The Abyssal Bone Marsh had never been silent.
Even before its awakening, it whispered—bones grinding beneath black mire, unseen creatures dragging their bodies through waters thick with decay, and ancient laws murmuring beneath the surface like a slumbering god's breath. But on this day, silence fell upon the world beyond the Marsh.
It began with the sky.
Above the Marsh, clouds twisted into spirals the color of dried blood, vast and slow, as though the heavens themselves were being wrung dry. Thunder did not roar—it groaned. Each peal echoed unnaturally far, crossing mountain ranges, rattling sect bells, and setting ancient formation arrays trembling.
Far away, in lands untouched by the Marsh's poison, cultivators paused mid-meditation.
A sword sect elder opened his eyes, heart pounding, sweat beading at his brow.
"A Monarch…" he whispered hoarsely.
Across the continent, rivers slowed. Spirit beasts fled their territories in blind terror. Ancient trees shed leaves by the thousands, as if bowing to something that should not yet exist.
At the heart of the Abyssal Bone Marsh, blood-red mist surged outward like a living tide.
The Blood Demon stood atop a rising altar of fused bone and scale, his laughter echoing through the storm. His body no longer resembled that of a man. Horns curved from his temples, dark and jagged. Scales traced his spine and crept across his shoulders like molten obsidian. His eyes—once merely crimson—now burned with draconic vertical pupils, vast and merciless.
"Hehehe…"
His laughter deepened, layered with something ancient.
"I have broken the shackle that bound this era."
Power rolled from him in waves—thick, suffocating, Monarch-level pressure that crushed the Marsh's ancient trees into splinters and turned spirit beasts into kneeling husks. The Marsh answered him. The blood mist expanded, swallowing valleys, staining lakes, corrupting ley lines.
The laws here had awakened once before.
Three hundred thousand years ago.
And now… they bent.
The news spread faster than any messenger beast.
"A Monarch has risen."
Three words—enough to plunge the world into chaos.
In the Heavenly Pill Pavilion, elders shattered jade cups in shock. Formation masters scrambled to reinforce ancient arrays thought unnecessary in this era. The youngest disciples were locked inside inner sanctuaries, forbidden from stepping outside.
In sword sects, bells rang without pause.
In demon lands, ancient monsters lifted their heads and snarled, recognizing a peer—or a predator.
A grand council convened atop the Floating Meridian Palace, where representatives of the great sects gathered beneath a sky trembling with unease. Their faces were pale. Their voices strained.
"The aura originated from the Abyssal Bone Marsh."
"That cursed place… again?"
"Impossible. The Marsh should not be able to nurture a Monarch. Its laws forbid ascension beyond Spirit-Shattering."
An elderly woman with eyes like still water spoke softly.
"Laws can be devoured."
Silence followed.
Fear settled deep.
If the Marsh had birthed a Monarch, then it was no longer merely a forbidden land—it was a calamity womb.
And calamities did not stay contained.
Back within the Marsh, the Blood Demon—now something far greater—spread his arms wide.
The blood mist obeyed.
It surged outward again, devouring sound, color, and life. His senses expanded with it. He felt fear. He tasted panic. Each distant tremor of dread fed his cultivation like fine wine.
"So many ants," he murmured.
His memories stirred—of the central continent, of the Dragon-Kin Sect erased from history, of blood and flame and betrayal. The inheritance he had devoured was not merely power. It was will.
A Monarch's will.
"No one dared save you," he whispered to the phantom echoes of his long-dead sect.
"I will correct that mistake."
He clenched his fist.
In distant lands, a mountain exploded.
He smiled.
Let them gather. Let them scheme. Let them search for the masked anomaly that shattered emperors with a single palm.
"Hehehe… even you," he murmured toward the Qin Clan's direction, thinking about that mysterious being, his eyes narrowing.
"Will bleed."
The Qin Clan remained calm.
Too calm.
While messengers arrived daily—sect elders, wandering cultivators, hidden experts seeking refuge or alliance—the clan gates stayed half-closed. No banners were raised. No emergency bells rang.
Inside a quiet courtyard, Qin Su lounged beneath a peach tree.
He yawned.
"Monarchs these days are so noisy," he muttered, tossing a peach into the air and catching it lazily.