Shen Zong lay among the shattered ruins, the morning sun painting the battlefield in pale gold. His body was battered, every muscle screaming from the Trial of Shadows. Black veins ran along his arms and torso, and faint smoke rose from the scorched remnants of the phantom lotus behind him.
Yet, even in this broken state, his eyes remained sharp, calculating, and calm.
Pain… struggle… survival… he muttered. These are the foundations of true power.
---
He retreated into a hidden crevice of the ruins, a small alcove beneath the shattered altar where he had first discovered the relics. There, he pressed both hands to the obsidian gauntlet and the shadow whip, letting the cursed lotus draw qi slowly from the surroundings.
The process was agonizing. Each pulse of the lotus seared his veins, demanding more than his body could safely offer. Blood dripped from his lips, yet he endured, mind razor-focused.
Immortality… is not free. It demands every sacrifice… every ounce of flesh… every drop of blood.
---
Hours passed, then days. Shen Zong meditated amidst pain and shadow, studying the inscriptions from the Fallen Saints. Slowly, the secrets began to make sense: techniques to stabilize cursed qi, manipulate life force, and even extend lifespan.
By integrating these techniques with the relics, Shen Zong learned to control the lotus' hunger more effectively, preventing it from consuming him entirely while increasing its growth exponentially.
I can survive the hunger now… and grow beyond mortal limits.
---
But recovery was not without peril. Scouts from distant sects moved stealthily through the mountains, drawn by the violent energy of the previous battles. Small groups of assassins attempted strikes—subtle, precise attacks aimed at testing his limits.
Shen Zong endured them all. Each strike left marks, bruises, and burns, but he learned and adapted. He let the lotus absorb residual energy, his gauntlet and whip acting in perfect synchronization. Pain became a teacher, every attack a lesson in survival and ruthlessness.
By the time he stood again, fully recovered, his body was stronger, his cursed lotus perfectly synchronized with the relics, and his mind sharper than ever.
---
Looking at the horizon, Shen Zong's calm, ruthless eyes glimmered with anticipation. Word of his survival would spread—sect disciples, rival cultivators, and demonic entities would begin moving toward him, either to recruit or destroy.
Let them come, he whispered. Every enemy… every attack… every betrayal… will only make the lotus bloom further. Every struggle… every wound… every death… brings me closer to immortality.
Far across the lands, hidden observers watched silently, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. A boy, orphaned and cursed, had survived an overwhelming assault, mastered relics, and endured the hungriest bloom of the lotus.
And now, Shen Zong prepared for the next wave: enemies who would no longer hold back, determined to either kill or control him.
He rose, shadow whip coiling around him, obsidian gauntlet gleaming in the sun, phantom lotus behind him thrumming like a heartbeat of darkness.
The world of cultivation had learned a harsh truth: Shen Zong was no longer mortal. He was a storm, a predator, a cursed bloom… and he would not be stopped.