The night bled red over the Black Whisper Mountains. A cold wind slithered through the valleys, carrying the distant screams of those who dared cross into these forbidden lands. At the heart of this abyss lay the Crimson Asura Hall, headquarters of the feared Nine Hells Demon Sect—a place where the strong thrived, and the weak perished.
Inside a dimly lit chamber, a boy knelt before a massive throne of skulls. His black robes, too large for his frame, were drenched in sweat and blood—not his own, but that of the three senior acolytes he had just slain.
"Zhang Yan."
A voice as deep as a chasm resonated through the hall. The speaker was Sect Master Bai Luo, an ancient figure with eyes like burning embers and veins that pulsed with Demonic qi. His mere presence twisted the air with invisible pressure.
"You killed them all... Even the one who begged," Bai Luo said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Zhang Yan raised his head. At fifteen, his face was sharp, his eyes dark pools of unfathomable depth. His breathing was steady, his mind calm.
"They were weak," he replied.
The hall was silent. Then, Bai Luo's laughter boomed.
"Good. Mercy has no place in the Nine Hells Demon Sect. From today onward, you are no longer a mere acolyte. You are a disciple of the Outer Circle."
Zhang Yan bowed, but his heart was cold. He had not joined this sect by choice. Twelve years ago, his village was burned by the same people who now praised his ruthlessness. His family slaughtered, he had been taken in as nothing more than a tool.
But a tool that sharpens itself becomes a weapon.
His ascent would not end here.
Bai Luo's gaze darkened. "Your next trial will come soon. Survive, or be discarded. You have until the next blood moon to prove yourself."
As Zhang Yan stood, the other disciples sneered, whispered. To them, he was just another orphan, another sacrificial pawn.
But deep within, a different fire burned in Zhang Yan's heart. He would not simply survive.
He would carve his name into the annals of history—one corpse at a time.