The heavy gates of the Luo compound closed behind Patriarch Su Heng with a final, echoing thud that sounded like a tomb sealing shut. In the dusty courtyard, Su Mei'er stood utterly alone. The refined silks she wore felt like a cruel joke against the backdrop of fortified walls and the cold, predatory eyes of the Luo clansmen. The reality of her situation crashed down upon her. She was no longer a young mistress. She was a prisoner. A hostage. A servant.
Luo Bo approached her, his expression a complex mix of pity and stern duty. "Miss Su... please, follow me." His tone was respectful, but the message was clear. She was to follow orders.
She was led not to a guest room, but to a small, spartan chamber in the servants' wing. It contained a narrow wooden bed with a thin straw mattress, a small washbasin, and a single, flickering oil lamp. The window was a small, high opening, barred with iron. It was a cell.
"These will be your quarters," Luo Bo said softly. "The Young Master has instructed that you are to attend him at dawn. You will find suitable... attire... in the chest." He gestured to a simple wooden chest in the corner before bowing and leaving, closing the door behind him.
Su Mei'er stood frozen for a long moment. Then, the dam broke. Sobs wracked her body, tears of rage, humiliation, and sheer terror streaming down her face. She collapsed onto the hard bed, clutching the thin blanket. How had it come to this? Just yesterday, she had been the admired daughter of a powerful family, her future bright. Now, she was a slave to a demon who had humiliated her father and destroyed her life.
Her thoughts turned to Luo Zhen—those ancient, terrifying eyes, the casual cruelty, the absolute power he wielded. A shiver of pure dread went through her. What would he do to her? The possibilities were endless and horrifying.
Meanwhile, Luo Zhen stood before the map in the main hall. The Su capitulation was a significant victory, but it was merely a stepping stone. The Wang Family was still hiding in their shell. The City Lord was scheming with the Starlight Pavilion. And the Iron Sword Sect loomed on the horizon, a richer source of nourishment and conflict.
His demonic senses tingled. He could feel Su Mei'er's despair radiating from the servants' wing like a sweet perfume. The negative emotions—fear, hatred, humiliation—were a potent fuel for the Nine Profound Heavens Demonic Art. Her suffering was, in itself, a resource.
A cruel smile touched his lips. Good. Let her stew. Let her fear fester. A treasured jewel is best displayed when it is polished by adversity.
His thoughts were interrupted by Luo Cheng, who entered the hall and bowed deeply. "My Lord. The integration of the Liu assets is proceeding. However, we have a problem at the western mineral vein. A group of rogue cultivators, led by a man called 'One-Eyed' Hong, has taken advantage of the chaos and seized control. They are refusing to leave. They number about twenty, and Hong is said to be at the eighth level of Pulse Condensation."
Luo Zhen's smile widened. A problem? No. This was a gift.
"Gather ten of our men," he commanded. "The newly empowered ones. We leave immediately."
"My Lord, you will lead us yourself?" Luo Cheng asked, surprised.
"I need to see the quality of my new blades," Luo Zhen said. "And I am... hungry."
Within minutes, a contingent of eleven men, including Luo Zhen and Luo Cheng, rode out of the compound on spirit-steeds commandeered from the Liu stables. The clansmen rode with a new confidence, their auras burning at the sixth and seventh levels. They were eager to test their newfound strength.
The western mineral vein was a scar on the landscape, a deep gouge in the earth from which low-grade spirit stones were excavated. As they approached, they could see a ragged group of cultivators milling about, having clearly overpowered the few Luo guards left to oversee the transition. A large, brutish man with a black eye-patch—One-Eyed Hong—sat on a rock, barking orders.
"Well, well," Hong sneered as he saw the Luo group approach. "The Luo pups have come to play. Heard you got lucky in the city. Out here, things are different. This vein is mine now. Piss off before I decide to use your skins for tents."
Luo Zhen didn't even dismount. He looked at Luo Cheng. "You have ten minutes. Wipe them out. Leave the leader for me."
Luo Cheng's eyes gleamed with bloodlust. "Yes, my Lord!"
With a roar, the ten Luo clansmen charged. The rogue cultivators, expecting a negotiation or a hesitant show of force, were caught off guard by the ferocity and the sheer power of the assault.
The battle was not a fight; it was a slaughter. The Luo clansmen, empowered by the Demonic Baptism and fueled by fanatical loyalty, moved with a speed and strength that far surpassed their nominal cultivation levels. They fought like demons, their techniques crude but devastatingly effective. Bones shattered. Blood sprayed on the dry earth. The rogues' sixth and seventh-level cultivators were overwhelmed, their attacks seeming sluggish and weak in comparison.
Luo Zhen watched from his saddle, dispassionate. He saw one of his clansmen take a deep gash to the arm but barely flinch, countering by driving his fist through his opponent's chest. He saw another use a simple, amplified palm strike to decapitate a rogue. They were learning. They were embracing the violence. Good.
Within five minutes, the rogue band was decimated. Only One-Eyed Hong remained, surrounded by the bodies of his men, his one eye wide with shock and terror. These weren't cultivators; they were monsters!
Luo Zhen finally dismounted and walked towards him. "Your men are discarded. You are now the interest on the debt owed for inconveniencing me."
Hong, enraged and desperate, roared and charged, his eighth-level aura flaring. He swung a massive cleaver infused with fire energy.
Luo Zhen didn't bother to block or dodge. He simply raised his hand and caught the cleaver blade with his bare fingers.
CLANG.
The sound was of metal striking unbreakable stone. The fire energy sputtered and died against Luo Zhen's skin. Hong's eye bulged in disbelief.
Luo Zhen's fingers tightened. The high-grade spirit metal cleaver cracked, then shattered into a dozen pieces.
Before Hong could react, Luo Zhen's hand shot out and clamped onto his face.
The now-familiar process began. Hong's scream was muffled as his cultivation, his life force, his very essence, was violently devoured. His body withered, his muscles deflating, his skin sagging. Within seconds, a powerful eighth-level Pulse Condensation expert was reduced to a trembling, ancient-looking wreck. Luo Zhen dropped him into the dust.
The energy, though not enough to advance his Foundation Establishment level, was a satisfying pulse of power that further solidified his first level.
He turned to his men, who were watching with awe and a healthy dose of fear. "Strip the bodies of anything valuable. The mine is secure. Luo Cheng, triple the guard. The next group to try this will be made an example of in a more... public manner."
As his men moved to obey, Luo Zhen felt a faint, familiar ping on his demonic senses. The Starlight Pavilion envoy. The man was observing from a distant ridge, using some kind of far-seeing art. Luo Zhen had sensed him the moment they left the city.
Let him watch, Luo thought. Let him report. Let the world know what is coming.
The return to the compound was triumphant. The clansmen's loyalty had been cemented in blood and victory. They were no longer scared survivors; they were conquerors.
As night fell, Luo Zhen summoned Su Mei'er to his personal chambers. The room was spartan, containing only a meditation mat, a small table, and a single candle. He did not believe in luxury; it dulled the edge of ambition.
Su Mei'er entered, wearing the simple, grey servant's dress that had been left for her. She kept her eyes downcast, her hands clenched at her sides, trembling slightly.
"You called for me, Master?" The title tasted like poison on her tongue.
Luo Zhen was seated on the meditation mat, his eyes closed. "The candle," he said without opening his eyes. "It flickers. It is inefficient. Fix it."
Su Mei'er blinked. Was this a joke? She looked at the candle. It was a perfectly normal candle, its flame burning steadily.
"I... I don't understand," she whispered.
"Your Su Family cultivation technique, the Violet Mist Art, is a weak, derivative thing," Luo Zhen said, his voice cold and instructional. "But it has an affinity for fine energy control. You will use it to stabilize the flame. Make it burn perfectly straight, without a single flicker. You will do this until dawn. If the flame wavers, you will be punished."
Her eyes widened. This was absurd! It was a task of immense, tedious difficulty, designed to exhaust her spiritual energy and her willpower purely for his amusement. It was a humiliation.
"Why are you doing this to me?" The question burst out of her, fueled by despair.
Finally, he opened his eyes. The crimson stars within seemed to burn in the dim room. "I am not doing anything to you. I am forging you. You are a tool. A prized one, but a tool nonetheless. A tool must be useful. A tool must be obedient. Your pride, your anger, your fear—these are impurities. I will burn them all away until only a perfect, polished instrument remains. Now. Begin."
Tears of frustration welled in her eyes, but she dared not let them fall. She knelt before the candle, focusing her spiritual energy, trying to still the air around the flame with the Violet Mist Art. It was excruciatingly difficult. The slightest tremor in her concentration, the faintest draft, made the flame dance. She poured her energy into the task, her dantian quickly draining.
Hours passed. Her body ached. Her head throbbed. Her spiritual energy was nearly depleted. The flame continued to flicker.
Luo Zhen watched her, not with malice, but with the detached interest of a master smith watching metal heat in a forge. Her suffering, her struggle, was part of the process.
Just before dawn, as she was on the verge of collapse, something shifted. In her exhaustion, her focus became pure, desperate. The outside world—her humiliation, her fear, her anger—faded away. There was only the flame. Her energy, what little remained, flowed with a precision she had never before achieved.
The flame steadied. It became a perfect, unwavering spear of light.
She held it for a full minute, her entire being concentrated on that single point of light.
Then, she collapsed, unconscious from spiritual exhaustion.
Luo Zhen looked at the perfectly still flame, then at the unconscious girl at his feet.
A faint, almost imperceptible nod of approval.
"A start," he murmured to himself.
The first step in breaking his new attendant was complete. The forging of a different kind of blade had begun.