Flashback: Year 1510, Black Serpent Mountains, Five Years After Reonhwa's Death
The cave was a tomb, its air thick with the stench of damp stone and blood. Deep in the Black Serpent Mountains, where no light dared linger, Kang Woojin knelt on a jagged slab of granite, his body a map of scars and pain. His ragged tunic hung in tatters, his black hair matted with sweat and streaked with silver, a mark of the demonic qi that was remaking him. Reonhwa's pendant, its silver chain crusted with her dried blood, hung around his neck—a constant reminder of the vow he'd made five years ago, when the Orthodox Faction's elders cut her down. Her final words, "Defy them," burned in his mind, fueling the rage that kept him alive through the torment of his cultivation.
Woojin had fled the Jade Lotus Sect that night in 1505, stealing scrolls of the Thousand Demonic Arts from Reonhwa's hidden cache. The forbidden techniques were a death sentence to cultivate—meridians shattered, souls twisted, bodies broken by their own power. But death was a risk he'd embraced when he lost her. This cave, a forgotten scar in the mountains, was his crucible. Here, he would forge himself into a weapon to burn the martial world to ash.
The Blood Meridian Ignition was his first trial, a foundation technique that forced qi through untested channels, searing them open like fire through flesh. The pain was unimaginable—his meridians screamed, his skin blistered, and blood leaked from his eyes as he collapsed, convulsing on the cold stone. He clawed his way back to his knees, Reonhwa's pendant heavy against his chest, and tried again. Each failure was a lash, each success a step toward something monstrous. His body, once frail and mocked, grew lean and corded, his muscles taut with unnatural strength. His qi, once a faint ember, became a black flame, dense and volatile, twisting his meridians into knots of agony.
Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. He cultivated in silence, the cave his only witness. The Shadow Veil Step came first, a movement technique that let him glide like a wraith, his footsteps silent even on loose gravel. He practiced until his legs bled, until he could cross the cave in a heartbeat, leaving only a ripple of black qi. Next was the Phantom Claw Strike, turning his hands into weapons, each blow laced with corrosive energy. He shattered boulders, then cliffs, his fingers carving trails of scorched rock. The pain was relentless—his meridians cracked, his bones groaned—but Reonhwa's death drove him forward. Her blood on his hands, her lifeless eyes, her final whisper—they were his fuel.
Food was scarce; he hunted serpents and wolves, tearing into raw flesh with hands that no longer trembled. Sleep was a memory, replaced by meditation that plunged him into visions of fire and vengeance. He saw the Orthodox Faction's elders, their smug faces as they struck her down. He saw their temples in flames, their disciples broken. The visions pushed him harder, his qi growing darker, more potent. By the tenth month, his eyes glowed crimson, his presence alone enough to silence the mountain's creatures. Kang Woojin, the mongrel, was dying. Something else was being born.
*****
After a year in seclusion, Woojin emerged, his body transformed, his qi a roiling storm. His silver-streaked hair hung past his shoulders, his crimson eyes burned with malice, and his presence made the forest quiver. He carried Bloodreaver, a blade he'd forged from the cave's obsidian, infused with his demonic qi. It wasn't just a weapon; it was his will given form, its edge hungry for blood. The Demonic Cult's Black Lotus Fortress awaited, a jagged citadel carved into a volcanic crater. Reonhwa had spoken of it—a place where strength was the only law. To honor her, to destroy the world that killed her, Woojin needed their power. He needed to lead them.
The fortress gates loomed, guarded by two towering cultivators, their qi thick with malice. "Name yourself," one growled, his axe dripping with poison.
"Kang Woojin," he said, his voice low, resonant with the weight of his cultivation. "I'm here to take the throne."
The guards' laughter died as Woojin moved. The Shadow Veil Step carried him forward, a blur of darkness, and the Phantom Claw Strike tore through their chests. They collapsed, blood pooling, as Woojin stepped over them, Bloodreaver in hand. The fortress's alarms wailed, summoning a tide of cultists. He welcomed it. Let them come.
The Demonic Cult was a cauldron of chaos, its warriors divided into factions led by the strongest: the Blood Phantom, the Shadow Viper, the Iron Wraith. To claim the title of Heavenly Demon, Woojin would have to break them all. The first challenge came in the central arena, a pit of black stone stained with centuries of slaughter. The Blood Phantom, a giant with veins that glowed red, stepped forward, his dual sabers shimmering with corrosive qi.
"A mongrel dares challenge me?" the Phantom sneered, the crowd of cultists—clad in tattered robes—baying for blood.
Woojin didn't answer. He raised Bloodreaver, his qi flaring like a black sun. The Phantom lunged, his sabers a whirlwind of death. Woojin countered with the Demonic Tempest, a storm of black qi that shattered the sabers' arcs. The Phantom's eyes widened as Bloodreaver found his throat, a single, precise strike. Blood sprayed, the crowd fell silent, and the Phantom's head rolled across the stone, his body crumpling like a broken toy.
The Shadow Viper came next, a lithe woman whose daggers struck from the shadows, laced with venom. Woojin met her with the Black Lotus Bloom, illusory blades erupting around him, slicing through her defenses. Her scream was brief, her body collapsing in a heap. The Iron Wraith, a colossus in qi-forged armor, lasted longer, his fists like battering rams. But Woojin's Heaven-Splitting Slash tore through his armor, splitting him from shoulder to hip, his blood painting the arena red.
Each victory was a step, each corpse a declaration. The cultists' jeers turned to whispers, then to awe. Woojin fought not for their approval but for vengeance. Reonhwa's death had hollowed him, left him with nothing but rage and a blade. He carved his path through the cult's champions, his body a weapon honed by a year of torment. His meridians burned with every strike, the Thousand Demonic Arts exacting their toll, but he pressed on, Reonhwa's pendant his only anchor.
*****
Weeks of bloodshed led to the final trial. The cult's elders, seven ancient warriors whose combined qi could shatter mountains, summoned Woojin to the Throne of Black Lotus, a jagged seat carved from volcanic glass. Elder Baek, their leader, stepped forward, his eyes cold as the void. "You've killed our champions, mongrel," he said, his spear crackling with dark qi. "But the Heavenly Demon's throne demands more. Prove your worth, or die."
Woojin's grin was feral, blood still dripping from Bloodreaver. "I don't prove. I take."
The battle was a maelstrom. The elders fought as one, their qi weaving a net of light and shadow, their weapons—swords, spears, chains—a blur of death. Woojin answered with the Thousand Demonic Arts, his Demonic Tempest clashing against their strikes, his Shadow Veil Step dodging blows that cracked the stone floor. His meridians screamed, his body bled, but he fought with a fury that defied reason. Each strike was for Reonhwa, each parry a defiance of the world that took her.
Elder Baek's spear pierced his shoulder, blood spraying. Woojin roared, his qi surging, and countered with the Neck-Slashing Strike, a technique he'd perfected in the cave—a single, fluid motion that severed meridians and flesh alike. Baek's head fell, his body collapsing, and the other elders faltered. Woojin pressed the attack, his Black Lotus Bloom shredding their defenses, his Heaven-Splitting Slash carving through their qi barriers. One by one, they fell—throats slit, hearts pierced, their blood pooling at the base of the throne.
The final elder, a woman with eyes like burning coals, lunged with a chain whip that crackled with demonic fire. Woojin caught it with his bare hand, the flames searing his flesh, and yanked her forward. His Neck-Slashing Strike ended her, her head rolling to join the others. The arena was silent, the cultists frozen, their breaths held. Woojin stood amidst the carnage, his body bloodied, his qi a black flame that lit the hall. He climbed the steps to the Throne of Black Lotus and sat, Bloodreaver across his lap, Reonhwa's pendant glinting in the torchlight.
"I am Cheon Hajin," he declared, his voice echoing through the fortress. "The 73rd Heavenly Demon."
The cultists knelt, their chants rising: "Heavenly Demon! Neck-Slashing Demonic Emperor!" The title was born from the slaughter, from the heads that littered the arena, from the strike that had felled the strongest. Cheon Hajin, the mongrel, was no more. The Neck-Slashing Demonic Emperor had risen, and the martial world would soon tremble.