The qi trail pulsed faintly ahead—a subtle vein of azure energy threading through the obsidian landscape of the abyss core.
Ling Feng advanced with measured steps, boots crunching against petrified shards scattered along the thinning edge of the venerable's blood pool. The air grew heavier with every pace, saturated by the acrid scent of trapped ozone and the distant, muffled thunder of storms raging far above.
His body was stronger than before—but far from whole.
Qi reserves hovered at a precarious sixty percent. Meridians still ached from backlash, stretched thin and tender. Each step sent a dull throb through his ribs, a reminder of limits not yet transcended.
Efficiency is paramount, he calculated coldly.
Deeper penetration increases threat probability. However—the trail converges near the petrified heart.
Proceed with probes.
A thin strand of sword intent extended ahead of him, invisible, precise—scanning.
The Whispers of Defiance stirred.
Alert.
Intruders approach.
Slaughter beckons.
Before Ling Feng could retract the probe, the abyss responded.
Distant howls echoed through the cavern—warped, guttural, like thunder forced through living flesh. The blood streams rippled unnaturally. Obsidian walls vibrated faintly, as if something massive had stirred in the depths.
Ling Feng's senses sharpened.
Swirling qi signatures converged on his position.
My blood, he realized instantly. From the backlash. A scent trail.
Abyss beasts.
Mutated condensates—discarded heavenly qi given false life through the venerable's leaking essence. Creatures without lineage or soul, driven by crude evolutionary instinct.
Predictable.
Bound by natural law.
Bound by hunger.
Just like the spirit beasts tamed by sects.
Cultivators preached harmony with heaven while chaining creatures into servitude—throwing them forward as shields, tools, fodder.
Hypocrisy veiled as virtue.
The howls surged closer.
Three figures emerged from the shadows clinging to the obsidian walls.
Storm beasts.
Each was roughly wolf-sized, their bodies formed from swirling vortices of chaotic qi. Semi-corporeal, ever-shifting. Lightning tendrils lashed outward from their cores, crackling with azure sparks tainted by the dragon's lingering will.
Their "eyes" were fractured orbs of thunder.
No intelligence.
Only directive.
Attack. Absorb. Evolve.
The first lunged without hesitation.
A lightning-charged tendril snapped forward like a whip, discharging a bolt aimed directly at Ling Feng's chest.
He sidestepped.
Pain flared through his ribs—mobility compromised. A full sword manifestation would drain too much qi.
Brute force inefficient.
Mid-dodge, analysis completed.
Tendrils: highly conductive.
Environment: blood streams rich in metallic essence.
Optimal for redirection.
Ling Feng deliberately retreated toward a shallow rivulet of venerable blood snaking across the obsidian ground. The beast followed blindly, hunger overriding caution.
As the second bolt discharged, Ling Feng released a minimal thread of sword intent—not toward the beast, but into the blood beneath his feet.
The liquid hummed.
Conductivity surged.
The lightning struck—not him—but the stream.
The rivulet became a circuit.
The bolt rebounded violently, racing back through the blood and into the beast's own vortex.
A thunderous crack echoed.
The storm beast convulsed, its form destabilizing as swirls of qi unraveled. At its center, a glowing condensate was exposed—the core, pulsing with stolen storm essence.
Opportunity.
The Whispers intensified.
Strike.
Devour.
Pain forges strength.
Ling Feng advanced.
Ignoring the ache screaming through his meridians, he manifested a partial azure blade—no longer than a dagger, jagged and unstable. It was enough.
Slash.
The blade severed the qi threads anchoring the core.
The beast howled once before dissolving into mist.
The remaining two attacked simultaneously.
One flanked him, tendrils coiling for a pincer strike. The other leaped overhead, discharging a scatter of lesser bolts that rained down like shrapnel.
Ling Feng rolled aside.
Pain exploded—ribs screaming. Blood trickled from his mouth. A grazing tendril scorched his arm, lightning ripping through scale armor and flesh alike.
Numbness spread instantly.
White-hot agony tore through him.
Meridians strained as foreign storm qi invaded his system. Any ordinary cultivator would panic. Retreat. Collapse.
Ling Feng did neither.
Pain is data, he thought coldly.
Indicator of weakness to excise.
The Whispers roared, no longer murmurs but thunderous echoes.
Endure!
Slaughter unbound!
Heaven's chains break in agony!
He embraced the madness—not as frenzy, but as a lens.
Clarity sharpened.
Patterns emerged.
The beasts moved in coordination—instinctual, synchronized. Like tamed hunting packs used by sects during trials.
Bound creatures, he realized. Bound instincts. Bound fate.
Cultivators claimed mutual growth—yet beasts were expendable extensions of will.
True power severs illusions.
With his numbed arm hanging uselessly, Ling Feng baited the flanking beast toward the blood rivulet again. As its tendril lashed out, he redirected the discharge.
Lightning rebounded.
Its form frayed.
Ling Feng followed with a precise slash, severing half its tendrils. The vortex destabilized, core flickering into partial exposure.
Above—
The third beast descended, attempting to engulf him entirely.
Ling Feng's gaze snapped downward.
He seized a jagged shard of petrified bone from the ground—conductive after eons steeped in draconic aura. He infused it with a sliver of intent.
Then thrust upward.
The shard pierced the descending vortex just as ambient lightning surged through the chamber.
The bone became a conduit.
Lightning detonated inside the beast.
Its form exploded outward, mist scattering violently as the core tumbled free.
Pain peaked.
His scorched arm spasmed. Meridians screamed, threatening reversal.
But the Whispers guided him.
Accept.
Deeper.
Madness is clarity.
He severed pain itself—mentally slicing away sensation like a resentment thread.
Focus returned.
Amplified.
The final beast absorbed mist from its fallen kin, evolving mid-charge. Tendrils thickened. Its vortex condensed, more violent, more unstable.
It rushed him.
Ling Feng did not evade.
Qi reserves were insufficient for another dance.
He manifested the partial blade again and met the charge head-on.
Slash. Slash.
Tendrils severed one after another.
The core lay bare.
Ling Feng plunged his hand directly into the vortex.
Lightning surged through his body, agony overwhelming.
He did not pull back.
Devour.
Sword intent pierced the core.
Qi threads unraveled.
Essence flooded him—raw, violent storm energy colliding with draconic blood.
Agony transcended form.
His body convulsed as elements clashed.
He accepted it.
Deeper into madness.
The core dissolved.
The beast vanished.
Silence reclaimed the abyss.
Ling Feng dropped to one knee, breath ragged. Blood pooled beneath him—his own, mingling with the venerable's remnants.
Visions surged unbidden.
Righteous sects.
Spirit beast tamers.
Harmony preached—weak culled, beasts expended as shields.
Hypocrisy, the Whispers hissed.
Taming binds both master and beast to heaven.
Devour instead. Sever bonds. Claim unbound power.
Ling Feng circulated the absorbed essence with methodical precision.
Qi reserves climbed—eighty percent.
Lightning affinity awakened faintly within his sword intent. Azure arcs now crawled along its edge. His scorched arm healed partially, numbness receding. Draconic scales thickened, adapting to storm-infused essence.
Gains proportional to risk, he assessed.
Beasts harvested. Path cleared.
But more surfaced.
Faint memory echoes leaked from the devoured cores—visions from an ancient era. Storm herds bound by bloodline oaths, serving the Azure Dragon Venerable as living weapons.
A hint.
A promise.
Deeper secrets await near the heart chamber.
The Whispers approved.
Forward.
More awaits.
Slaughter evolves.
Ling Feng rose.
Sword intent hummed stronger at his side as the qi trail beckoned him onward, deeper into the abyss.