The sky over Qingling was strangely bright today as if the heavens themselves had no inkling that a shadow had fallen upon the mortal realm.
Across cities, sects, and sacred lands, the winds shifted... and with them, the rhythm of the world changed.
It began not with trumpets or thunder, but with a single fold of parchment. Glossy, thin, too elegant to have come by horse or falcon. It was said the mist brought it. Others whispered that it simply appeared, placed with ceremonial precision upon altars, palace balconies, and the sacred stones of sects bearing the golden insignia of the Royal Family of Qingling and the crimson wax seal of the Holy Lady.
No one truly knew who she was.
Not her name. Not her sect. Not her origin. Only that her words were never wrong, and her parchment always found its way.
She was the Holy Lady of the Ink Moon Pavilion—scribe to the emperors, voice of fate, ghost of the immortal courts. And she had written something that would split the world in two.
"By decree of the Celestial Dispatch and confirmation from Imperial Eye in the South, Dao Wei, Sword Childe of the Sword God Sect, has fallen in Death Valley. He perished following his legendary duel against Diteyi—Demon Childe and Celestial Chosen of the Demon Sect, and was witnessed leaping into the Endless Abyss, pursued by the Demon Vanguard powerhouses.
Status: Deceased.
Legacy: Confirmed.
Revelation: Dao Wei is, by imperial recognition, the rumored Death God of Lower Shura.
Signed and Sealed—Ink Moon Pavilion."
The news struck like lightning.
The Crimson Phoenix House was not known for restraint. Their encampment was a battlefield of laughter and debauchery even on normal days. But today, even for them, the noise bordered on riot.
Practitioners in scarlet robes gathered beneath massive red lanterns swaying from bamboo poles. A makeshift gambling table, cluttered with jade tokens and spirit stones, stood at the heart of the encampment. Around it, a circle of cultivators erupted in a mixture of disbelief and groans.
"NO! I bet my entire fortune he'd fall before he could scratch Diteyi!" one man yelled, slamming his head against the table.
"Three thousand mid-tier spirit stones… gone!" hissed another, clutching his forehead like a man on death's door.
Only one stood unbothered.
Master Yan, draped in phoenix silks with a goatee so waxed it could cut glass. He swirled his wine lazily. "I told you fools," he said, puffing a long spiritual pipe. "Never underestimate a Sword Childe. They die… after winning."
Someone snorted.
"But it's not over. Didn't you read the last line?" another gambler whispered. "The Death God of Lower Shura…? That can't be real, right?"
At that, the noise fell.
They had all heard of the Death God. A myth. A rumor spoken in dread beneath tavern breath. Said to have slaughtered entire sects in the unclaimed outer realms. The shadow of war, the silence before divine wrath, rumored to be responsible for the Death Zen downfall.
But no one imagined… he had a face.
Dao Wei's face.
Meanwhile, in the twilight garden of the Du Clan estate, a scroll unfurled silently on the desk before Elder Ren.
He read it once, then again.
"…Dead?" he murmured, brow furrowing.
Elder Lian, stout and somber, squinted under the lantern's glow. "I knew the boy was dangerous. But this…?"
Elder Suji exhaled. "The Demon Sect played with fire. They thought they cornered a child. Turns out they stared into the eyes of a god."
At that moment, the Du Patriarch entered. His robe trailed dust, his steps slow. He studied the parchment silently, then uttered with a shake of his head:
"This boy seriously refuses to die. Even dead, he still stirs the whole damn world."
A long silence followed. Until Ren muttered, "What if… he returns?"
The words echoed. None answered. Because deep down, the thought was more than possible. It was inevitable.
Elsewhere, silver clouds swirled across the starlit sky. Beneath them, in a secluded courtyard of jade lotuses and windchimes, Qing Yao stood motionless.
Her royal regalia gleamed under the moonlight—gold-trimmed robes of violet and pearl, her long black hair flowing like ink across her shoulders.
But her fists were clenched.
So tight, her knuckles turned white.
Dao Wei's name echoed through her mind like a soft dirge.
"Gone?"
That single word gripped her throat.
"Death God…"
That other word rattled her soul. She had seen his eyes—'how could he be that monster? No. Dao Wei was kind, reckless, proud… but he wasn't what they claimed…
Was he?'
"My lady."
A gentle voice called out.
Her handmaiden, Mei, stood at the threshold, breathless. Her eyes wide.
She turned, heart pounding.
"What is it?" Qing Yao asked, voice low.
"It's… it's confirmed. The Sword Childe… he fell. Into the Endless Abyss. After defeating Diteyi. He… he's gone."
The words landed like stones.
Qing Yao staggered, her gaze falling to the reflection in the lotus pond.
'He doesn't even know...'
She dared not finish the thought.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't cry. Not yet.
News traveled fast—but nowhere faster than at the Pavilion of Eternal Balance, where envoys of every major faction gathered for the Solstice Accord.
Here, atop golden stairs and spirit clouds, the leaders of Qingling sat around a divine map table.
One by one, the parchments arrived. Identical. Official. Final.
The Sword Childe… was gone.
"Impossible," whispered the High Priestess of the Nine Petal Temple.
"He was the Death God all along?" scoffed the Steel Emperor of the Eastern War Court.
"No wonder he never bowed to any mortal," muttered the Sect Master of the Flowing Mist Palace.
But amid the shocked murmurs, one voice rose.
"Should we act?" asked the Grand Strategist of the Shadow Serpent Alliance. "If he's dead, then there may be an inheritance."
The Fireblade General glared. "Act? He just slew Demon Childe! You want to rob his corpse?"
"This isn't about honor—it's about legacy."
Arguments flared.
Because when great men fall, vultures circle.
Meanwhile, Far from the thundering cities of Qingling, beyond the tangled web of known sects and empires, there lay a stretch of untouched mountain valleys—a land shrouded in perennial mist, where time moved to a rhythm older than the stars. Nestled deep within one such cradle of the earth was the hidden village of the Demon Hunters.
Stone huts with sloped reed roofs lined winding paths etched into the land like the veins of some ancient beast. The air bore the scent of charred incense, ironwood, and the tang of talisman-blood. Trees twisted in arcane patterns, whispering secrets passed down through bone and blade.
This was no ordinary village. Every man, woman, and child bore the mark of the Hunt—be it a crimson brand upon their back or the ghost of steel in their eyes. The Demon Hunters were not merely born, they were forged, each life a thread in a tapestry woven through centuries of struggle against the unholy.
Tonight, they gathered.
The fire in the central courtyard roared like a war-cry, throwing long shadows across the carved totems and spears planted in the sacred earth. Children sat cross-legged, wide-eyed, while warriors with weathered faces and names heavier than mountains shared tales. Women in bone-white robes chanted softly, stirring the embers with stalks of blessed rice.
Seated among them, close to the heart of the flame, was a girl draped in silks the color of drying blood—Xue Qingli.
The youngest of the Crimson Bloodline.
Her eyes, the hue of wine under the moonlight, held the kind of silence that only those born of ghosts carried. A silver crescent-shaped scar that looked like a tattoo adorned her cheek, earned at the age of ten, when she'd slain her first demon alone in the woods behind the waterfall. Beside her, resting with a regal calm, sat her mother: Lady Yueying, the Crimson Matron.
It should have been a joyous night. The Duel of Destiny had reached its end. The Demon Childe, that cursed seed of the Demon Sect, had fallen. And the Sword Childe Dao Wei, the nameless blade born of ruin, had emerged victorious.
But then came the second parchment.
Delivered not by falcon, nor spirit messenger, but on a breeze that whispered like death itself. Folded with precision, marked with the seal of the Holy Lady.
Lady Yueying read it aloud.
"Dao Wei, Sword Childe, heir of the Sword God Sect and victor of the Duel of Destiny, has perished. Pursued by vengeful powerhouses of the Demon Sect, he fell into the Bottomless Abyss. Status: Deceased."
A deep silence erupted that even the fire seemed to pause, crackling with hesitation.
Xue Qingli did not breathe.
The world narrowed. The voices faded. She saw again the memory—a moment, so brief, barely a breath:
Dao Wei winked at her with such audacity.
"One day, we'll go hunting together," he had said.
"And what if we never get the chance?" she had teased.
"Then I'll haunt the demons from the next world."
Now he was gone.
The heat of the flames did not warm her. Her hands, though clenched, trembled.
The other villagers murmured. Some in awe. Some in disbelief. Some in that quiet reverence reserved for fallen titans.
Xue Qingli rose.
Lady Yueying's hand found her daughter's wrist.
"Don't let grief sharpen your tongue," she whispered. "The world changes. We must change with it."
But Xue Qingli shook her head. "No, Mother. The world bends. But I was born to break it."
And then she looked to the fire, not as warmth, but as trial.
Tonight, the flames mourned a sword too bright to last. And beneath the stars that once watched over them both, Xue Qingli swore to remember.
Not with tears.
But with blood.