The residual qi pulses through the fruit in De-Reece's grasp, its surface faintly glowing, alive with untapped power. It trembles between his fingers, as if resisting its inevitable fate. He crushes it, the thick, crimson juice dripping into the cauldron below. The liquid sizzles on contact, sending ripples of energy through the cave's air.
Immediately, the other ingredients react.
Rare herbs and beast cores absorb the fruit's energy, the mixture surging to life. A thick, red mist curls from the cauldron, swirling chaotically. For the first time in ten attempts, something is happening.
But he feels it— it's not enough.
The mixture refuses to stabilize. The qi within the fruit is too wild, too potent, disrupting the delicate balance. The cauldron trembles violently, its structure on the verge of collapse.
If this fails—
If this one fails—
A dark thought slithers into De-Reece's mind.
Desperate alchemists have spoken of a method— essence infusion. A reckless, borderline suicidal act, burning one's vitality to force a reaction. It is forbidden, dangerous, irreversible.
His fists clench.
His breath steadies.
Before doubt can take hold—
He drives his fist into his own gut.
The force crushes through muscle and bone, his entire body jerking violently. Blood bursts from his lips in a thick arc, splattering into his waiting palm. His vision flickers, nerves screaming in protest, but he forces himself forward.
With deliberate control, he exhales both his qi and his lifeblood into the cauldron's storm.
The reaction is immediate.
The chaotic whirl of energy snaps into place, the instability vanishing as the cauldron drinks his vitality. The crimson mist sharpens, shifting from wild, unpredictable wisps to precise tendrils of concentrated power.
His knees nearly give out.
He holds his breath.
Waits.
Then—
The mixture condenses.
Qi-rich vapors retract, coalescing into two perfect spheres. Two pills.
Small. Flawless. Their smooth, red surfaces pulse faintly, marked by three crimson pill lines—a symbol of refinement and mastery.
This isn't just a success.
This is beyond a spirit-level pill.
His breath comes fast, shallow, his body trembling from exhaustion and blood loss. But his gaze remains locked on the pills.
Earthen-level? No—possibly even higher.
A miracle born from desperation.
And he doesn't hesitate.
Fingers closing around one, he crushes it between his thumb and forefinger, reducing it to a fine, glowing powder. With shaking hands, he lifts Solar's head, carefully tilting her jaw open, the dust sliding down her throat in a slow, controlled stream.
His palm presses against her chest.
A pulse of qi—gentle, guiding, coaxing.
Then—he waits.
And he prays.
Interlude
The obsidian throne is cold beneath my fingers, its polished surface reflecting the flickering light of ethereal blue flames lining the great hall. The palace stands as a monolith to power, a temple of unshaken will—imposing, eternal, untouched by time.
From my seat atop the Endless Abyss, I gaze beyond the great pillars of my domain, past the shifting galaxies that swirl like ink in the cosmic sea. A hundred thousand stars bow to me. Worlds tremble at the mere mention of my name. And yet, at the heart of this vast empire, I sit in silence. Watching. Weighing fate itself.
Footsteps echo through the obsidian halls.
"Master."
Tang San kneels before me, his silver robes pooling against the flawless black marble. His expression, ever composed, flickers with something just beneath the surface—curiosity, perhaps. Or unease.
"You have taken another disciple."
His voice is calm, but his words carry the weight of unspoken judgment.
I do not answer immediately.
Instead, I let my gaze drift beyond the grand hall, past the celestial barriers that separate realms. There, beyond the veil of fate, a lone figure moves through a world long abandoned by the divine.
De-Reece.
He is not the first to stumble upon my path.
But he may be the last.
"The boy," Tang San presses, voice carefully measured. "What makes him worthy?"
Worthy?
I allow myself a breath of contemplation.
De-Reece…
A stranger to this world. A cultivator whose foundation is built upon instinct, rage, and the brutal reality of survival.
He is not the strongest.
He is not the fastest.
But his eyes—those eyes speak of a will that refuses to break.
He is flawed, just as this world is flawed.
And yet…
"Worthy?" I finally murmur, as though tasting the word. "A foolish question, Tang San."
Tang San does not flinch, but his silence speaks volumes.
"Worth is irrelevant," I continue, voice smooth as cut jade. "Fate does not bow to the expectations of men. It chooses without reason, without explanation."
I rise from my throne, the endless cosmos shifting beneath my feet. My presence bends reality, yet even I cannot alter what has already been set in motion.
"That boy… has been cast into a shattered world. No sect, no legacy, no divine hand to guide him. He has nothing."
I turn my gaze to Tang San, and for the first time in eons, I allow a glimmer of curiosity to slip through my mask.
"And yet, he walks forward."
Tang San remains kneeling, his brows furrowing ever so slightly.
"He does not yet understand the path he walks," I say, my voice a quiet thunder rolling through the chamber, "but the path of a Heavenly Demon is not one of comfort. It is not glory, nor recognition. It is a path carved through the bones of gods, through the ashes of entire dynasties."
A pause. The weight of those words settles like a blade pressed against flesh.
"Those who walk it do not do so seeking peace. They do so because they must."
Tang San finally speaks, his tone even. "And yet… you cannot guide him."
A small chuckle escapes me, low and bitter. "No. I cannot."
The universe shifts around us, distant stars flickering, as though even fate itself hesitates to weave its next thread.
"He is alone," Tang San states, and I hear the weight in his voice. "Even if you call him disciple, even if he stumbles upon your legacy… he is alone."
I exhale.
"Perhaps," I murmur. "Or perhaps, he will become something more."
Tang San straightens. His gaze sharpens.
"You think he could restore the world?"
A bitter laugh escapes me. "If his will is strong enough, if his cultivation surpasses all limits, then perhaps… this broken world will not remain broken."
Tang San's hands tighten ever so slightly at his sides. "And if he fails?"
I smile—a sharp, cruel thing.
"Then he will die, and no one will remember his name."
That is the path of the Heavenly Demon.
A road paved with ashes and silence.
A road that De-Reece now walks—whether he knows it or not.