The sky burned crimson as the Infinite Sect crumbled beneath the wrath of heaven and man alike.
Mike staggered through the smoke, blood dripping from his torn robes, his sect's sigil shattered and scorched. The once-glorious mountaintop, once teeming with disciples and echoing with chants of cultivation, was now a graveyard of blackened bones and twisted metal.
They had come at dawn—orthodox cultivators, clad in gold and white, swords gleaming with righteous fury. The sin of the Infinite Sect? Demonic cultivation. Blood rituals. Forbidden arts. Power bought not through enlightenment, but sacrifice.
Mike didn't regret it. Not a single life he had taken.
He had no talent. No blessed roots. If he'd walked the righteous path, he would have died as a servant in some third-rate sect, forgotten by the world. Instead, he had clawed his way to the Nascent Soul realm by drinking poison, refining corpses, and feeding spirit beasts with the hearts of his enemies.
But he had underestimated them—the so-called "orthodox" alliance. When they came, even the Grand Elder was turned to ash under the divine tribulation they invoked. And now Mike ran, broken, hated, alone.
He crashed through the stone wall of a ruined pavilion deep in the sect's forbidden grounds, choking on dust. Behind him, he heard the footsteps of pursuit. But as he staggered inside, his eyes locked on something glowing faintly beneath the rubble.
A mirror.
Not silver, not glass—its surface was liquid, dark red like coagulated blood, rippling gently without touch. Its frame pulsed with ancient runes, a forgotten language etched by hands long dead.
Blood Mirror…
The name whispered in his mind, like an echo from another world.
He didn't hesitate. The orthodox bastards were seconds away. He knelt, placed his palm on the surface—and screamed as the mirror pulled him in like quicksand.
Mike woke in silence.
The air was heavy, fetid, and thick with rot. He stood on a crumbling rooftop overlooking a dead city. Skyscrapers, broken and blackened, pierced a sky of ashen gray. Fires flickered in the distance. In the streets below, thousands of shambling figures groaned, dragging torn limbs as they searched for flesh.
Zombies.
A world on the brink of extinction.
Mike blinked, then laughed.
No heavenly pressure. No righteous cultivators. No thunder tribulation. He reached into his robes, pulled out a talisman, and activated a small flame technique. The fire burst to life without resistance.
He grinned.
"Looks like heaven doesn't give a damn about this place…"
Two weeks later, the city was silent.
Mike stood atop a mountain of corpses—zombies piled twenty meters high, rotting and twitching. His body glowed with golden light as heavenly blossoms of merit drifted around him like falling petals. His cultivation had soared from mid-Nascent Soul to peak Soul Formation in days.
He had tested the limits. He had sacrificed hundreds, then thousands of zombies. Not once had thunder struck. Not once had heaven punished him. In fact, the more he killed, the more blessings he received. As if the Dao of this world… favored him.
He could harvest zombie cores for alchemy. Use their corpses to craft blood puppets. Refine tools from their bones, organs, and claws. He found nests of mutant insects, captured and bred them into Gu. He even enslaved a few superpowered humans, curious about their strange energy—some blend of spiritual and psionic force, crude but useful.
He returned to his own world through the Blood Mirror every night, loaded with refined pills, spirit metals, and demonic treasures. He could now crush former "geniuses" with a flick of his finger.
But Mike wasn't content.
He stood before the Blood Mirror again, watching its surface ripple with crimson light.
"This world is mine. A paradise for slaughter and power. No laws, no rules, no limits."
His eyes gleamed with madness—and purpose.
"But this is just the beginning."
With a sneer, he stepped through the mirror, entering the apocalyptic world once more.
Above him, black clouds swirled. In the distance, a zombie behemoth roared—ten stories tall, flesh molten with radiation and spirit rot. A challenge.
Mike cracked his neck and rose into the air, his aura surging like a demonic sun.
"Come then. Let's see how many merits you're worth."
And with that, the sovereign of slaughter descended.