The sky wept crimson.
Mount Hua's pristine peaks, once crowned with delicate cherry blossoms and blessed by golden sunlight, now drowned in death's own hue. The sacred grounds where generations of disciples had cultivated their arts lay desecrated, choked with the acrid smoke of burning pavilions and the metallic tang of spilled blood.
Through the haze of destruction, a lone figure wavered like a candle in the wind.
Rudra.
A mere servant. A shadow that had spent years drifting through Mount Hua's halls, nameless and unremarkable. Now, he stood amid the carnage, clutching a dead disciple's broken sword, its edge dulled by the blood of fallen demonic cultivators.
His body was a tapestry of wounds. Deep gashes carved across his arms wept freely, while the burning in his chest spoke of shattered ribs. Each breath felt like swallowing fire. The coarse hemp of his servant's robes, now stained dark with blood, clung to his skin like a funeral shroud.
Before him lay the pride of Mount Hua—masters whose names were whispered in reverence throughout the martial world, disciples whose potential had blazed like newborn stars. Now they were nothing but cooling flesh, their techniques rendered meaningless, their dao broken.
The night had begun like any other. The outer disciples had been practicing their sword forms in the courtyard, their movements traced in moonlight. Elder Liu had been lecturing on the principles of qi circulation in the Great Hall, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of wisdom. Even the kitchen disciples had been preparing the next day's meals, their laughter echoing through the evening air.
Then the wards fell.
The ancient formations that had protected Mount Hua for generations shattered like glass. The night itself seemed to bleed darkness as the Demonic Sect descended upon them.
And then... there was him.
The figure stood atop a mountain of corpses, his dark robes rippling in the night air like shadows given form. Blood rolled off the silk like water from a lotus leaf, refusing to stain his immaculate presence. His eyes gleamed crimson, twin lanterns of cruel amusement as he watched the last embers of resistance sputter and die.
The Heavenly Demon.
In his grasp dangled Han Qing, Sect Leader of Mount Hua. The man whose sword techniques had once split mountains and whose righteousness had inspired thousands was now nothing more than a broken doll. The legendary Plum Blossom Blade, said to contain the essence of a thousand years of Mount Hua's heritage, lay shattered beneath the bodies of his disciples.
"Is this the righteousness you preached?" The Heavenly Demon's voice carried like silk over steel. "The grand dao of the sword that would pierce the heavens themselves?" His fingers tightened around Han Qing's throat. "How... disappointing."
Around them, the massacre continued. Young disciples fled in terror, only to be cut down by laughing demonic cultivators. The sect's healers, who had sworn never to harm a living being, died protecting their patients in the medical pavilion. Even the mortal servants, who had nothing to do with cultivation, were slaughtered without mercy.
Senior Sister Liu, beloved by all for her gentle heart and unmatched talent with the sword, made her final stand at the steps of the ancestral hall. Her jade-white robes turned crimson as she fell, her last breath spent not in cursing her killers, but in warning the junior disciples to run.
In the library pavilion, Elder Chen died protecting the sect's ancient manuscripts. His final technique turned his blood into fire, taking a dozen demonic cultivators with him as the precious scrolls burned to ash.
The old master's body trembled. The air around him shimmered as he gathered the last whispers of his qi—one final technique, one desperate gambit.
But before the technique could form—
*CRACK*
The sound echoed across the battlefield like thunder. The Heavenly Demon had snapped Han Qing's neck with the casual ease of a child breaking a twig.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then, with elegant disdain, the Heavenly Demon cast aside the corpse of Mount Hua's greatest master. It tumbled down the mountain of dead, coming to rest among broken swords and shattered dreams.
"Kill them all," he commanded, his voice a whisper that carried the weight of imperial decree. "Let not even an ant survive this night."
His warriors surged forward like a tide of darkness. The remaining elders, those who still clung to life, raised their swords one final time. Their blades, forged in righteousness and tempered by decades of cultivation, shattered like glass against the overwhelming tide of demonic qi.
In the distance, the lesser peaks of Mount Hua burned. The female disciples' quarters had become a tomb of ice, frozen by a desperate technique from Mistress Snow. The training fields were littered with broken bodies, some still clutching practice swords. The meditation caves, where generations had sought enlightenment, became execution grounds.
And Rudra...
His knees finally buckled. The stolen sword slipped from nerveless fingers, striking stone with a hollow ring. His vision blurred, the world reducing to smears of red and black. This was the end.
Footsteps approached.
A presence descended upon him like a mountain of darkness, crushing the very air from his lungs.
Rough fingers seized his hair, yanking his head back. Rudra found himself staring into eyes that held all the warmth of the void between stars.
"Ah... even a lowly insect like you survived this long?" The Heavenly Demon's lips curved into something approximating a smile. "How fascinating."
The demon's free hand rose, fingers splayed like talons. They pressed against Rudra's throat, and—
With horrifying deliberation, they began to pull.
Muscle tore. Bone cracked. Blood fountained.
The last thing Rudra saw was his own body, growing distant as his head was torn away like a flower plucked from its stem.
Then darkness.
[You have died.]
[Quest Completed: Die at the hands of one far stronger]
[Reward: 1 Additional Life]
[Lives Remaining: 1]
Rudra's eyes snapped open.
He bolted upright, chest heaving, body drenched in cold sweat. His hands flew to his throat, expecting to find torn flesh and gushing arteries—
But there was only smooth, unbroken skin.
The scent of blood and smoke was gone, replaced by the familiar mustiness of the servants' quarters. Instead of the screams of the dying, he heard the distant sounds of morning practice, of disciples calling greetings across the courtyard.
Through his small window, he could see them now—all the ghosts of his future past. Senior Sister liu practicing her sword forms with ethereal grace, unaware that her dedication would end in tragedy. Elder Chen hobbling across the courtyard with an armful of scrolls, his weathered face peaceful in the morning light. Young disciples sweeping the paths, their laughter carrying on the wind, their futures measured in mere years.
Even Master Han Qing himself stood atop the main peak, overseeing the morning exercises, his presence a pillar of strength that would one day crumble.
His mind reeled as recognition struck him like a thunderbolt.
He had gone back.
Fifteen years before the massacre.
As his racing heart slowly steadied, a translucent window materialized before his eyes:
[Status Window]
Name: Rudra
Strength: Low
Agility: Low
Senses: Low
Skills: None
Remaining Lives: 1
Experience Points: 5
His fingers clenched in the rough blanket. This wasn't merely a second chance—it was something far stranger. Something that whispered of powers beyond heaven and earth themselves.
The war was still coming. The massacre was inevitable.
But this time...
This time he would not be the helpless servant, watching his world burn. He would seize every scrap of power, every fragment of knowledge. He would crawl through the mud of Mount Hua's secrets, gather strength by any means necessary.
Even if it meant dying again and again.
Even if it meant walking a path that would make the righteous sect shudder.
The Heavenly Demon and his cultists thought they had crushed every ant that night.
They were wrong.
One ant had crawled back from the abyss.
"And this time… will the cycle of deaths repeat, or will it change?"