The summit of the broken sky had no wind. No birds. No breath.
Just a rift in reality—silent, glowing, ancient.
And before it stood Wu Ming, cloaked in black, his face shadowed beneath a cowl of shifting silk, etched with celestial dust and blood-threaded runes. His hands were clenched at his sides, not from rage—but restraint.
The light ahead pulsed, and from it stepped a figure he had seen only in fragments of dream and whisper.
The Immortal Paragon of the Pure Path.
She emerged with the grace of drifting snow, robes trailing behind her like silk soaked in moonlight. Her presence bent the space around her—not violently, but with absolute confidence.
Wu Ming bowed stiffly.
"I've done as you asked," he said. "The fragments. All of them. Through veil and time, dream and ruin—I followed the pulse of the Blood Soul Essence across every realm where it scattered."
She regarded him, expression unreadable.
"It wasn't easy," he added. "It resisted. Even disembodied, it tried to command me. Twist me."
"That," she said coolly, "is its nature."
Wu Ming raised his head. "Is it done, then? Will you extract its power for me as we have agreed upon?"
Her smile was soft. Pitying.
"No."
Wu Ming's breath caught. "What do you mean?"
The Paragon stepped closer. "You misunderstand your role, Wu Ming. You are not the collector nor the beneficiary. You are the next vessel."
He recoiled as if struck. "That wasn't our agreement."
"There was no agreement," she said. "Only obedience."
He drew a breath, his spiritual aura flaring instinctively. "I won't be used like that. I'm not a pawn."
"You are less than a pawn," she said, voice like a silver bell struck with steel. "You were replaceable. But now, you shall be necessary."
Her hand rose.
A glyph of spiraling crimson light erupted from her palm—a sigil ancient and forbidden, inked in a language not spoken, but remembered by the soul.
Wu Ming's body locked in place.
"No!" he cried, summoning every ounce of cultivated resistance. His Qi surged against her control but it wasn't enough.
"You collected the fragments, Wu Ming," she said. "You touched them. Carried them. Let them speak to you."
The glyph expanded, enveloping his chest, burning through cloth and skin alike.
"And now, they shall merge with you."
Blood-red light spilled from the markings now etched into his body. His eyes went wide—not with fear, but agony.
The essence returned like a thousand rivers. It rushed into the vessel that had prepared itself unknowingly for the perfect storm. The Blood Soul Essence—the ancient, ageless force that had once consumed Ren Wuji from within poured into Wu Ming's spirit.
He screamed.
The skies screamed with him.
His form shattered, remade in silence. His hair turned blacker than night, eyes glowing crimson. His Qi turned dark, heavy, thunderous. Where once he had felt rage, he now felt hunger—cold and boundless.
The Paragon lowered her hand, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"The Blood Demon has returned," she whispered.
Wu Ming rose now no longer Wu Ming.
The earth around him died.
His cloak burned away, replaced by an armor of ash-bone and flame. His voice, when he finally spoke, echoed in layered tones—the resonance of a soul no longer singular.
"I remember."
The Paragon nodded. "You are now free. It is time to fulfil your destiny, time to open the gate."
The Blood Demon raised both arms. His fingers curled into forbidden seals. Dark red mist coiled at his feet, seeping into the ground like veins through stone.
And from the depths of Shadow Mountain, a rumble began.
Far to the south, mortals awoke to tremors in the earth.
The volcano crater glowed with unnatural light. Runes carved by forgotten demons lit across the crater's walls. With one final word, the Blood Demon slammed his palm into the stone.
A portal tore open.
Not through space.
Through worlds.
The long sealed portal to the Nether Realm awoke once more.
And from it poured hordes of demons—monstrous, ravenous, armoured in bone and soul-metal, their eyes hollow, their cries unnatural. Flying beasts, flame-crawlers, sword-walkers, and horned reapers. Legions that had not seen the sun since the first war of the Primordial Age.