Lan Fengxian gazed at the horizon, where the night sky stretched endlessly, his gaze fixed, lost in the stars, trying to find an answer that always eluded him. The world around him was immersed in a terrible war, where the Sects played their power games and oppression spread across the lands. He knew that his fight was not just personal, but that the future of everything he knew was at stake.
The White Lotus Sect, with its fanatic followers and tireless pursuit of control over souls, was closer than he cared to admit. It was this war that tormented him. If he were defeated, the freedom he so longed for would be crushed, not only for him but for all those around him. The weight of the world's fate seemed to rest on his shoulders, but he would never bend. Not while he still had breath.
Deep down, his freedom was the only thing that kept him standing. The freedom to decide his own destiny, to forge his own path without shackles, without the invisible chains of a past he desperately tried to leave behind. But with each confrontation, he felt the cost of his independence. He paid, and paid dearly, for a dream that seemed more distant with each passing moment.
Still, he was Lan Fengxian, the Red Calamity. The Asura God of Devastation. A name always whispered with fear in the Three Realms, a legend carved in blood and fire. The one who turned fertile lands into deserts of ashes, who made the sky a reflection of his own hell. But behind the flames, beneath the weight of anger and the screams that echoed in the wake of his fury, there is a name that never fades.
A name he whispers to the wind, traces on marble walls, immortalized in the temples built by his own hands — so that time may never steal it from him.
Now, covered in the blood of countless battles, he reaches out to the ashes of the past. Beyond the destruction, he sees the only light that has never betrayed his soul. His cracked lips part, and a whisper escapes, light as a forgotten prayer:
"I will find you, no matter where you are..."
A nostalgic smile forms on his lips, faint as the breeze before the storm.
"There are no gods or demons that can make me give up. Much less you, Your Highness. I know you've been waiting for me all these hundred years."
Lan Fengxian, who once walked among the cultivators of the White Lotus Sect, was now declared a deserter, but that didn't mean he escaped the weight of an unattainable freedom. He had been a man who touched the highest peaks of power, whose unquestionable strength made even the masters of the Demon Sect tremble in his presence.
And it was only when fleeing from the Demon Sect of the White Lotus that he first experienced the true intensity of freedom — but this same freedom tore him away from his essence. With each step that took him farther from that world of demons and blood, his life unraveled, like snow melting at the first touch of the sun, dissolving and being carried away by the wind.
His footsteps echoed heavily on the deserted paths he traveled, but the sound that accompanied him was not just his own march. There were other steps, distant but close enough for him to know that he was not alone in his flight. Behind him, the loyal disciples of the White Lotus Sect relentlessly followed his trail, sent with one mission: bring him back, alive or dead.
To the Sect, Lan Fengxian was no longer a cultivator, but a broken tool — a traitor whose existence was an insult to their honor. A warrior who dared to defy his destiny. And for that, they wanted his head on a stake, a cruel warning to anyone who would even think of desertion. If he no longer served as a soldier, then he would serve as an example.
Lan Fengxian looked at the mountains ahead, and his warm blood trickled down the open wounds on his body. The brutal confrontation with his master still reverberated in his mind — a duel that should have ended in death but somehow did not reach that conclusion. Deep down, perhaps a part of his soul still wanted to believe that there was something beyond pain and destruction.
His body still ached, but the pain was a small price to pay for his freedom. However, he knew he could not continue like this. His strength was beginning to falter, and his vision blurred, with the blood trailing from his wounds marking the ground wherever he went.
Lan Fengxian raised his hand and drew a beautiful black sword from his waist. It was a blade forged from purified iron, with a scarlet glow from its vicious energy, but what truly gave it power was the name it carried: Fei Ji — The Destructive Escape. The story behind the name was almost a joke among the cultivators of the sect.
During one of the bloodiest confrontations against the Taoist sect Tianhuan, the famous Sect of the Four Peaks, he had been forced to flee in the middle of the battle due to a trivial mistake: his foot slipped, and he fell into a puddle of mud, causing his once invincible sword to be ripped from his hands and dragged by a river of muck.
The weapons master who had been with him at the time never stopped laughing, calling his blade "the stupid disastrous escape of the sword." Lan Fengxian, in order to maintain his dignity, accepted the name.
With a single movement, Lan Fengxian hurled Fei Ji into the air. The sword sliced through the wind with a metallic sound, and he leaped after it, staying aloft with all his might as his life force pulsed in every muscle. The wind howled in his ears, and his vision blurred even more as he surged forward like an arrow toward the clouds. Freedom was within reach, closer than ever before.
But then, something immense and devastating cut through the space around him. A wave of heavy, relentless malevolent energy rushed toward him. The strike was like lightning, hitting his back with colossal force.
Lan Fengxian felt the pain pierce his spine as if a dragon had torn through him from the inside. He fell, the impact so powerful that it sent him tumbling across the earth, as though being dragged toward death.
When he finally stopped, he was on the edge of a cliff. His hands were stained with blood, but the determination in his eyes remained unchanged. He rose, the pain burning in every fiber of his being, and turned to face the figure approaching him with a deadly calm.
— Fengxian — the deep, cold voice echoed in the night. — You've finally shown yourself.
The disciple approaching was someone with whom he had shared his entire life. His shidi, Zhou Ren, was not just a cultivation companion but a brother of the soul. Together, they had faced the greatest horrors and most intense battles. But now, the bonds of blood and friendship were being consumed by the flame of hatred.
Zhou Ren held a gray sword, a blade that, like Fei Ji, was marked by its own stories. Qing Luo — The Mortal Mist. A sword forged to cut through the world's darkness and destroy even the strongest hearts. The blade gleamed with a sinister power, reflecting the moonlight that was beginning to rise over the field.
— So you've finally reached the end, Lan Fengxian. — Zhou Ren spoke in a soft voice, but it was as cold as iron. His eyes, once friendly, were now shards of ice. — You chose this freedom, this illusion. But is it really what you want?
Lan Fengxian took a step forward, his eyes burning with the determination of a man who had nothing left to lose. He could see in Zhou Ren's words what he had never dared to admit: his search for freedom had distanced him from everything that could be called home. But he would not surrender.
— I didn't choose this. I was pushed into this war, just like everyone else. The difference is that at least now, I have control over what I do with my own soul.
Zhou Ren smiled, but there was no joy in his smile. He was sad, perhaps more than either of them, knowing that the bond that had once united them had irreparably unraveled.
— You think control is yours, but you're mistaken. The choices you made were not yours. The White Lotus Sect will dominate the world, and the freedom you seek will be crushed by a new empire, built with the bones of all who dare to resist. And you, Lan Fengxian, will just be another forgotten name in history.
Zhou Ren's expression faltered for a moment before it grew even darker.
— Have you forgotten who we are? What we conquered? All the times we stood together, faced demons, and defeated monsters? You, more than anyone, know what the White Lotus Sect represents, and yet you abandoned it all — he gripped the sword's hilt, trying to contain the anger building inside.
— I haven't forgotten — Lan Fengxian said, his eyes burning with a cold, relentless flame. — I know exactly what the Sect represents. I know what I've lost. But what I have left now is my life. And I won't allow it to be defined by the war you and everyone else insist on fighting. Revenge is a poison, A-Ren. And I refuse to drink from it anymore.
Zhou Ren took a step forward, his sword gleaming as if it thirsted for blood.
— If you refuse to fight for us, then perhaps I will need to fight against you, Fengxian. There is no more choice. You will die here, even if I have to cut my own soul to do it — he bit his lip, trying to push aside the anxiety consuming him.
— Don't deceive yourself — Lan Fengxian said, his gaze impassive, almost disinterested in the conversation. — I won't die. And neither will you. Death, A-Ren, is no longer what defines us in this world. We are more than that.
The sound of metal cutting through the wind was the only noise heard as they both stared at each other, the ghosts of their past lives still lingering between them, much more distant and irreconcilable.
Lan Fengxian took one last look at Zhou Ren and said, with the calm of someone who had already faced everything the world could offer:
"The White Lotus Sect was my prison. But now, it no longer matters. I am simply the man who wishes to live his own life." He closed his eyes and sighed softly. "Do not follow me, A-Ren, for in the end, the choice will always be mine."
Lan Fengxian felt the wind cutting across his face like a sharp blade, each breath a final farewell to the life he had known. The edge of the cliff seemed like a thin line between freedom and the final fall. Holding Fei Ji firmly in his hands, he hesitated not.
The life of a cultivator, the years spent in the White Lotus Sect, the endless battles, the pain and hatred... all of it was left behind, as if it were merely a distant shadow. Now, what remained was the choice: his own freedom. And the person he so longed to reunite with.
He looked at Zhou Ren, the brother who had been forged by his side in the fiercest battles, and saw in his eyes a sea of emotions: hatred, betrayal, despair... Everything blended in that gaze, but there was also a more intimate feeling — a brotherhood that now became tragically irreversible.
A sad smile curved Lan Fengxian's lips, and without a word, he took a step forward.
Zhou Ren reached out his hand, his body already in motion, but Lan Fengxian's fate was sealed. What was done could not be undone. He tried to reach for the hand of his sworn brother, but words failed him, and time dragged on like a cruel weight. With one last sigh, Lan Fengxian threw himself into the abyss.
The world around him spun and shattered, and gravity pulled him toward the darkness below.
Zhou Ren, in a desperate act, ran to the edge of the cliff, screaming Lan Fengxian's name with all the strength of his being. The pain that tore at his throat and ripped through his chest was so intense that he could barely distinguish between the sound of his own scream and the deadly silence that filled the night.
"Lan Fengxian!" His voice broke the silence, muffled not just by pain, but by deep regret, as if each word tortured him relentlessly.
Rage burned in his soul. It was the frustration of not having been able to stop him. But at the same time, there was the sense that the choice had already been made, and Lan Fengxian had completely abandoned him.
His voice echoed through the vastness of the mountain, and for a moment, it seemed as if the whole world had heard him. Hatred and regret intertwined, creating a tight knot in his heart. He knew there was nothing more he could do, not even if he jumped after him. Lan Fengxian had made his choice, and the path to freedom had been sealed irreversibly.
Zhou Ren, with eyes filled with tears that would never be seen by another, took a step back, and then another. He looked one last time at the void where Lan Fengxian had fallen, and as if the weight of all his emotions became an unbearable burden, his sword, Qing Luo, slowly dragged along the ground.
The weight of regret was heavier than any blade that could cut through flesh.
To be continued...