The world was shifting again.
Li Fan felt it in the wind, in the tension of the ground beneath his bare feet. Not a quake—but a pulse. As if the land itself were holding its breath.
"The tournament is near."
The Blue Wind Ranking Tournament—an event held once every three years—was no minor display of martial pride. It was a battleground of prestige, of alliance, of imperial politics. The greatest sects in Blue Wind Nation would send their top disciples.
And Yun Che would be there.
Li Fan had no interest in the tournament itself.
But the people gathering for it?
He hungered for them.
---
He never entered Blue Wind Imperial City directly. It was too dense with sect cultivators, and even his growing power couldn't mask his presence fully in such a storm of qi.
So he went beneath it.
Literally.
There were ancient catacombs beneath the old foundations of the city, a remnant from a time when gods walked the land. Forgotten crypts, sealed ruins. Spirit beasts sometimes wandered into them. So did ambitious cultivators.
Neither came back out.
Li Fan moved through the dark like he was born in it.
He did not need light. The eyes he had taken from a cave bat three months ago saw heat and shape as clearly as day.
His claws scraped the edge of a ruined pillar. Dust fell like snow.
"So many of the strong gathering above," he whispered. "But down here…"
He paused.
He smelled blood. Fresh. Sharp. Arrogant.
"...one came alone."
---
The disciple was young—maybe twenty—with the proud emblem of the Iron Palm Sect sewn into his shoulder. He moved carefully but too loudly. He'd found a corpse earlier—some ancient guardian beast with golden bones—and was trying to pry loose its core.
He didn't hear Li Fan drop behind him.
He didn't even know he was being watched.
Not until Li Fan's hand gripped his throat and hoisted him from the ground.
The disciple thrashed, summoned a burst of wind energy, and fired a palm strike—
Li Fan opened his mouth and inhaled the energy directly.
Then he bit into the boy's neck—not for blood, but for essence.
He drank not just power—but form. The way the disciple moved. The flow of qi through his meridians. The rhythm of his footwork, the trained instinct in every strike.
When he dropped the body, it was already fading.
"Iron Palm. Crude but effective."
He looked at his own hand. Flexed it.
It moved with brutal precision now. He tapped the pillar beside him, and a crack split down its side.
"That'll do."
---
Above, Yun Che was already causing waves.
Rumors trickled into the underworld like water through cracked stone.
"A newcomer from New Moon City defeated three Earth Profound disciples with a single strike."
"He's carrying a mysterious bloodline."
"Even the imperial family is watching him now."
Li Fan listened, unmoved.
"Let him shine. Let the heavens mark his name."
"The more they look at him, the less they'll see me."
---
That evening, Li Fan left the catacombs and approached one of the smaller sect encampments outside the city walls. They were from the Crimson Feather School, a middle-tier group full of bluster and pride.
He observed them for hours from the canopy above, perfectly still.
At midnight, one of their elders—a middle-aged man with faint fire affinity—left his tent alone.
Meditating. Probably trying to gain insight before tomorrow's matches.
Li Fan dropped beside him, quiet as smoke.
The elder's eyes widened—but he was a seasoned fighter. He reacted instantly, firing a plume of flame from his palms.
Li Fan dove into it.
He didn't dodge.
He swallowed the fire.
And in the same motion, he buried his hand into the elder's chest, fingers bypassing ribs like mist. There was no struggle.
Only the slow fading of resistance as Li Fan drained the life, the instinct, the structure of the man's internal fire control.
The body crumpled. The fire died.
And in Li Fan's lungs, a new warmth bloomed.
"Internal ignition," he murmured. "I can… burn from the inside now."
---
Watching from the Walls
The next day, Li Fan perched atop an abandoned watchtower outside Blue Wind Imperial City, just within sight of the tournament arena.
He couldn't hear the cheering. But he could see the brilliant arcs of sword light. The flashes of elemental energy.
And then…
Yun Che.
Small. Unassuming. Laughing in the face of sects that had reigned for generations.
He fought like a lunatic. Reckless. Wild.
But efficient.
His moves were wasteful—until they landed. Then they were devastating.
Li Fan narrowed his eyes.
"His body burns every moment. He's always pushing it too far."
"No one should grow like that."
But he already knew.
"He's not growing. He's burning. The Evil God's veins are the fuel."
He watched as Yun Che humiliated another core disciple from the Seven Sword Pavilion with a single palm strike.
"It won't last," Li Fan whispered.
"But while it lasts…"
"I'll keep feeding in his shadow."
---
And far below the city, in the catacombs where even cultivators feared to tread, something old stirred. A corpse that had not breathed in a thousand years twitched once beneath a seal. Its eye—just one—opened slightly.
It had been eaten once before.
But something nearby reminded it of that devourer.
And it hated being remembered.