The air atop Mount Hwangsan crackled with the weight of impending slaughter. The sacred peak, once a bastion of the Orthodox Faction's sanctimonious pride, now trembled under the pressure of a single man's qi. Cheon Hajin, the 73rd Heavenly Demon, stood at the summit, his silver hair whipping in the wind, his black robes billowing like the wings of a vulture. His crimson eyes burned with a malice that made the heavens flinch, and in his hand, Bloodreaver—a blade forged in the depths of the Demonic Cult's forges—hummed with the resentful souls of the fallen. The ground beneath him was scorched, cracked from the sheer force of his presence, and the air thrummed with the oppressive weight of the Thousand Demonic Arts.
Below, an army stretched across the mountain's slopes. Ten thousand warriors, a coalition of the martial world's might: the Orthodox Faction in their pristine white robes, their swords gleaming with celestial qi; the Unorthodox Sects, a motley horde of poison users, assassins, and rogue cultivators, their eyes glinting with greed; and the Unrivaled Clans, their gilded armors reflecting the dying sun, their patriarchs radiating auras that could crush lesser men. They had come to end him—the Neck-Slashing Demonic Emperor, the calamity who'd burned their temples, slaughtered their prodigies, and spat on their so-called righteous path.
Hajin's lips curled into a sneer. "Ten thousand?" he rasped, his voice carrying over the battlefield like a blade slicing silk. "You'll need ten thousand more."
A roar answered him, not of defiance but of desperation. The Orthodox Faction's elders raised their swords, chanting mantras of purification. The Unorthodox Sects hissed, their poisoned daggers glinting. The Unrivaled Clans' patriarchs stepped forward, their qi coalescing into a storm of light and shadow. Hajin laughed, a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver through the ranks. He was one man against an army, yet they feared him. And they were right to.
He raised Bloodreaver, and the Thousand Demonic Arts surged through his meridians, a torrent of black qi that burned like molten iron. His body was a furnace, every breath a defiance of the pain that came with wielding such forbidden power. The Demonic Tempest erupted, a whirlwind of obsidian energy that tore through the front lines. Swords shattered, bodies flew, and screams were swallowed by the roar of his qi. A dozen Orthodox swordsmen fell, their celestial blades reduced to slag, their righteous fury extinguished in a heartbeat.
Maximilian De Santa. The name flickered in his mind, a ghost from another life. A washed-up gamer, hunched over a flickering monitor in a cramped apartment, his fingers dancing across a keyboard as he navigated the brutal world of The Way to Break Fate. A psychology major who'd studied reverse psychology, dark personality types, and the art of manipulation. He'd been weak then, a nobody obsessed with a grim visual novel filled with betrayal and bloodshed. But that life had forged him, taught him to read people like open scrolls, to twist their fears and desires against them. It was why he stood here now, untouchable, a demon among men.
****
Flashback: Twenty Years Ago, Maximilian's Apartment
Maximilian leaned back in his creaking chair, the glow of his monitor casting shadows across his unshaven face. The Way to Break Fate was open, its haunting soundtrack filling the room. The screen displayed a choice: side with the Orthodox Faction or betray them for the Demonic Cult. His cursor hovered, his mind racing. He'd played this route a dozen times, memorizing every dialogue branch, every hidden flag. The Orthodox path was safe, predictable, but dull. The Demonic path was chaos—brutal, unforgiving, but alive.
"Fuck the righteous," he muttered, clicking the betrayal option. The screen flared, and the protagonist—his avatar—drew a blade against his former allies. Maximilian grinned, his heart pounding. He loved the game's darkness, its moral ambiguity. As a psychology major, he'd dissected its characters, mapping their motivations, their weaknesses. The Orthodox Faction's hypocrisy, the Unorthodox Sects' greed, the Unrivaled Clans' arrogance—he saw through them all. In his mind, he was already rewriting the story, outsmarting the script.
His phone buzzed, a notification from a gaming forum. "Max, you still grinding that Murim VN? Get a life, lol." He ignored it. Life was a grind he'd already lost. No job, no prospects, just a degree collecting dust and a game that understood him better than any person ever had. He'd die in that chair, he knew it, but at least he'd go out on his terms.
*****
The memory dissolved as a spear thrust from an Unrivaled Clan prodigy grazed his arm, drawing a thin line of blood. Hajin snarled, his reflexes honed by years of slaughter. He spun, Bloodreaver flashing, and the prodigy's spear snapped in two. A follow-up strike—the Neck-Slashing Strike—sent the boy's head rolling down the slope, his gilded armor useless against Hajin's demonic precision. The crowd faltered, their formation wavering. They'd trained for years, mastered techniques passed down through generations, but none of it mattered. Hajin fought like a man possessed, his every move a blend of calculated brutality and primal rage.
He unleashed the Black Lotus Bloom, a technique that summoned a field of illusory blades, each one laced with corrosive qi. The Unorthodox Sects' assassins, cloaked in shadow, tried to dodge, but the blades found them, slicing through flesh and bone. Their screams were music to his ears, a reminder of why he'd chosen this path. The martial world had called him a monster, so he'd become one. They'd called him a demon, so he'd embraced the Thousand Demonic Arts, burning his meridians to wield a power they could never comprehend.
Another wave charged, this time led by an Orthodox elder, his beard flowing like a sage's, his sword radiating celestial light. "Heretic!" the elder roared, his qi forming a dragon that coiled around his blade. "Your reign ends here!"
Hajin's grin was feral. "Reign? I don't reign. I destroy."
He met the elder's strike with the Heaven-Splitting Slash, a technique that condensed his qi into a single, devastating arc. The dragon shattered, the elder's sword crumbled, and the man himself staggered, blood spraying from a gash across his chest. Hajin didn't pause. He waded into the fray, Bloodreaver a blur, cutting down warriors like wheat. His body moved on instinct, every strike a memory of countless battles, every parry a lesson learned in blood.
Maximilian. Another flash. Late nights analyzing The Way to Break Fate's mechanics, cursing its RNG-based cultivation system. He'd hated gacha mechanics, the way they mocked skill with luck, but he'd mastered them anyway. He'd memorized enemy patterns, exploited weaknesses, and cheesed his way through unwinnable fights. That gamer's mind was still with him, guiding his hand. The Orthodox Faction's formations? Predictable. The Unorthodox Sects' poisons? Telegraphed. The Unrivaled Clans' patriarchs? Overconfident. He saw their moves before they made them, turning their strength into openings.
A poison dart flew from the shadows, aimed at his heart. Hajin tilted his head, letting it graze his cheek, then hurled Bloodreaver like a boomerang. The blade spun, slicing through three assassins before returning to his hand. He licked the blood from his cheek, tasting the poison's faint bitterness. "Amateur," he muttered, his demonic qi neutralizing the toxin. The Thousand Demonic Arts weren't just power—they were survival, forged in a crucible of betrayal and pain.
The battlefield was chaos now, a maelstrom of clashing qi, shattered weapons, and broken bodies. Hajin stood at its center, untouchable, his silver hair stained red, his robes tattered but his spirit unbroken. He was the Neck-Slashing Demonic Emperor, and this was his element. The martial world thought they could overwhelm him with numbers, but they'd forgotten: he'd been forged in solitude, tempered by rejection. He didn't need allies, didn't need mercy. All he needed was Bloodreaver and the will to keep swinging.
*****
Flashback: Eighteen Years Ago, Maximilian's Final Days
Maximilian slumped in his chair, the glow of his monitor the only light in his apartment. The Way to Break Fate was open, its final route unlocked after months of grinding. The screen showed the protagonist—his avatar—facing the combined might of the martial world. Maximilian's hands trembled, not from exhaustion but from excitement. This was it, the climax he'd chased for years. The Demonic Path, the only route that felt real.
He'd studied psychology to understand people, but games like this understood him. The betrayal, the defiance, the refusal to bow—it was everything he'd never had the strength to be in real life. He clicked the final choice: "Defy the Heavens." The screen flared, and the protagonist roared, charging into a hopeless battle. Maximilian leaned forward, his heart pounding, whispering the words he'd come to live by: "If the world wants me dead, I'll take it with me."
He didn't notice his vision blurring, his breath slowing. The heart attack came quietly, a thief in the night. His last thought, as the screen faded to black, was simple: I should've been him.
*****
Hajin ducked under a qi-infused spear, his body a blur as he countered with the Phantom Claw Strike, tearing through an Unrivaled Clan warrior's armor like paper. The man's scream was cut short as Hajin's qi crushed his meridians, leaving him a husk. The crowd hesitated, their momentum faltering. They'd expected a quick victory, a chance to claim the Heavenly Demon's head as a trophy. Instead, they were dying, one by one, to a man who fought like he had nothing to lose.
He didn't. Not anymore. The martial world had taken everything—his name, his home, his hope. All he had left was the Demonic Path, and he'd walk it until the heavens themselves broke. Maximilian had taught him strategy, the art of turning enemies against each other. Cheon Hajin had given him purpose, a blade to carve his defiance into the world. Together, they were unstoppable.
An Orthodox swordmaster charged, his blade a streak of light. Hajin met it with Bloodreaver, their qi clashing in a shockwave that cracked the ground. "You can't win!" the swordmaster shouted, his voice trembling despite his bravado. "The righteous will prevail!"
Hajin's laugh was cold, cutting through the chaos. "Righteous? You're just dogs barking for scraps." He twisted his wrist, redirecting the swordmaster's blade, and drove Bloodreaver through his chest. The man gasped, his eyes wide with shock, then fell, his qi fading like a snuffed candle.
The battle raged on, hours bleeding into eternity. Hajin's body screamed, his meridians straining under the Thousand Demonic Arts' toll, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. This was his stand, his defiance, his proof that the martial world couldn't break him. He was Cheon Hajin, the 73rd Heavenly Demon, and he'd make them remember his name.
As another wave charged, he raised Bloodreaver, his qi flaring like a black sun. "Come on, then," he roared. "Let's see how many of you I can bury!"
The mountain shook, and the slaughter continued.