The mist clung thickly to the jagged terrain of Death Mountain, its oppressive chill seeping into every crack and crevice. The faint sounds of boots crunching against rocks broke the eerie silence, accompanied by the low hum of quiet voices. A small patrol of Iron Sword Sect disciples moved cautiously through the forest, their formation tight, their eyes scanning every shadow.
At the center of the group, a young man with sharp features and an anxious expression whispered to his companion, "Do you really think he's still alive? No one survives the depths of this place for long."
His companion, a more seasoned disciple with a scar running down his cheek, snorted. "Don't be stupid, Fang. If he's dead, we'll find his body. But if he's alive..." He grinned, a cruel edge to his tone. "Elder Wu Ren's reward for capturing him will be worth the risk. Besides, he's just a crippled rat who got lucky."
Fang frowned, glancing nervously at the shadows around them. "Lucky or not, the rumors about that riot... I heard he used some kind of forbidden technique to escape. What if he's more dangerous than we think?"
The scarred disciple rolled his eyes. "Don't let those stories scare you. He's probably half-dead by now, limping through the forest like a wounded dog. This will be easy."
High above them, perched on a rocky outcrop hidden by the mists, Lu Tianran crouched silently, his sharp gaze fixed on the patrol below. Their voices, though hushed, carried clearly to his ears.
"Wounded dog?" he murmured to himself, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "They have no idea what they're dealing with."
His hand brushed against the demonic core tucked into his robes, its faint pulse a reminder of the power he had claimed from the bear. Yet as he focused inward, guiding his Qi through his meridians, he couldn't help but frown.
The energy within him was... different.
In his past life, the Abyssal Cultivation Art had made him a master of dark and chaotic Qi. He had drawn power from death, destruction, and despair, weaving those energies into a weapon that had made even the heavens tremble.
But the energy he had absorbed from the demonic bear carried a strange vitality. It was chaotic, yes, but beneath the corruption lay a raw life force that felt foreign to him—almost like a seed of renewal buried in the ash of destruction.
"This isn't abyssal energy," he muttered, his brow furrowing. "It's something else... something closer to the mountain itself."
The realization left him uneasy. Death Mountain wasn't just a graveyard of beasts and cultivators—it was alive in its own way, its Qi flowing through the land like blood through veins. If he could harness that energy, it could become a powerful tool. But if he lost control, it could consume him just as easily.
Down below, the patrol came to a halt near a small clearing. The scarred disciple gestured for the group to stop, his voice low but firm. "We'll rest here for a moment. Keep your guard up. This mountain doesn't take kindly to the weak."
The disciples settled into a loose circle, their hands never straying far from their weapons. Fang, still jittery, glanced toward the shadows. "Do you think he knows we're coming?"
"He's probably too busy hiding to notice us," the scarred man said dismissively. "If he's even alive, that is."
Another disciple, a woman with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, spoke up. "Don't underestimate him. If the reports are true, he managed to escape the dungeon and kill several guards in the process. Desperation makes people dangerous."
The scarred man waved her off. "And arrogance makes people cautious. He's running scared—we're the hunters here."
The woman shook her head but said nothing more, her focus shifting back to the misty forest.
Tianran watched the exchange with mild amusement. The arrogance of the scarred man reminded him of so many others he had crushed underfoot in his previous life. It was always the loudest and most confident who fell first.
But even as he observed them, his thoughts drifted back to his cultivation.
The demonic bear's energy had been potent, but it had also brought complications. His meridians, though stronger than before, still bore the scars of his weakened state. The energy coursing through him was unstable, a volatile mix of his abyssal foundation and the foreign vitality he had absorbed.
"It's like trying to tame fire and water," he murmured. "If I can find balance, this energy could take me beyond what I ever imagined. But if I fail..."
The thought trailed off, leaving him with a grim sense of urgency. He needed time—time to refine this new power, to stabilize his cultivation, and to adapt his techniques to this unfamiliar energy.
But time was a luxury Death Mountain refused to grant.
Tianran shifted his focus back to the patrol below. Their voices were quieter now, their movements more subdued as they prepared to continue their search. He knew he couldn't avoid them forever. Sooner or later, the sect would send stronger cultivators, and his current strength wouldn't be enough to face them head-on.
"If I wait too long, they'll corner me," he thought, his eyes narrowing. "But if I act now..."
A plan began to form in his mind, one that would turn their arrogance against them. The forest was his ally, its twisting paths and dense mist perfect for laying traps. And the patrol's overconfidence would make them easy targets.
"This isn't just about survival," Tianran said softly, his voice cold and steady. "This is about sending a message."
He rose to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate. The demonic core in his robes pulsed faintly, as if sensing his resolve.
"Let's see who the real hunters are," he muttered, disappearing into the shadows of the mountain.
End of the Chapter.