The fires of chaos burned brightly within the dungeon, smoke curling through the narrow corridors. Screams of guards and prisoners alike echoed around Lu Tianran as he moved with calculated precision. Every step he took was deliberate, every decision focused on ensuring his survival. The chaos he had orchestrated was the perfect cover, but he needed more than distraction—he needed a flawless escape.
The bloodied body of the jailer, Wu Lian, lay crumpled in the corridor where Tianran had killed him. It was there that inspiration struck. His disguise had to be perfect, one that would withstand scrutiny even under the closest observation. He crouched beside the corpse, his lips curling into a cold smile.
"This body will do nicely," he murmured.
Placing his hand on Wu Lian's lifeless chest, Tianran muttered a low incantation. His words resonated with a dark energy that made the air around him shudder. This was a forbidden art from his past life, one designed to extract the lingering memories of a soul before it fully dissipated.
The remnants of Wu Lian's spirit flared weakly, his memories unraveling like the threads of an old tapestry. Images, thoughts, and emotions flooded Tianran's mind.
Wu Lian had lived a life of resentment. He was the illegitimate son of Elder Wu Ren, a powerful figure in the Iron Sword Sect. Born from an affair, Wu Lian had been denied the resources and opportunities given to his legitimate siblings. Instead, his father had relegated him to a lowly position as a jailer, ensuring his disgrace remained hidden from the sect's higher ranks.
Tianran smirked as he pieced together the man's pathetic existence. Wu Lian's knowledge of the dungeon, the Iron Sword Sect's routines, and even the region's geography was extensive. Most importantly, the memories provided him with the perfect alibi—one that would allow him to walk out of the dungeon unnoticed.
"This is almost too easy," Tianran said, releasing the dying fragments of Wu Lian's soul.
Tianran turned his attention to the body. He removed Wu Lian's uniform, slipping into it with practiced efficiency. The rough fabric smelled of sweat and blood, but it fit well enough to complete his disguise.
Still, it wasn't enough. Wu Lian's face was a liability; it was too recognizable. Tianran knelt beside the corpse, pulling a dagger from the man's belt.
"This is going to get messy," he muttered.
Using the blade, Tianran carefully peeled the skin from Wu Lian's face, his movements precise despite the grotesque task. The smell of blood and flesh filled the air as he worked, but he paid it no mind. When the task was complete, he pressed the mask of flesh over his own face, adjusting it until it clung seamlessly to his features.
To ensure there were no loose ends, Tianran ignited a flame in his palm. Though his energy reserves were nearly depleted, he focused his will, feeding the fire with his remaining strength. The flame burned brightly as he pressed it to Wu Lian's body, watching as the corpse was reduced to ash and bone.
"There can be no evidence," he said, his voice cold and resolute.
As Tianran adjusted his disguise, the sounds of battle drew closer. The freed demonic cultivators were tearing through the guards, but a few had broken away, seeking their own path to freedom.
Tianran spotted a small group of them—three figures sprinting toward a side corridor. Their ragged appearances marked them as fellow prisoners, but their desperation made them vulnerable.
"Perfect," Tianran murmured, moving after them with predatory grace.
The corridor ended in a dead end, and the prisoners skidded to a halt. They turned, their eyes widening as they saw what appeared to be a jailer approaching.
"You thought you could escape?" Tianran said, his tone dripping with mockery.
One of the prisoners, a burly man with a scarred face, stepped forward. "We won't go back," he growled, brandishing a makeshift weapon.
Tianran smiled faintly. "You don't have a choice."
In a blur of motion, he closed the distance between them. The first man swung his weapon, but Tianran sidestepped effortlessly, driving a precise strike into the man's throat. The burly prisoner collapsed, gasping for air as he bled out.
The remaining two froze, their courage evaporating.
"Submit," Tianran ordered, his voice cold and commanding. "Or die."
They dropped to their knees, their fear overpowering any thoughts of resistance.
Tianran bound them with chains scavenged from the dungeon walls, ensuring they couldn't cause trouble. "You'll serve as my proof," he said, his gaze sharp.
With his disguise complete and his captives in tow, Tianran made his way toward the dungeon's main gate. The chaos he had unleashed provided the perfect cover, and the guards were too preoccupied with the riot to notice him slipping past.
As he approached the exit, a patrol of guards spotted him.
"Wu Lian!" one of them called. "What's happening inside?"
Tianran straightened his posture, mimicking the nervous demeanor of the man he had killed. "It's a complete disaster," he said, his voice steady despite the tension. "The prisoners have rioted, and most of them have escaped. I managed to capture these two, but the others are still loose."
The guards exchanged worried glances. "Where are the reinforcements?"
"Busy dealing with the fires in the central block," Tianran replied. "You should join them. I'll take these two back to the sect for questioning."
The mention of the sect seemed to satisfy them. The guards nodded and rushed off, leaving Tianran to slip through the gates and into the wilderness beyond.
The night air was cool and crisp, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the dungeon. Tianran moved quickly, his captives were killed by him the moment he stepped out of the surveillance of the sect.
His destination was clear. From Wu Lian's memories, he had learned of Death Mountain, a place feared even by Nascent soul realm cultivators. Its treacherous terrain and deadly beasts made it a natural sanctuary for someone seeking to disappear—and to grow stronger.
As the jagged peaks of Death Mountain came into view, Tianran paused. The faint glow of dawn painted the sky, casting long shadows over the landscape.
"This world may think me dead," he murmured, his voice filled with quiet resolve. "But they will learn soon enough that the Devil Sovereign cannot be killed."
With that, he turned toward the mountain, his path set and his vengeance burning brightly within him.
End of Chapter