Morning came, but for Shen Zong, it was nothing more than another shade of night.
The crimson moon had vanished, leaving behind no trace—except for the black lotus mark pulsing faintly on his chest. The villagers whispered in fear when he walked past. Doors slammed shut. Children were dragged away by their mothers. To them, he was no longer human.
Shen Zong did not care.
He returned to his shabby hut on the outskirts of the village, a structure barely standing with rotting wood and a leaky roof. Sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, he pressed his palm against the black lotus mark. The moment he did, tendrils of dark mist coiled out, sinking into his meridians.
> So this is demonic qi… chaotic, corrosive… yet limitless.
Most cultivators trained with spiritual qi, harmonious and gentle, like a stream nourishing the body. Demonic qi, however, was different. It was a storm of fire and poison, tearing apart the weak-willed. Without absolute control, it devoured the cultivator from within.
Shen Zong smiled faintly. Perfect.
He closed his eyes, guiding the qi through his meridians. It was like forcing molten iron through shattered glass; his blood boiled, and his bones creaked. But his calm never wavered. Pain was simply another form of enlightenment.
Hours passed. When he opened his eyes, a faint aura leaked from his body—dark and oppressive. He had stepped into the very first stage of cultivation: Qi Awakening.
---
That evening, as he walked back from the forest with gathered herbs, he found trouble waiting.
Three youths blocked his path—village boys older and stronger than him. Each carried crude sticks, sneering at him like wolves circling prey.
"Cursed brat," one spat. "We heard you were playing with forbidden arts last night. Think you're some great demon now?"
Another raised his stick, grinning cruelly. "Don't worry. We'll beat the evil out of you."
The third laughed. "Or maybe we should just kill you. Save the village the trouble."
Shen Zong's eyes, calm and sharp, swept over them. They were nothing—ants puffing their chests, unaware they stood before a storm.
He said nothing, simply dropping the herbs to the ground.
The boys attacked together. Sticks swung down, aiming for his head. Shen Zong sidestepped, his movements fluid, precise—like water flowing around rocks. With one swift grab, he caught a stick mid-swing. The boy's eyes widened in shock before Shen Zong twisted the wood from his grasp and drove the blunt end into his stomach.
Thud!
The youth crumpled to the ground, wheezing in pain.
The others hesitated, fear flickering in their eyes. But anger drowned their hesitation, and they charged again.
This time, Shen Zong's expression darkened. He let the demonic qi seep into his limbs. His body surged with unnatural strength. In two swift motions, one boy's wrist snapped with a crack, and the other was slammed face-first into the dirt.
Silence fell.
The three bullies writhed on the ground, crying out like wounded dogs. Shen Zong looked down at them with calm indifference.
"Remember this," he said, his voice low, steady, almost like a whisper of death. "Mercy is a luxury I do not possess. Cross me again… and I will not leave you breathing."
His eyes, cold and sharp, made the boys tremble. They scrambled to their feet and fled, screaming into the distance.
Shen Zong bent down, calmly picking up the herbs he had dropped. His heart rate had never once quickened.
But as he straightened, he noticed something unusual. The black lotus mark on his chest pulsed faintly, drinking in the fear and hatred lingering in the air. His demonic qi swelled—stronger than before.
> So that's it…
The Demonic Path thrives not only on cultivation… but on conflict, on fear, on suffering.
Shen Zong's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. His cursed fate had given him a path drenched in darkness. And he would walk it without hesitation.