" Ming's face hardened until it looked carved from stone. "Yes," he said quietly, each word cold and certain. "I hate them. Some are cowards, some believe they own everything, some think they have the right to hurt those who cannot fight back. I hate them in my bones. If I had the power, I would kill them all with my own hands."
Lyssar realized something then: Ming didn't just dislike humans — he hated them to the bone. He'd seen what Ming had done to Lain, and he knew that if Ming had the power he would have done the same to that soldier. Lyssar leaned forward. "Why do you hate your own kind?" he asked.
Ming's face fell. Sadness washed over him like rain as he spoke, voice small and raw. He told his story: how his family had been slaughtered, how he'd become prey — hunted, broken, forced to run. He admitted, shame coating every word, that he didn't understand himself. He wanted revenge, but when he'd been the one torturing a man he had felt something he never expected — a cold, guilty pleasure. "I don't know why I enjoyed it," he whispered. "I thought I wanted justice, but… when I hurt him, I liked it."
Lyssar listened, and then, quietly, said what he'd learned from a thousand lonely years. "People are born with a talent for something," he said. "Sometimes that talent is ordinary — a knack for song, for craft. Sometimes it's darker. Some are born for killing : they take pleasure in another's pain, It doesn't make them monsters by itself…but it explains their destiny — to become demons."
Hearing that, Ming didn't know what to say. "So… you're telling me I was born to love pain?" he asked quietly.
Lyssar nodded. "Yes." He paused for a moment, his gaze distant. "Now then, do you know why I helped you come here?"
Ming frowned. "Why?"
"To test you," Lyssar said simply. "But it seems that's no longer important."
Ming's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by 'test'?"
Lyssar gave a faint, tired smile. "I'm going to die in a few years. Even though I hate humans more than anything, I don't want my martial art to fade away. I've been waiting for someone—anyone—to appear, someone to whom I could pass it on. But I never expected it to be you."
He looked at Ming, his voice trembling between hatred and satisfaction. "If I give you my martial art, I know one thing for certain—you'll make people beg for mercy. Even if only for a little… that thought alone makes me happy."
Ming's jaw clenched. "I'll do anything for power," he said, his voice steady with resolve.
Lyssar smiled at that—small, almost sad. "Then listen carefully. I have three conditions." His tone shifted, becoming blunt and severe. "First: make my martial art famous, Never let my name be forgotten. Second: never lose. Before you die, pass the art to a successor so it never dies out. And third"—his voice went cold with anger—"kill Qin Shi Huang and the Three successors of the Immortal." Ming felt each demand like a weight settling on his shoulders, but he did not flinch.
Ming hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Can I ask something? Who exactly are Qin Shi Huang and the Three Immortal Successors?"
Lyssar expression darkened. "Qin Shi Huang was the first person who came to me," he said quietly. "I trained him myself. But instead of showing gratitude, he tried to kill me. He knew that if the seal ever broke, I would destroy all humans — including him. I also knew he didn't like me. Still, I taught him my basic techniques. Even with just those, he became incredibly strong. You must have heard of him."
Ming thought for a moment, frowning. "I don't remember ever hearing that name in my entire life. He might already be dead."
Lyssar shook his head. "No. When he came here, it was about a hundred years ago."
Ming's eyes widened. "A hundred years? That's impossible. No one can live that long!"
Lyssar's voice turned firm. "He must still be alive. If he is, then he's in the Supreme Realm."
Ming blinked in confusion. "I've never heard of the Supreme Realm. How strong is it?"
"You've never heard of it?" Lyssar raised an eyebrow. "Then what's the strongest realm you know?"
"The Transition Realm," Ming replied. "It's said to be the highest level of martial power."
Lyssar smirked. "Then you've been misled. The Supreme Realm stands above all others — the true pinnacle of martial arts. In a thousand years, only a few have ever ascended to that height." But that makes it easier for you, doesn't it?" His tone shifted, confident and commanding. "You're going to learn from a Supreme being — me. Even though I'm far from my prime, I'll make you reach the Transition Realm within ten years. Be ready."
He paused for a moment, eyes narrowing. "As for the three Immortal Successors… don't worry about them. They'll come for you on their own."
After hearing all of Lyssar conditions, Ming fell silent.
Then, without hesitation, he lowered himself to his knees.
One bow.
Two.
Three.
He bowed seven times — each deeper than the last — until his forehead touched the cold ground.
When he finally looked up, his eyes burned with resolve.
"From this day forward," Ming said, voice steady, "you are my master. I, Ming, will inherit your will and your art — even if it costs me my soul."
Lyssar faint smile carried the weight of a thousand lonely years.
"Then rise, my disciple," he said softly. "From this moment on… your path will be carved in blood."