Chapter 25
The crimson hue continued to give rise to countless new sentient beings across the realm.
Entirely new races were born overnight. Existing races twisted, evolved, shed old limits like broken skin. But that was not the full extent of what the crimson sky was doing.
It went further.
Objects gained awareness without gaining flesh. Without gaining form. Without gaining mercy.
At the border of two great kingdoms that had waged war for generations, there stood a massive tree. It had watched centuries of blood soak into the soil. Heard screams echo across fields. Felt hatred pressed into its roots.
When sentience bloomed within it, the weight of that devastation crushed inward.
Its leaves withered instantly and fell.
But they did not rot.
The moment they touched the ground, they took root. One became two. Two became dozens. Dozens became thousands. In moments, the land erupted.
A forest was born.
A vast, living forest of sentient trees spread outward like a conquering army. Roots shattered stone. Trunks rose like towering sentinels. The original tree stood at the center, silent, aware, furious.
Now he would see who dared to intrude.
Cultivator or not. Kingdom or not.
Anyone who trespassed would pay.
Elsewhere, in what seemed like a completely ordinary household, a simple pearl began to glow softly.
From within it, a young soul emerged.
She trembled the moment her awareness stabilized. She felt it. Something vast. Something inevitable. Something catastrophic that would soon descend upon the household she resided in.
No. Upon the entire kingdom.
The pearl floated upward as she made her decision.
They had to leave.
Immediately.
They had to abandon the Kingdom of Rugraiy. Not tomorrow. Not after preparation. Now. Whatever was coming would erase everything if they stayed.
Time was already slipping through her fingers.
In another land, hanging casually in a market stall, was a dark mask. Plain. Unassuming. Its only apparent purpose was to hide one's identity.
It was not labeled as an artifact. Not protected. Not respected.
As a young cultivator browsed the stall, the mask pulsed.
A soft purple glow flickered for an instant before vanishing.
The cultivator blinked. He stared at it.
He asked the seller about the mask.
The seller shrugged and answered honestly. It was nothing special.
But the cultivator knew what he had seen.
Certain of it.
He paid without hesitation and left with the mask.
Inside it, a soul smiled.
He fell for it, the soul thought.
It was time to awaken. Time to move. Time to spill chaos into the world once more.
Devastation would follow.
Far from the Heart Continent, on another continent entirely, two great nations were locked in brutal war.
An ambush shattered the opening moments. Warriors fell. Blood soaked the ground. But the survivors were veterans, hardened and relentless. They adapted. They pushed back. They reclaimed ground inch by inch.
The battlefield became a slaughterhouse.
Neither side felt exhaustion.
The energy flooding the land was endless. Crimson-tainted. Wild. Many suspected the red clouds above were the source. As long as they could draw from it, they could fight without rest. Without restraint.
Steel clashed. Techniques screamed through the air. The earth broke apart beneath their feet.
In the center of one battlefield, a lone warrior staggered forward.
He was close to death.
Blood soaked his armor. His breath came in broken gasps. Around him stood enemies numbering in the dozens, their eyes cold, their weapons raised.
Surrounded.
Weakened.
And still standing.
To make things worse, he was weaker than every single one of them in terms of cultivation.
And yet none of them relaxed.
They stared at him with open wariness, weapons ready, bodies tense.
He should not have been surprised.
They would always gang up on the weaker one. Especially when that weaker one was him.
Because he was not just any low-level cultivator or ordinary warrior. He was a genuine genius. A monster among monsters. A name that had carved fear into an entire nation.
They knew his reputation.
They feared what he could still do.
The young man understood his situation clearly. With his body already broken and his energy nearly drained, survival was impossible.
Still, he raised his shattered blade.
Will poured into the steel.
Mana surged violently, wrapping around his body and hardening into dense armor that cracked the ground beneath his feet. His eyes glowed, flooding with pure mana light.
He was a hybrid.
A war magus.
And he would show them exactly how dangerous that meant.
Lightning tore down from the sky, amplified by his absolute control over the mana saturating the battlefield. Thunder roared as he charged forward, blade flashing, spell after spell detonating around him.
He fought like a man already dead.
He fought to take as many with him as possible.
If he died here, then at least his nation would gain a sliver of peace.
The battle turned gruesome.
One enemy fell. Then another. And another.
Bodies dropped one by one, cut down by his blade or blasted apart by raw mana. Blood soaked the earth. Screams were swallowed by thunder.
Until none were left standing.
Except him.
The young man collapsed to his knees.
Blood poured freely from fresh wounds, mixing with the injuries he had suffered earlier. His vision blurred. His heartbeat slowed, heavy and uneven.
He could feel it clearly.
His life was slipping away.
There was nothing he could do.
So this was how it ended.
But the enemy was not finished.
They did not want him to die like this.
They wanted to kill him themselves.
More warriors burst onto the battlefield, surrounding him completely. Twenty of them. Fresh. Uninjured.
He could not fight anymore.
His heartbeat was faint. His limbs barely responded.
Still, with the last fragment of defiance left in him, he hurled his sword forward.
It flew toward an enemy's head in a desperate attempt to take one more life.
The blade was blocked.
Steel clashed with a dull clang as his sword hit the ground and slid uselessly across the dirt.
"I guess it's over," the young man whispered.
His eyes went lifeless.
His body crumpled to the ground.
The soldiers surged forward, rage and frustration boiling over as they raised their weapons, eager to carve him apart and vent everything he had inflicted on them.
The first soldier stepped close.
His blade flashed downward.
Something streaked through the sky.
The soldier's body collapsed with a dull thud.
His head rolled across the ground.
The others froze.
Their charge slowed to a stop as terror crept into their eyes.
Standing before them was the broken sword.
It hovered in the air, radiating an immense killing intent that sent chills through even the most battle-hardened among them.
Then the sword spoke.
Its voice was filled with childish wrath.
"Who wants to follow this loser should step closer to my master?"
No one moved.
The sword trembled, bloodlust pouring from every inch of its shattered metal, eager to slaughter whoever dared take the next step.
Then someone finally moved.
But not toward the sword.
One of the soldiers turned and ran.
That was his mistake.
The sword flashed once.
The man dropped dead instantly.
That alone was enough to prove it.
The power of that blade was far beyond them. Beyond all of them combined. It killed with terrifying ease, without effort, without resistance.
Panic spread like wildfire.
The rest attacked in desperation, hoping that by striking together they could carve out a chance to escape.
Instead, they hastened their own deaths.
The sword flashed.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
Every flash meant another body hitting the ground. No skill mattered. No spell worked. No barrier or shield held. Everything failed before the sword's will.
They all died.
Every single one of them.
Silence returned to the battlefield.
The sword slowly floated downward, turning toward the body it protected.
"My master…"
It tried to wake him.
There was no response.
He was dead.
The sword felt pain.
If it had a face, it would have cried. But it had none. So it bore the agony alone, its fragile soul trembling under the weight of loss.
Slowly, the hilt tilted upward.
The blade pointed toward the crimson sky.
That cursed hue that had given it life.
It wanted to sever it. To tear it apart. To carve the sky itself in half.
But it did not.
Instead, the sword drifted back down and rested beside its master.
It could not die.
So it slept.
A deep slumber overtook it, something ancient awakening within its steel. The blade settled across the chest of its fallen master, unmoving.
The scene was almost solemn.
A dead swordmaster.
A sword lying still beside him.
Both rigid. Both resolute. Even in death, their presence bent the air around them, like a monument carved by war itself.
The energy surrounding the blade slowly faded.
The glow vanished.
What remained was what it had always been.
A broken sword.
To be continued.....