The House of Throes was the heart of the Doom Clan, the ancient seat where every patriarch before Astaroth had ruled, shaping the fate of the Asura bloodline for eons. Within its vast obsidian halls, etched with abyssal markings older than recorded time, decrees had been passed, traitors judged, and legacies forged in both flame and shadow.
Malikai stepped into the hall, posture indifferent yet imposing, his crimson hair flowing behind him like silken embers in a hellborn breeze. At the far end, seated upon twin blackstone thrones, were Astaroth and Lilith Doom.
Astaroth sat with the stillness of a black hole—an oppressive presence that bent the room around him. His face, as unreadable as ever, radiated a quiet sovereignty that needed no declaration. Beside him, Lilith's warmth softened the chill of the hall. Her eyes, dark yet gentle, held the storm and the calm.
When Malikai approached, she moved.
She did not walk. She stepped once, and in a flash, she stood before him.
Her arms wrapped around him, tight yet soft, as if trying to shield him from the ruthless tide of their world.
Her voice, gentle but steady, whispered, "I am so proud of you."
Malikai remained still.
He did not lean in, nor did his eyes flicker. Yet somewhere deep within, a quiet warmth bloomed—a subtle thread of emotion that, though unspoken, was not denied.
He let her hold him for a moment longer before she finally withdrew, leading both father and son toward the clan's grand dining hall.
The Doom Clan's primary dining hall was a sanctum of abyssal elegance. Its walls bore reliefs of emperors and warlords long gone, their glory and bloodshed immortalized in obsidian carvings. A banquet table of blackwood, infused with demonic qi, stretched endlessly through the chamber like a path of conquest.
At its center were dozens of bowls filled with qi-infused beast flesh, still radiating heat and pressure. The scent alone could rupture the veins of weak cultivators.
Malikai and Astaroth sat across from one another—father and son, mirror and mold. Lilith sat beside Astaroth, her movements fluid and poised, her expression calm yet knowing. This moment was one she treasured.
Then, the feast began.
Their motions were silent, their consumption precise. They did not eat as mortals did.They devoured, refining the essence of each beast, their bodies channeling the Asura Devouring Technique, stripping every shred of power, every drop of qi, leaving not a trace behind.
Astaroth consumed Dao Soul Realm beasts like a king tearing through empires—expression unchanged even as raw power surged through him.
Malikai followed suit, consuming Qi Condensation and Core Formation beasts with a similar grace, his refinement flawless. Though his realm was far lower, his technique was pure, absolute. There was no waste. No hesitation.
Lilith watched in silence, her gaze warm as dusk, her smile soft. A father and son—two generations of doom.
When the final bowl was emptied, Astaroth finally spoke.
His voice rumbled like a buried titan waking.
"You did well. You made me proud."
His face remained stoic, but for the briefest instant, the corner of his mouth lifted—an acknowledgment. A rare flicker of sentiment. A moment that outweighed a thousand praises.
But then, his tone darkened.
"You are the first young Asura to possess a peak Celestial Grade bloodline at such a tender age… but do not let that cloud your judgment."
He paused, letting the silence carry weight.
"A pure bloodline is a weapon, not a guarantee. Only fools believe purity equals supremacy. "Do not advance to the Core Formation Realm yet. "Tomorrow, you will journey to Bloodforge City. You will temper yourself—not through meditation, but through slaughter."
A city where the four continents converged, where prideful youths from the Sacred Holy Lands and their subordinate supreme lands fought and died. Bloodforge did not host tournaments. It hosted wars.
There was no surrender. Only victory… or death. Unless one opponent showed mercy, or both stood equal, unable to kill the other.
"The weak do not leave Bloodforge alive." Astaroth's eyes narrowed."Your opponents will be elite, ruthless, and forged in carnage. You will fight them. You will bleed. You will crawl out of that pit—stronger."
Malikai nodded—not out of obedience, but understanding.
Then, Astaroth's expression shifted subtly, as if recalling a distasteful name.
"The current City Lord is Orien Solcrane. "His voice was still indifferent with a sliver of cold disdain. "A prince who failed to claim his throne. An early paragon realm cultivator, yes. Strong—yes. But blinded by arrogance."
He waved a hand.
"These are matters beyond the current you. For now, rest. Tomorrow, the real tempering begins."