The moment Chen Hao was flung into the Cauldron, a tide of pure, unyielding resentment swallowed his heart.
He was a Transmigrator. With a legendary system that was supposed to take him to the top, Yet before he could even glimpse into the martial way, before he could found an empire or gather a single beauty for his harem… he had been deceived by a swordsmith with a kindly face and a venomous heart, betrayed for the price of two steamed buns, and was now drowning in molten metal.
His consciousness flickered, scenes from his brief, bleak life flashing past. The smith's fervent, fanatical eyes burned brighter than the furnace flames. "I will become a true Master Artificer! You shall be my first masterpiece, a spiritual artifact born of blood and soul! Every swordsman in the realm will covet you!"
I curse you to die a wretched death! Chen Hao's soul shrieked in its final moment. Even if I become a blade, I will be a sword of calamity! May whoever wields me perish alone and heirless!
The black flames within the furnace roared, devouring flesh and bone. The smith, Jin Zhengqiu, watched with trembling anticipation before pouring the alloy into the mold. The rhythmic clang of his hammer resonated through the night.
By midnight, the sword was quenched in pristine snowmelt from the Cloud-Snow Mountain. As the steam cleared, Jin Zhengqiu rushed forward…only for his face to darken with devastating disappointment. The blade was dull and lifeless, its only peculiarity a single speck of crimson, like a drop of eternally congealed blood.
A test strike against a low-grade mortal weapon chipped the opponent's edge. But against an intermediate-grade blade, this "masterpiece" notched and shattered. His lifetime of hoarded materials, the Qingyun Iron, the Spiral Copper, even a fragment of sky-fallen meteorite, had yielded nothing but the most mediocre of longswords.
Crunch.
A faint sound by fell the window.
Jin Zhengqiu's eyes sharpened. "Who's there?!"
Hurried, scattered footsteps answered. In two strides, he blocked the escape of a small figure, The boy's knees buckled.
It was a young apprentice, one of his apprentice, diligent, but ultimately mediocre in talent.
"Master Jin! I… I saw nothing! Spare me, please!"
Silence was the only reply. The dull black sword swept out once, and fresh blood stained its surface. As Jin Zhengqiu carried the limp body back, the blood along the blade seemed to seep inward, absorbed without a trace.
Deep within the sword, a dormant consciousness stirred.
[Ding—]
[System detects fundamental shift in host's form of existence.]
[Adapting to host status… "Strongest Human System" undergoing evolution…]
[Evolution complete. "Strongest Demon-Sword System" activated.]
[consciousness unstable. Automatically binding to current sword-master: Jin Zhengqiu.]
A translucent status screen materialized in the darkness:
[Sword Body: Unnamed]
[Rank: Low-grade Mortal Weapon]
[Master: Jin Zhengqiu]
[Innate Skill: Master-Slayer]
[Current Skills:]
[1. Misfortune (Active): Continuously drains the master's Luck. (-1 Luck Value; 10 = Son of Heaven's Fortune)]
[2. Slaughter Evolution: Advance by absorbing blood and soul energy.]
[Sufficient blood and soul energy detected. Evolution available.]
[consciousness unstable, sword body damaged. Initiating protective protocol—commencing automatic evolution.]
[Evolution complete.]
[Intermediate-grade Mortal Weapon.]
[New Skill Unlocked: Auto-Repair.]
[Initiating blade repair…]
Back in the forge, Jin Zhengqiu finished concealing the evidence. When he turned back to regard his "failed product," his pupils suddenly constricted.
The sword on the anvil was no longer the same. The dull black sheen had deepened into an abyssal hue, and the solitary crimson speck now pulsed with a faint light, like a demon's eye slowly opening in the dark of night.
A strange, inexplicable chill crawled up Jin Zhengqiu's spine. He reached out, his calloused fingers hesitating for a moment before finally grasping the hilt.
In that instant, deep within the blade, Chen Hao's dormant consciousness sensed the connection.
The path of the Demon Sword had just begun.
Its first vow, etched into its very soul: to bleed its master dry.