Sand sweeps across the barren horizon, wind carving restless waves across the dunes.
High above, four black dots cut through the sky.
As they descend, their shapes sharpen—robes snapping in the wind, auras sharp with killing intent.
They land atop a high dune, sand shifting beneath their feet.
The blue-robed cultivator wastes no breath. He draws out a mirror etched with flowing runes. With a flick of his hand, the glass ripples, revealing a vast view of the desert—empty, endless.
Except for one tiny, pulsing black mark.
"There." His voice trembles—not with fear, but with fury.
The red-robed cultivator steps forward, eyes blazing. "Then let's deliver justice to the demon." His teeth grind. "My sister… she was in Jinji City when that monster slaughtered everyone."
The green-robed man lifts a hand. "Wait. We should gather others. We need a siege. If we attack recklessly—"
"Recklessly?" the red-robed man snaps. "We are four. The demon is one. Why call for reinforcement when victory is already in our grasp?"
The green-robed cultivator's jaw tightens. "Because if he escapes, we may never find him again." He gestures at the blue-robed man. "He burned life essence to track him. If we fail now, that chance is gone forever."
"Tch." The red-robed man's lips curl. "Cowardice dressed as caution. Then stay behind—I'll kill the demon alone."
A voice answers him.
Cold.
Soft.
Amused.
"Kill who?"
The red-robed cultivator answers without thinking. "The demon—!"
Then the words freeze in his throat.
All four turn.
A man stands behind them as if he had always been there.
White hair drifting like snow.
Eyes glowing blood-red, calm yet ancient, like something looking down from the other side of death.
For a heartbeat, no one moves.
The yellow-robed cultivator breaks the silence, suspicion edging his voice. "Who are you? Are you here for the demon as well?"
A slow smirk curls across the white-haired stranger's lips.
"Something like that."
The red-robed cultivator scoffs loudly. "See? Even he walks alone to hunt the demon. And you—" he points at the green-robed man, eyes full of contempt "—you think four of us are not enough."
The yellow-robed cultivator turns, anger igniting. "Of course he thinks that. He's terrified. Maybe he's thrilled the demon killed his oh-so-talented younger brother. Now no one in his clan can challenge his place as the next clan head!"
"Oh?" The blue-robed cultivator chuckles, voice sharp as ice. "I heard his Dao partner also died in Jinji City."
Red eyes narrow slightly—watching.
Listening.
The white-haired man tilts his head. "Dao partner? She was there too?"
Three gazes turn toward the green-robed cultivator—mocking, poisonous.
The green-robed man trembles—not with fear, but rage.
"You—"
The roar tears out of him.
Spiritual pressure explodes and he lunges, blade gleaming with killing intent.
Instantly, the other three move.
Steel clashes.
Sand erupts.
Dust storms rise around them.
And in the chaos—
The white-haired man simply sinks into the sand.
Silent.
Effortless.
Gone.
The desert wind howls, scattering the last echoes of battle.
Bodies lie half-buried in the shifting sand—until the three remaining cultivators finally overwhelm the green-robed man.
Steel pierces flesh.
Blood darkens golden sand.
The green-robed cultivator falls, eyes wide with disbelief—then the wind erases him grain by grain.
The surviving three stand panting, wounded and drained.
For a moment, silence settles.
Then—
A burst of killing intent.
Steel whistles.
The yellow-robed cultivator lunges without warning.
His blade streaks toward the blue-robed man.
The already weakened blue-robed cultivator staggers, hastily forming a shaky defensive shield as the blade crashes into it.
"What—!?" he shouts, breath ragged. "Why are you attacking me!?"
The yellow-robed man does not stop. His eyes burn with hatred. "Do you remember Serena?"
The red-robed cultivator freezes, stunned. "What are you—?"
The blue-robed cultivator blocks another strike, confusion thick in his voice. "Serena? Who?"
That single word fuels the yellow-robed man's fury.
"Serena was my senior sister!" he roars, aura exploding. "She dreamed of becoming a supreme—until you tangled her fate, used her, then tossed her aside like trash!"
The blue-robed man's voice sharpens, defensive and cold. "And where is my fault? If her Dao heart shattered, that means she was never strong enough."
The desert trembles as the yellow-robed cultivator unleashes a killing technique.
Sword light condenses.
The next blow shreds the blue-robed cultivator's shield and sends him crashing across the sand.
He coughs blood, dazed.
The yellow-robed man steps forward, ready to deliver the finishing strike.
But the red-robed man blocks him.
The yellow-robed cultivator snarls. "Move."
Steel clashes again.
Desperation bleeds into rage, rage into madness.
The sand storm thickens around them—and when it settles, the yellow-robed man collapses, his body torn open by a fatal strike.
The red-robed cultivator stands over him, chest heaving, eyes lost—uncertain whether he acted out of instinct, anger, or fear.
Then—
Pain.
A metallic wet sound.
A sword tip pushes through his chest from behind.
His eyes widened.
Blood fills his mouth.
He turns his head slightly, disbelief trembling in his voice.
"…Why?"
The blue-robed cultivator stands behind him, face emotionless, sword buried deep.
"You never thought," he whispers, voice chillingly calm, "that the one you used to bully might kill you one day."
The red-robed man collapses, lifeless.
The blue-robed cultivator stands alone, blood dripping from his blade, the desert wind sweeping away corpses and pride alike.
He exhales shakily, hatred and exhaustion tangled in his gaze.
"Come out," he says softly.
A slow clap answers him.
Footsteps approach—measured, unhurried.
The white-haired man appears again, crimson eyes gleaming.
.
"You… you regained clarity earlier. Then why did you kill him?" His gaze shifts to the red-robed corpse half-buried in sand.
The blue-robed cultivator stiffens, fingers tightening on his sword.
"Because you were going to kill us anyway." His voice turns flat, cold. "And I really wanted to kill him."
"Yes."
"Then at least…" His hand trembles as he lifts it from his sleeve.
A teleportation rune glows brightly across his palm—etched in blood and desperation.
"…let me die with dignity."
But the stranger only watches him, gaze unreadable.
"Interesting," he murmurs. "Your rune still able to functions."
The blue-robed cultivator's expression cracks—shock, confusion, and the dawning realization twisting together.
"Still…? What do you—"
His voice falters.
His pupils narrow.
"Who are you?" he whispers.
A soft laugh.
Cold.
Amused.
Predatory.
"I am Merin."
The blue-robed man's pupils contract.
"…Demon."
Merin's smile widens, sharp as a blade. "Correct."
His palm extends.
Power curls around his fingers—dark, hungry, irresistible.
"Now accept your reward."
The blue-robed cultivator's body convulses as his life force and soul rip free, dragged into Merin's waiting grasp.
His scream dies before it fully forms.
His body collapses into an empty husk.
Then, grain by grain, it becomes sand.
The wind carries it away.
Merin stands alone again.
He turns his head slowly, red eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
He raises a hand, and the lingering souls of the already fallen drift toward him—pulled like helpless sparks into shadow.
One by one, their memories, essence, identity—all devoured.
When the last shred vanishes, Merin licks his lips, expression twisted with pleasure.
"Better."
Then his eyes close, senses stretching outward through the desert—searching for the next heartbeat, the next fear, the next prey.
He moves.
Silent.
Hunting.
Merin's body moves, but his soul is no longer the one steering it.
The demon's conscience has taken over.
When he first fell into the desert, Merin's true consciousness clashed with the demon's will—a brutal tug-of-war for control over flesh and mind. During that struggle, he finally noticed something he had been blind to:
He was changing.
His thirst for souls.
His calm acceptance of massacre.
His decision to feed Jinji City to his illusion world.
None of those thoughts were natural.
The demon's conscience had been whispering inside him long before the collapse—nudging his instincts, twisting logic, pushing him toward destruction. And if he had paused—really paused—he would have realized the flaw:
Devouring souls to populate the dream world was not a solution.
It was a cycle without end.
The dream would always hunger.
The world would always bleed.
And now, with Jinji City erased, consequences form around him like tightening chains. The survivors, the sects, the realm itself—everyone will hunt him. Every cultivator who lost family will seek vengeance. And as long as he fights his inner demon, he cannot heal, cannot rest, cannot prepare.
So Merin makes a choice.
He lets go.
He allows the demon's conscience to seize full control—because he believes he can take it back later.
His true spirit withdraws into the illusion world, sealing itself away. Using the mark of the Dream Mirror, he hides the entire dream realm from the demon's perception. From the outside, it will seem as if the dream world vanished the same moment Merin's sanity disappeared.
But within that hidden space, Merin works.
He studies the stolen souls.
He dissects essence, memory, and identity.
He refines the artificial intelligence formed by arrays—shaping it closer and closer to a true soul. Hundreds of thousands of fragments become his material, his experiments, his understanding.
Slowly—methodically—the dream world evolves.
And while the demon walks the real world drenched in blood,
Merin prepares.