'Wait a minute… Nah, nah, nah, this ain't right. Something's fucked. This ain't how it's supposed to go.'
The old man hung suspended in mid-air, rigid.
Unmoving.
Squinting.
Then leaning forward.
Then squinting even more intensely, as if the boy were some form of optical deception conjured by fate to compel him to question his whole religious legacy.
The boy just stood there.
Blank face. No shaking. No screams. Just breathing. Just watching.
The old man's eye twitched.
"What the....what in the stinking left testicle of a karmic toad is this reaction?"
He walked in a circle around the boy, looking at him from every angle as if he expected horns to grow or maybe the kid would finally let out a delayed scream of fear.
Nothing.
Nothing.
"Okay," grumbled the old man to himself. 'Don't panic. Perhaps… perhaps the kid has brain damage. Or… perhaps this is just what the new generation is like these days.'
He floated up, stroking his filthy beard like a paranoid philosopher.
'Are brats nowadays so brave? In my time, a soft whisper from a damned ancestor would have half the sect pissing themselves into their spirit gourds. And now what? I enter full glory mode and he just—blinks at me?'
His eyes narrowed. He turned around and waved angrily at the boy like an indignant sect official.
"Oi! Are you emotionless? One of those new-wave 'Nullbirth' types? No karma, no attachments, no fear—just a bowl of rice going around with no taste?! Huh?!"
Still nothing. Just a single twitch in the boy's brow.
'No. No, that's not correct. Even a freak who was born with the Nullbirth Spiral should have flinched at least. My entrance was perfect. Sudden dimensional snap, hellish aura, the damned wail of five thousand sorry spirits—I even did the ghost float.'
'...Wait.'
A dawning horror crossed his features.
"What if—" he gasped. "No… no no no. It can't be…"
He entered the storage dimension of the ring, digging around like a thief in a laundry basket.
Out came a mirror.
Out came a comb.
There materialized a tiny bone-carved box with the subtitle emergency glamour balm.
Shaking his hands, he brought the mirror to his face.
And stared.
And stared.
And stared.
Then recoiled as if struck by the heavens themselves.
His face—his former glorious, former infamous, former seven-realms-feared demonic face—now looked like a sun-fried peach that had been left too long in the sun.
An eyebrow was missing. His beard was lopsided. His skin was sagging like an old dumpling that had lost its broth. And the tattoos? Blotchy. Twisted. One demoness was now sitting uncomfortably atop what looked suspiciously like a confused goose.
The old man screamed.
The boy immediately vomited.
Loud. Wet. Miserable.
Chunks of root-vegetable and bile slapped the floor of the cave in disgusting, echoing splashes.
The old man froze. Turned his head slowly towards the boy.
Face twitching.
Fist trembling.
"You… you ungrateful little piece of possum spit."
His voice fell a few octaves. The air became acrid with sudden ghost fire.
"I wake myself up from sleep, I honor you with my presence, and you repay me with projectile disrespect?!"
The boy wiped his mouth.
Still expressionless.
Still not talking.
The old man's lips quivered.
"I—I'm a legendary remnant soul! I drove out twelve sects and a heavenly tribulation with nothing more than a pair of soul-infused ballsacks—long story—and this is how I'm treated?! Not awe. Not terror. Not reverence."
He prodded at the boy with the mirror.
"You vomited, boy."
He snapped the mirror closed.
Paused.
Then, under his breath, "Alright, alright, maybe I've worn a bit over the centuries. A couple of glamour seals worn thin from use. Maybe one or two wrinkles. But still! I'm at least a minimum of 7/10 in demonic charisma."
'No no no. This is terrible. If even a half-dead brat like this gives me the stink-eye like I'm a laundry stain, how am I going to be able to demand respect later? Is this my destiny? Reduced to a joke? A rejected spirit?!'
He waved his comb wildly.
"Time, you cock-dribbling butcher! Look what you did to my glorious, terror-inducing mug! I was nightmare fuel for emperors, and now I look like a drunken corpse fucked a scarecrow!"
...
The silence pulled long and slow, like dusk dragging its heels across the sky.
The stench of vomit hung in the air. The old man scowled at the boy, eyes darting, breathing labored, one bony finger still pointing accusingly towards the heavens.
And then—
The boy spoke.
Flat. Cold. Matter-of-fact.
"You resemble a diseased yam."
The words strike like a divine thunderbolt.
'...What.'
'What did he just say?'
The boy blinked once more and cocked his head ever so slightly.
"You're rotten. Moldy hair. Face like...like a steamed bun that someone just stepped on. Twice."
A pause.
"And your beard appears to have had a fight with a chicken and lost."
The old man staggered backward as if he'd been spiritually backhanded by the Buddha himself.
He spun in midair.
Stumbled.
Then slapped both cheeks.
'Okay. Breathe. Breathe, old bean. You've made it through heavenly tribulations, spiritual collapse and betrayal at the hands of your own brethren. You've consumed ghost marrow soup. You've had your own left buttcheek seared with a holy chain of atonement—you can do this.'
He then turned to the boy and shouted, "WHO TAUGHT YOU TO TALK BACK TO YOUR ELDERS, YOU DAMN FESTERING SHARD OF GOAT ABORTION?"
The boy shrugged. "You're not my elder. You're a ring ghost."
The old man winced again.
"A noble ring spirit! I am a demonic relic of a bygone era! I once seduced a Saintess amidst the heat of battle when I crushed her fiancé's Dao Heart beneath my feet!"
"You're as wrinkly as a raisin," the boy complained.
"RAISIN?!"
"Half-spoiled. Dry. Wrinkly."
The old man's voice cracked. He returned to the mirror once more. Inspected himself with frantic urgency.
"Raisin? No..... No, I still got it. I still have menace. Charisma. The aura of a demonic patriarch—"
The mirror sparkled.
A small piece of dry crust flaked off his left nostril.
He blinked.
A long silence followed.
And then, in a shaking voice, "I used to make Venerable cultivators weep with a look."
He gradually dropped the mirror.
".....And now I'm being compared to a dry fruit."
The old man's grin suddenly faded like blood cooling on a blade. His voice came out low with a dangerous edge.
"...No jokes now. Tell me, brat. Why the hell aren't you scared? You think I won't kill you just 'cause I haven't yet? Think this is some friendly inheritance tea party?"
His eyes gleamed, sharp and cruel.
"You think I won't tear your soul apart just because I'm talking nice now?"
The boy remained quiet.
The old man leaned forward, nose almost against the boy's.
"I asked you a fuckin' question. You do know what I am, don't you?" His smile contorted into a sneer. "You stand there like some dumb little turd left behind by fate, when I could strip your soul to ribbons and laugh while you scream."
But the boy did not move. His eyes were weary but not scared.
"I'm not afraid."
The boy smiled, dry-lipped but unflinching. "Because you won't kill me."
The old man smiled, all yellow teeth and ugly glee. "Oh? Is that so? Well, tell me, worm. Why not? You think you're special? Think I won't turn you into toe jam just 'cause you've got pretty eyes?"
"I don't think I'm special," replied the boy.
"But I do know this—if Xie Wuming left something behind, it wouldn't destroy its own successor. That would make no sense."
The old man's face turned stone-flat.
Then he laughed.
Not the sneering laugh of before, but a slow, heavy growl that developed into a hard bark. "HA! Oh, that's rich! The rat's using reason now. Cute." He slapped his ghostly hand on his knee, laughing. "So that's your whole plan? Trust the intentions of a man who murdered a thousand sects for pissing him off sideways?"
"It's not trust," replied the boy softly. "It's a necessity."
The old man's laughter stopped. A twitch in the old man's eye.
"....And what if you're wrong?"
The cave grew quiet.
The boy raised his head a little.
"Then it doesn't matter. I've got no strength. No clan. No bloodline. No fate. I can't even run away. If I'm wrong, then I die here. But if I'm right…"
He pressed a hand to his chest.
"Then I get to live. Perhaps I get to fight. Perhaps I get to do something."
He met the spirit's flickering gaze.
"I've got no other choice. No other options. I've staked my entire damn life on this. So go ahead. Kill me if you want."
Silence.
The old man gazed for a long, silent moment. Then he laughed—deep, cracked, filthy laughter.
"Ohohoho! HAH! Well I'll be Heaven's unwanted dick wart! You're really dumber than shit—but you ain't a complete retard, are you? Got some rat balls on you at least. Bravery. Maybe desperation too. I approve."
He stood up, his arms folded behind him, his smile a knife.
"Okay then, cockroach. You win this time. I won't kill you. Not today. Not tomorrow. You're too stupid to live, but just clever enough to amuse me."
He floated forward once more, poking a pale finger at the boy's chest. "But don't go thinking I'm your fucking nanny. You mess up once—and I mean even one little bitch-ass mistake—I'll be right there, smiling while I chew your soul into a fucking pudding."
He patted the boy sharply on the cheek—just short of a slap. "So congratulations, scab-ridden miracle. You just passed my test."
"Right—back to the goddamn main event. The Nullbirth Spiral, boy. Listen well."
"There are laws in this world, yeah? Karma, bloodlines, destiny—all that divine dick-measuring. You crawl outta your mama's womb already strangled by Heaven's leash. Every past life is carved down your spine like tally marks in a prison cell. You fart sideways in one lifetime, and some celestial cunt makes you pay for it five reincarnations later."
He tapped the boy's chest with one crooked, talon-like finger.
"But you? You ain't in the damn ledger. You're a blank page with middle fingers for margins."
"You ever sit there wonderin' why your life's been a fuckin' gutter parade? Spoiler: it ain't bad luck. It's 'cause Heaven doesn't have a damn file on you."
He jabbed a thumb toward the sky like he meant to punch it.
"Heaven can't guide what it can't tag. Can't leash what it can't chain. You ain't marked. Ain't watched. Ain't part of no golden-ass plan. You were born off-script, boy—and lemme tell you, Heaven hates a story it didn't write."
A vision tore open in the air.
Blurry. Warped. Ancient.
Something faceless and formless, drowning in light so blinding it made your soul itch. It howled in silence, celestial runes crawling over it like brands from some holier executioner. Chains of fate slithered down like divine serpents to strangle it—
But every single one slipped off.
Every curse backfired. Every holy mark just… missed.
The old man lowered his voice. For once, serious. Almost reverent. Almost.
"There was one before you. Way back. The First Nullborn. Thing just popped outta the world like a cosmic abortion—no karma, no past lives, no fuckin' Dao direction. Just rejection in pure form."
He grinned, teeth like broken gravestones.
"And that bastard? It made Heaven bleed. Prophets went blind. Stars flipped upside down. The Nine-Star Tribunal? Shat golden bricks trying to erase its shadow."
He laughed, loud and bitter.
"Sent immortals, divine relics, armies of the righteous. Torched entire sects 'cause someone whispered the thing's name during tea."
"Think it died? Hell no. It moved beyond. Didn't rise up. Didn't return. Simply slid into the cracks of the world and vanished. But the scar it left?
Never went away.