The ash-choked winds howled through the deadened trees of the forsaken plains, carrying with them the bitter scent of smoke and decay. Abraham moved with measured urgency, his eyes sharp as shards of obsidian beneath shadowed brows. Michael prowled a steady step behind him, a crimson storm wrapped in cold armor, his gaze sweeping relentlessly over the desolate horizon. The air around them pulsed faintly with the Origin Core Fragment's lingering qi, a barely perceptible heartbeat syncing with their own.After their devastating victory at Broken Fang Gorge, word of the "Twin Demons of Mount Hua" spread like wildfire. Yet the Blood Cult was far from vanquished. Scattered cult remnants fled into the wilds, their lust for revenge as fierce as ever. Abraham knew they would regroup, gather strength, and strike anew. The pursuit was no mere hunt but a war across borders unseen and dangers unspoken.The remnants had left cruel tracks—burned villages, ambush points rigged with poisoned spikes, and arcane sigils eaten into the earth that sapped energy like quiet curses. Each sign an echo of the horrors they wrought and the price still to be paid. Abraham's steps slowed as he knelt beside a broken grave marker, fingers tracing characters scorched but still visible beneath ash. The names of innocents stolen, sacrifices sacrificed to dark ambition."We can't let this continue," Abraham murmured, voice carrying the weight of silent fury. "Each moment they live, the darkness grows."Michael's gravel tone replied, "Their prayers to blood gods feed their power. We must be relentless." His crimson qi flared, tendrils weaving into the sky's grey tapestry like a warning storm.Days bled into nights as the twin demons pressed forward, threading through enchanted forests and moonlit hills. Abraham's focus sharpened—Cult's poisons traced his flesh, testing his defenses and spirit. Poison that clawed at meridians, forcing deeper reliance on Violet Cloud's healing grace, weaving qi into protective veils that eased burns and banished numbness. His Plum Blossom Sword art flowed preternaturally, petals unfurling and folding with lethal elegance, a dance that balanced concealment and strike.Michael's crimson gale swept low through bandit camps, his relentless strikes fracturing bones and shattering spirits. The towering guardian was not merely a shield but a tempest unleashed upon every enemy who thought to hide in Murim's shadowed places. Rumors grew darker—but so did awe. In taverns and crossroads, tales of their wrath whispered alongside cautious prayers.One night, by a crackling fire under a canopy of stars, a wary traveler joined their circle. His tawny eyes reflected flickering flames and secrets forged in desperation. "The Blood Cult claws towards the East. They are gathering beneath the Black Mountain Ridge—dark rituals that twist life into horror," he warned. "Your shadow carries dread, but theirs is a growing tempest."Abraham's thoughts turned inward as the firelight danced on his stoic face. He replayed the shattered Plum Blossom Peak; the fury of Vorath's strikes; Michael's indomitable presence. Every victory leaves fractures—some visible, some deeper, he thought. The Blood Cult's root runs deep, fed by betrayal and hunger. Our blades must not only cut flesh but sever the corruption within.Michael's voice broke the silence: "The path ahead holds ambush and betrayal. Trust is threadbare in these times."Abraham nodded gravely, feeling the strain ripple beneath his skin. The Origin Core Fragment pulsed stubbornly, urging him onward, but each step felt heavier as the weight of the quest thickened. Their pursuit was no longer merely personal; it was the empire's bloodline sustaining fragile hope.The twin demons passed through the Valley of Whispering Doom, its name earned by the restless spirits and treacherous mists that disoriented even the experienced. Here, the Blood Cult's traps were at their deadliest: illusions designed to fracture the mind, barbs laced with poison that tore at qi flow, and earth itself waiting to swallow the careless. Abraham's Plum Blossom forms became fluid shields, petals of qi weaving protective blossoms instantly to block arrows and dissipate toxin clouds. Michael's strike shattered the mist's fangs, his crimson fury scorching through veils and shadows.In their relentless chase, they uncovered cult outposts—twisted banners dripping blood, altars crowded with vicious curses, and adolescent recruits desperate in their fanaticism. Abraham bore no illusions of their innocence; each was a weapon shaped by cruelty and ambition.Yet amidst the carnage, moments of stark humanity flickered: a mother's sob for a lost child, an old veteran's wise eyes pleading for peace, and a young disciple's trembling hand offering a blade—a fragile solidarity against the engulfing darkness.Their legend grew—each victory whispered as a song of hope, the twin demons become hunters of the night for wrongdoers who spread terror across the borders of Murim. Yet every step forward only revealed how deep the rot ran and how high the stakes soared.Michael's presence was a constant reminder of the costs ahead. Abraham stole moments to observe the bodyguard—his fierce exterior hiding scars and burdens too profound for words. The crimson qi that flared so violently had a brutal cost, and Abraham wondered how long the storm could hold before it consumed its vessel.As the moon rose high, casting cold silver light across the desolate camp, Abraham allowed himself a rare moment of silence and reflection. They had become a force of reckoning, but the empire's restoration remained an ember fragile against the gusts of fate.The pursuit of the Blood Cult continued—across shadowed wilds, through whispered legends yet untold—and upon this trail, Abraham's journey toward sovereignty sharpened with every crimson dawn.
