The war room was a cavernous hall beneath Malakar’s palace, its stone walls etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the dim candlelight. Smoke from torches curled along the ceiling, carrying the scent of wax, oil, and old stone. A massive round table dominated the center, cluttered with maps, scrolls, and diagrams of Malakar’s lands. Around it sat the kingdom’s generals, sect leaders, and nobles, each adorned in the finery of authority—robes embroidered with gold, armor polished to a mirror sheen, eyes glittering with pride and caution.At first, Kirin felt out of place. He had walked into the hall with his black robes, bloodied sword strapped to his back, and the unmistakable aura of chaos essence crackling subtly around him. His presence drew glances, some curious, some wary. Many of the nobles exchanged whispers, frowns etched into their faces. Here was the cursed boy who refused allegiance, the lone wanderer who had cut down demons without flinching, standing in their sacred coun

Ashen Peaks was quiet now. Too quiet. The screams and clashes of the previous day had faded, leaving behind only smoke, ash, and the metallic scent of blood. Kirin walked among the remnants of the battlefield, boots crunching over shattered rocks and broken bodies. Thousands lay scattered, their faces twisted in shock, agony, or the grim peace of death. The horizon, once alive with crimson portals and writhing demons, had dimmed to an eerie twilight, the air still trembling from the energy that had collapsed the portal.The soldiers who survived stumbled past him, some dragging the wounded, others staring in disbelief. They spoke his name in awe, voices trembling with gratitude. Kirin was a hero in their eyes, a lone force who had shattered the impossible and driven back the enemy.But Kirin did not feel triumph. He felt a hollow weight pressing against his chest, a gnawing emptiness that mocked every cheer. His eyes scanned the field, stopping on faces he would never forget—friends,

The horizon bled crimson. The sun, if it had existed, was swallowed beneath a swirling storm of ash and clouds twisted by dark energy. Winds tore across the plains, carrying the scent of smoke, blood, and the acrid tang of magic. Every fortress, every training ground, every outpost in Malakar shuddered under the weight of what was coming.Kirin stood atop the shattered ridge of Hollow Ridge, a vantage point overlooking the central battlefield where Malakar’s armies had assembled. Thousands of soldiers, cultivators, and wandering mercenaries filled the plains below, their armor glinting faintly in the unnatural light. Banners whipped violently in the storm, bearing the emblems of sects, noble houses, and independent clans alike.And yet, despite the sheer number of them, the tension was palpable. Fear coiled in the hearts of men and women alike, not just at the scale of the demon hordes they were about to face, but at the aura that now descended upon the realm like a storm of molten ir

Kirin could barely breathe. His chest felt like a cavern of shattered glass, every attempt to draw air dragging pain through broken ribs. His body wouldn’t move no matter how much his spirit screamed at it to rise.The crater around him smoked, earth still trembling from the single flick of the Demon Lord’s finger. He had poured everything into that attack, Qi, chaos energy, every shred of lightning his cursed blood would give him and in return he had been cast down like a ragdoll.“Run, boy,” Vael’s voice still echoed in his ears. Sharp. Cutting. A truth Kirin hated but could not deny.Hands grabbed him. Soldiers, maybe mercenaries, he couldn’t tell. Their voices shouted over the storm:“Get him out of here!”“He’s alive... barely!”“Move before the Lord notices!”Kirin wanted to resist. His pride howled against the indignity of being dragged away like some wounded child. But when he tried to lift his arm, only a whimper escaped his throat. His strength was gone. His body wasn’t his

The camp smelled of herbs, smoke, and blood. Not the fresh metallic tang of battle, but the heavy, lingering odor that clung to bandages and half boiled poultices. Kirin lay still at first, breathing slowly, forcing his body to obey him after the foolishness that had nearly cost him everything. His ribs ached like they had been broken and hammered back into place, and every muscle throbbed with exhaustion.The healers had done what they could, but their knowledge was limited. It was his own Qi that worked deeper, coiling through cracked bones and torn veins, knitting the damage back together. He sat cross legged on a thin mat, sweat beading on his brow, as black lightning pulsed faintly from his skin before receding inward.Two days. That was all it had taken. Two days of silence, pain, and steady meditation. By the end of the second night, his strength had returned enough for him to stand and walk the perimeter of the camp without staggering. His body still bore bruises like blackene