apart. Under the cloak of night, it shimmered with an unnatural brilliance, its streets patrolled by endless ranks of armored soldiery.

Before a palatial estate, Lord Mo halted, producing a missive from within his tunic. He presented it to the guards before the gates, who retreated into the depths of the mansion.

Wang Lin surveyed the edifice, his gaze settling on the plaque above: “Commandery of the Sable Need.”

“The Sky-Demon Empire’s Eight Warlords, like the eight citadels beyond the Sky-Demon City, bear titles of cosmic significance – Heaven, Earth, Sable, Gold, Void, Wilds, Flood, and Desolation. Their estates lack this appended word,” Lord Mo murmured, then paused, his brow furrowing. “Only the city’s vice-wardens possess such designations. This, then, is the residence of the Sable Commandery’s Vice-Warden. This Warden of the Sable Need shares a most esteemed bond with His Imperial Majesty…”

Wang Lin nodded. Lord Mo had meticulously explained the upcoming selection of two new vice-wardens following the Grand Demon Tournament, and the significance of a warden’s favor. After a span, a guard returned from the estate, his manner deferential. “Lord General Mo, the Vice-Warden bids you enter!”

Lord Mo straightened, stepping forward with purpose. Wang Lin followed at a measured pace. Guided by the guard, they traversed the mansion’s courtyards.

“Lord Thunder awaits General Mo there,” the guard indicated an arched gateway before them, then retreated.

With steadfast resolve, Lord Mo and Wang Lin approached the arch, stepping into a flourishing garden. A profusion of exotic blossoms bloomed in vibrant disarray, their fragrance thick in the air. A figure clad in robes of deepest violet stood with his back to them, gazing at the heavens. He seemed interwoven with the very fabric of the garden. Wang Lin glanced only once before lowering his gaze. The man’s cultivation base was that of a Nascent Soul cultivator in its nascent stages, close to ascension, yet still worlds away from the realms beyond.

Lord Mo drew a deep breath and spoke with utmost respect. “Mo Li Hai, at your service, Vice-Warden!”

The man remained motionless, silent, fixed upon the sky. An oppressive stillness settled over the garden.

The silence transmuted into a tangible pressure, enveloping the area. Despite the weight, Lord Mo, the demon-general, stood unyielding, his stance unwavering.

As for Wang Lin, having walked the path of cultivation and challenged the very heavens, he would not crumble beneath such pressure. He stood calm, his demeanor unchanged. Even before the celestial machinations of Sky-Fate, he had maintained his composure. The man’s strength paled in comparison to the likes of Vermillion Bird or Situ Nan.

Their fortitude dissolved the oppressive aura.

The violet-robed man turned, his eyes flashing like lightning as they settled upon them. His tone, that of an elder addressing his juniors, was infused with superiority. “To remain composed beneath my pressure is… commendable.”

“Mo Li Hai, what are your odds of becoming vice-warden?” The violet-robed man spoke directly, cutting through the niceties.

After a long pause, Lord Mo stated, “Forty percent.”

“Is that so?” The violet-robed man’s gaze sharpened. “You are the least confident of all the demon-generals who have sought my counsel in recent months.”

“With this one at my side, my odds rise to ninety percent!” Lord Mo gestured toward Wang Lin.

The violet-robed man’s eyes landed upon Wang Lin, his expression bland, as if the newcomer were a mere insect.

He had the right to look down upon Wang Lin. As vice-warden and confidant of the Demon Emperor, he possessed a demon-force approaching a million, akin to a nascent cultivator on the verge of ascension. He was destined to become a true warlord. In his eyes, Wang Lin was but an attendant to Mo Li Hai, who himself was unworthy of his attention.

Were it not for the Demon Emperor’s regard for Mo Li Hai, he would not have deigned to meet him. He could have spent the time tending to his beloved flowers. Within the Sky-Demon City, it was known that Vice-Warden Sable cherished exotic blossoms. He protected them with zealous care, dismissing servants for accidental carelessness. Woe betide those who dared damage a single petal, for they would feel his wrath.

The violet-robed man grew impatient, though his face remained serene.

“Unleash your most potent art. Show me why Mo Li Hai believes you can increase his odds by fifty percent,” the violet-robed man said, his voice still bland. He considered Wang Lin merely a complete nascent cultivator, of no real consequence.

Not contempt, but a profound indifference.

“Show me your full strength. If you can impress me, then perhaps you possess some value,” the violet-robed man intoned, gazing at the sky, not so much as glancing at Wang Lin.

Wang Lin returned the violet-robed man’s gaze, his expression unchanged. He lifted his right hand, condensing the power of slaughter, and thrust it forward.

At this movement, a storm of murderous intent roared from his palm, engulfing the garden.

Two thousand strands of slaughter energy surged from Wang Lin’s hand, howling like dragons as they bore down upon the violet-robed man.

At first, the violet-robed man held his mask of contempt, but in a heartbeat, it shattered as the two thousand strands of slaughter energy surged towards him.

Without hesitation, the violet-robed man reeled backward, his demon-force erupting in a protective surge. A phantom tiger materialized around him, but the slaughter energy pierced it, lancing towards his chest.

The violet-robed man’s complexion paled. He stumbled back, heedless of the flowers beneath his feet, sinking into the mud. Flowers meant nothing to him in this moment as every fiber of his being concentrated on the storm bearing down on him.
Had he prepared, drawing upon the strength of his cultivation, such a sorry state would never have befallen him. But he was blinded by arrogance, and now stood before a sorcery that, even with forethought, would have given him pause. Now, facing it unprepared, a spell against which he had no hope, even the taste of regret was a luxury he could not afford.

Before him, a mere seven inches away, a shimmering barrier of demonic armor materialized, a desperate shield against the onslaught. Yet, even as it formed, a volley of two thousand blades of pure slaughter crashed against it, forcing the defense to shrink inward, collapsing upon itself.

As the failing barrier threatened to buckle to a scant three inches, the violet-robed man roared, his face contorted with strain, veins throbbing at his temples. He stumbled backward, crushing beneath his feet countless blooms he held dear.

But the demon armor, already teetering, could not withstand such a brutal assault. With a shattering resonance, it crumbled to naught.

The two thousand blades of slaughter surged into his form, a whirlwind of dark energy that raced through his very essence. With a swift gesture from Wang Lin, the blades were recalled, erupting from every pore, vanishing into the void within his grasp.

The violet-robed man stood, his face ashen, the world seeming to tilt. In his eyes, Wang Lin was no longer the same man.

With the power of a nascent soul in its fullness, wielding two thousand blades of slaughter, to challenge an Ascendant cultivator in its early stages was, for Wang Lin, no impossible feat.

“Very well,” the violet-robed man rasped, forcing an air of composure, summoning a smile of forced benevolence, as an elder might grant to a junior. “You… have earned the right. Be gone!”

Mo Li Hai, his face a mask of barely concealed shock, seized Wang Lin’s arm and hastened their departure.

As the two figures vanished into the distance, the violet-robed man could no longer contain the torment. He spewed forth a torrent of crimson, drawing forth startled cries from the servants who rushed in.

“For three months, I shall receive no one. I must retreat to seclusion!” With these final words, the violet-robed man dissolved into nothingness, leaving behind only the echo of his defeat.