The village slept under a pale moon, but Shen Zong did not.
In his crumbling hut, he sat cross-legged, black lotus mark glowing faintly against his chest. The Demon Lotus Scripture whispered in his mind, its methods cruel yet profound. Unlike righteous techniques that nourished body and soul, this scripture demanded something else—life essence.
To grow stronger, Shen Zong needed blood.
Not of beasts.
Not of plants.
But of humans.
He closed his eyes, steady as ever. If that is the price, then so be it.
---
The next day, chaos stirred in Black Hollow.
A group of wandering cultivators had arrived—five men dressed in tattered robes, carrying swords at their hips. Bandits in all but name. They called themselves the Iron Fang Outlaws, and the village elder had no choice but to provide them food, coin, and shelter, lest they slaughter everyone.
The villagers wept in silence. But Shen Zong… observed.
That night, he followed them.
The outlaws drank themselves half-conscious in the elder's storehouse, laughter echoing through the night. One boasted of how he had killed a merchant family; another mocked the villagers' cowardice. Their qi was weak—Qi Awakening cultivators, the lowest of the low. Yet to villagers, they were predators.
Shen Zong stepped into the doorway. His shadow stretched across the floorboards, long and sharp.
The bandits froze, then burst into mocking laughter.
"Oi, brat, what's this? A rat sneaking into the wolf's den?"
"Scram before we skin you alive."
Shen Zong said nothing. He raised his hand.
From his palm bloomed a phantom lotus of writhing black mist, its petals whispering hunger. The outlaws' jeers turned into startled curses.
"Demonic arts?!" one shouted, stumbling back.
Too late.
The lotus flared. Dark tendrils shot forth, wrapping around the nearest bandit. His scream filled the storehouse as his body shriveled, blood and qi ripped from his veins and funneled into Shen Zong's body.
The boy's thin frame trembled, but not from fear. From power. The scripture bloomed within him, greedily devouring the essence. His cultivation surged, meridians strengthening, qi thickening like storm clouds.
The remaining four outlaws roared in panic, drawing their swords.
"Monster!"
"Kill him!"
They charged.
Shen Zong's eyes gleamed, cold and merciless. He sidestepped the first blade, his hand snapping out like a serpent. Fingers drove into the man's throat—crack! Blood spurted as the outlaw collapsed, gurgling.
The others faltered, horror in their eyes. But Shen Zong advanced, movements precise, ruthless. Each strike was meant to kill. A throat crushed. A chest pierced. A skull smashed against the wall.
When silence fell, five corpses lay scattered across the floor, drained and broken. The once-scrawny orphan stood amidst them, his aura thick with demonic qi.
The black lotus mark pulsed, petals glowing faintly. Shen Zong could feel it—his cultivation had leapt forward, his strength now solid at the second stage of Qi Awakening.
He exhaled slowly, steady as always.
The scripture whispered again. The path forward is carved in blood. The more you consume, the more you bloom.
Shen Zong gazed down at the corpses without pity. "Then I shall bloom until even the heavens wither."
---
The next morning, the villagers found the storehouse doors flung wide. Inside, only husks remained—drained, lifeless, their faces twisted in eternal terror.
No one dared question it.
But in the shadows, rumors began. A demon had awoken in Black Hollow.
And Shen Zong, calm as ever, began preparing for the next step on his endless path.