The Scion of Ruin

The air in the northern forest of Azure Cloud Sect was heavy, as though a hidden storm had descended beneath the canopy. Li Shen crouched by the choked stream bed, his hand brushing aside wet leaves to uncover the source of the blockage. The water, normally clear and gurgling, oozed sluggishly, blackened with mud and dark resin. His senses, ever-alert from years of cultivating under suppression, began to tingle with disquiet.

Something's wrong here.

He inhaled deeply, trying to pierce the stillness. But beneath the distant rustle of branches and the faint chirping of cicadas, there lay a deeper, foreign hum—a stubborn, malignant stench of corruption.

Li Shen's brow furrowed. He wore simple workman's robes—faded blue cloth, loosely tied around his waist. As an assigned handyman, he cleaned, repaired, and foraged in the outer forests. Many disciples considered the work beneath them, but to him, it was an opportunity: a chance to study the land, feel its spiritual pulse... even practice unseen.

Today, however, his assignments had placed him on the edge of something deeper. He slid his hand over the bank. Patches of spirit-grass, usually lush and lively, now lay withered—leaves curled and blackened, the veins running with a sickly dark green sheen. He knelt to examine one stem.

A puff of dark qi washed over his palm, like a distant memory—the same taint he'd sensed when absorbing demon-corrupted blood during his first blade slaying. Against his better judgment, he inhaled its fumes. A cold vibration shivered through his nerve endings.

This is no natural blight.

Plant corruption was common around scattered demon kills—leftover necrosis, a byproduct of suppressed energy. But this felt deliberate, lingering, purposefully etched into the land. It wasn't random. It was organized.

Li Shen pressed his back to the trunk of a gnarled pine. He probed the spiritual web—nothing remarkable: the forest's Qi felt diminished, warped. A single dark thread hung in the weave. He needed proof: evidence beyond his own perception.

He stood and moved further upstream, taking slow, quiet steps. The forest floor shifted—loose stones, fallen branches, random twigs. Then his foot hit stone—flat, intentionally cut. He looked down and found it: a faint carving etched into the moss-laced boulder.

A horned skull with stylized fangs and smeared stains that could be dried blood. It was crude, ancient—definitely not Azure Cloud Sect's work. His pulse accelerated.

The Crimson Maw Sect…

He had heard whispers. Rumor spread through the outer disciples: a rising demi-sect bent on corrupting villages, stealing pilgrims for dark rites. But these were just rumors—until now.

His entire body stiffened. A plan began to crystallize: locate their dens, map their territory, strike. He pocketed a sliver of bark marked with the image, intent on showing someone—maybe Elder Guo.

But doubts chipped at his mind as he slid the bark into his sleeve. Could he trust anyone? If this sect was organized enough to mark territory, they could be listening—watching.

He had no choice. For now, gather evidence. And gather strength.

---

Back in Barracks Seven, toward the end of the day, the sky was tinted gold. Li Shen sat cross-legged on his straw mat. Beside him lay the battered Qi Condensation primer—a sect-issued manual. Its brittle pages spelled out the traditional steps: calisthenics to open meridians, breath regulation, mind-state. But for weeks, his cultivation had been stagnant. The Universe's weight pressed on him constantly. The manual's words seemed like hollow echoes.

He closed the book. His bones ached from a day's labor, but this fatigue was different: not merely physical. It was suppression—a blanket of pressure over his chest.

He looked down at the small patch of ground before him, almost bare except for his presence. He drew in a slow breath, centering himself.

Heaven Suppression is real. I cannot deny it. But I cannot submit either.

He loosened his robes and began the first forms: deep inhalation, gathering Qi, followed by release. The manual called it the "Gathering Breath." He repeated it dozens of times. Each time, energy surged—then hit a wall. Like crashing into an invisible barrier.

His forehead glistened with sweat. He knew he was capable of Qi cultivation. His Heaven Asura Destruction Body told him so. But Heaven's weight... it bore down.

Frustrated, he flung the manual aside. It landed with a soft crack. He sat back, rubbing his temples.

Then he thought of the horned skull. The corrupted plants. The chilling aura in the forest. And the seething anger within him—anger for those who tortured his family, who desecrated cultivation, who hid behind sect names to commit atrocities.

Anger, hatred, desperate ambition—they were tools. He let them flow into his mind like molten steel.

He shut his eyes.

---

Sometime later...

He was no longer breathing air. He inhaled intent.

He was no longer moving muscles. He was gathering Qi.

He was no longer sitting in a barracks. He was at the threshold of breakthrough.

He spat out a curse, low:

"For every ounce of Heaven's weight, I will give back a pound of my will."

And he pulled.

He visualized the Qi gathering in his lower Dantian, like a tightly coiled spring. Then he yanked it upward, demanding it settle, anchor. He repeated the process five times: gather, trap, press, insist. Each time the qi pushed back—Heaven resisted.

Tears sprang to his eyes; sweat ran down his spine. It felt like pulling a river through stone. But he refused to stop.

On the sixth attempt—

Shift.

It was subtle. A grain of warmth in his core. A flicker—tiny and feeble, but undeniably there. A single spark.

He froze. A drop of energy, drifting and settling, then anchoring.

Qi… in my meridians...

He felt expansion in his Dantian: not a full sea, but a pond shimmering in the moonlight. It blinked and pulsed with each breath.

His eyes sprang open, shining.

It took several deep breaths to acclimate. He placed both hands on his abdomen. He could feel the Qi: soft, warm, deliberate.

He was at the Qi Condensation Stage 1.

---

The next day, dawn barely kissed the horizon when Li Shen stood before Elder Guo in the inspection courtyard. Elder Guo, a seasoned Outer Disciple Master, came every few weeks to check on handymen. He swept past barracks in a narrow robe, boot heels clicking on stone.

Li Shen's heart pounded, but he maintained his outward calm, standing at attention. The old man paused before him—lingering longer than expected. His eyes narrowed.

Elder Guo hesitated before extending a probing Qi aura. It brushed over Li Shen like a gentle wind.

Guo's expression flickered—surprise? suspicion?—before snapped into scowl. The aura retreated.

Guo's voice was a venomous whisper: "Slave... what trickery is this? I sense... Qi. A fluke? I will test you."

His eyes glowed. "You have dared to cultivate? Behind Heaven's will? Or have you used an illusion technique?"

He spat the words like spittle.

Li Shen bowed his head, voice steady: "Sect elder, I have no tricks. None. I—"

Guo's glare cut him off. "Do not lie to me. A man of demon blood cultivating Qi? Absurd. But if it is false, I will expose you. If it is real…?" He paused. The corners of his lips curved downward. "I will purge you with my own hands."

Then he straightened, motioned Li Shen to continue work.

As Guo strode away, Li Shen held his breath—both terrified and exultant. He met the morning light, throat dry.

He knows something is different.

---

That night in his bunk, Li Shen could not sleep. The spark within him glowed like a tiny ember. He pressed his palm against his Dantian, feeling the faint warmth.

I have taken the first step. This is real.

He thought of Elder Guo's reaction—baffled fury topped with reluctant respect. It troubled him. If word spread, he would be hunted. But it also planted a seed: hope. Maybe this unique body could override suppression.

He had only two demon-corrupted kills under his belt. That blood, fused with his blade cultivation and bloodline, had awakened his Heaven Asura Destruction Body. It had, in defiance of sect laws, cracked a path. Just a crack—but enough.

He sat upright. His voice inside was calm.

"Tonight I rest. Tomorrow I cultivate more." He chose coordinates: slightly earlier meditation, subtle blade practice before dawn, carefully hidden. "I will master both blades and Qi."

Then he looked at the small bark with the Crimson Maw symbol pinned beneath his blanket.

They are here. They are real. And they are organized.

He clenched his fist, eyes bright with fierce resolve.

"I will find them. I will kill them. And I will use their blood to grow stronger."

---