The night was silent, but the silence was a lie. Shadows slithered along the jagged rocks of the valley, wrapping themselves around the bodies of the fallen. Aadhir's clan, the proud Lingxu Sect, had been betrayed. Those he called brothers, those he trusted, had turned their blades against him—not for justice, not for power, but for fear and envy.
He had never expected such treachery. In one swift, brutal moment, the hall of the Lingxu Sect became a slaughterhouse. Flames roared, wooden beams splintered, and the cries of the dying echoed like a symphony of despair. Steel tore through flesh, and in the chaos, Aadhir felt a searing pain in his chest as the blade of his supposed brother pierced his heart.
Blood poured from him like a crimson river, warm and suffocating. His vision blurred; the laughter of the betrayers burned into his memory. They didn't just want him dead—they wanted him erased, his name forgotten.
Yet death was not mercy.
As his body fell to the ground, drenched in his own blood, a dark force stirred beneath the valley. The Shadow Abyss, a cursed pit that had remained sealed for millennia, sensed the touch of a soul ripe with hatred and unfulfilled ambition. A black mist seeped from the cracks in the earth, curling around his broken body. It smelled of decay and fire, and it whispered promises of power beyond heaven itself.
Aadhir's last breath on his mortal lips was a scream of rage, a curse cast at every traitor, every false brother, and every heavenly god who would one day dare to look down upon him.
Then came the pain.
It was nothing like the blade. It was the fire of rebirth, the agony of transformation. His veins burned as if the blood in his body had turned against him, reshaping, reforging him. Flesh twisted and screamed, bones cracked and realigned, and his senses exploded with a new, terrifying clarity.
When the black mist finally withdrew, where Aadhir had lain, there was only a new being. His eyes glowed crimson, pupils slit like a predator. His body was sleek and powerful, muscles carved like obsidian, yet shadow seemed to cling to him like a second skin. A pair of twin dark blades, formed from the essence of the abyss, hovered at his sides, humming with latent energy.
Aadhir rose, tasting the air. It was rich with blood and fear—and it was intoxicating. He flexed his fingers and felt the dark currents of blood magic running through his veins. Every beat of his heart was a drum of power, every breath a curse against the heavens.
He looked toward the valley, where the bodies of the betrayers still burned in the fire he had unleashed instinctively. A laugh escaped him—low, dark, and filled with promise.
"I am no longer Lingxu's son…" he whispered, voice like velvet and steel. "I am the shadow that devours heaven. I am… Aadhir, the Devil who will rise."
From the depths of the Shadow Abyss, tendrils of darkness reached out, seeking the world beyond. Aadhir took his first step forward, and the ground trembled beneath him. He could feel the latent power in the lands, the weakness in the living, and the corruption in the heavens themselves. Every soul, every blade, every god that dares oppose me… will bleed.
The night ended in silence once more, but it was a silence of warning. A storm had been born. A storm that would sweep through heavens and earth alike.
Aadhir's laughter echoed into the darkness, a promise written in blood and shadow. And somewhere in the distance, a celestial light flickered in concern.
The Devil Emperor had awakened.
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