Blood of the War Dragon

Chapter 4: The Desolate Sacred Body

“You bastard—how dare you slap me?!”

Ronan Draven’s scream ripped through the hall as he clutched his cheek. His hand trembled against the swelling flesh. The humiliation burned even hotter than the sting. The “Heavenly Slap,” his own brilliant idea for tormenting others, had just been turned back on him. Was this real? Was he actually the victim of his own trick?

“You’re the one who said Heavenly Slap means a daily face-slap,” Kael Draven said evenly, his tone almost playful. “I just gave a little demonstration. So? How does it feel? Comfortable?”

“Comfortable, my ass! I’ll kill you!” Ronan Draven’s voice cracked with fury. His rage drowned out all reason. He charged, intent on tearing Kael Draven apart.

But the moment he lunged, Kael Draven’s figure blurred—and vanished. Gone, right before his eyes. Ronan Draven skidded to a halt, stunned.

“Since you love your Heavenly Slap so much,” Kael Draven’s voice rang out from behind, cold and mocking, “I thought of another one—Five-Finger Slap. Care to try it?”

All four froze. A chill ran down their spines. Ronan Draven spun around to strike, but it was too late.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

The slaps came in a furious torrent, one after another, faster than anyone could count. Ronan Draven’s body shook under the storm until, with a heavy thud, he collapsed. Unconscious, before he even got the chance to scream.

When his face was revealed, it was grotesque. Bloated, purple, twisted—it looked like a pig’s head. The irony was cruel. The weapon he had designed to humiliate others had become his own nightmare.

“Seventh Brother… y-you… you actually condensed inner strength?” Darius Draven’s voice cracked, eyes wide with disbelief.

Both Darius Draven and Garrick Draven were martial artists of the Fifth Layer. They could see it clearly. For ten years, Kael Draven had been a joke, a useless shell. But now? He had wielded inner strength. Without it, slapping Twelfth Brother like that would’ve been impossible.

Condensed inner strength? It was unthinkable. Yet there it was, staring them in the face.

Kael Draven looked at them with that same cool detachment. “I don’t know if I’ve condensed anything. But I did just come up with another move. I call it the ‘Why-Not Slap.’”

Their stomachs sank. “Why-Not Slap?” The words alone made Darius Draven and Garrick Draven tense. They already knew what was coming. They rushed forward, desperate to strike first—

Too late.

Smack! Smack! Smack!

The sound of flesh on flesh exploded in the hall. Kael Draven’s eyes gleamed with frost. His strikes landed mercilessly, each slap carrying the weight of ten years of swallowed humiliation.

He had endured sneers, endured taunts, endured fists raining down. And in all that time, he had learned one brutal truth: kindness is weakness. Mercy toward enemies is cruelty toward yourself.

“Since you like names,” Kael Draven said as his palm cracked across another cheek, “here’s one more. Slap-and-Slap-Again. What do you think?”

The chorus of blows echoed through the hall until three figures lay sprawled, unconscious on the cold stone.

Selene Draven stood rooted to the spot, trembling. Her eyes were wide, disbelief carved into her face. The Seventh Brother she’d always mocked for being weak and obedient… now stood tall, ruthless, terrifyingly strong.

What had happened to him?

Kael Draven turned his gaze on her. Cold. Sharp. “I didn’t slap you this time because you’re a woman. But don’t test me again. Next time, I’ll give you the Five-Finger Slap, the Why-Not Slap, and the Slap-and-Slap-Again—every single day. If you don’t believe me, try me.”

A dangerous smile curved his lips as he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later that Selene Draven finally broke. A shriek ripped out of her throat, raw and terrified, as if she’d seen a ghost. By the time the other Draven family members arrived, the Ancestral Hall was a wreck. Dust, mud, offerings scattered—and four bodies lying unconscious on the floor.

Back in his Courtyard, Kael Draven sat in silence.

Nothing made sense. How had he broken through to the Seventh Layer of Inner Strength so suddenly? What had changed?

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

He focused inward, testing the flow within his core. The energy circled endlessly, seamless and unbroken. That was proof enough. What happened last night—and what had just happened in the hall—was no dream.

He clenched his fists. Strike while the iron is hot.

Somehow, he’d stumbled into the Seventh Layer. Could he push further? Could this strange fortune carry him into the Eighth?

He trained for an hour, sweat dripping, breath steady. Nothing. No progress. Another wall, already.

Then—

“Master, your Desolate Sacred Body requires vast amounts of energy. Without it, breakthroughs will be nearly impossible.”

The voice nearly made his heart stop. Kael Draven jerked upright, scanning the shadows. “Who’s there? Man or spirit? Show yourself! Don’t skulk and whisper like a ghost!”

“Master, I am within your core. Reach out with your soul to the Dragon Seal, and I will lead you into the Dragon Seal Space.”

Dragon Seal? Core? The words sounded absurd. And yet… curiosity hooked him.

He pushed his soul inward. Normally, with his strength, this should have been impossible. But something helped him, guiding his spirit forward. At the heart of his core floated a small, pitch-black seal. Six sides, each carved with the image of a dragon.

It pulsed. Power surged. And suddenly, it pulled him in.

The Dragon Seal Space.

Dark. Boundless. Heavy with gray-black motes drifting like ash. The air pressed against him, suffocating.

By the edge of a vast, boiling pool of blood stood a phantom old man, his features veiled as though hidden by white gauze. His presence was immense.

Kael Draven’s voice was steady. “Was that you speaking to me?”

The blood pool bubbled like a cauldron at full boil, heat rolling off it in suffocating waves. Even standing nearby was enough to taste its dread.

“Master,” the old man said, voice deep and calm. “I am Eldric, steward of the Dragon Seal Space. Congratulations—you have been recognized by the Dragon Seal.”

Recognized? Eldric? The words slammed into Kael Draven like a hammer. Could this be tied to the seal he’d uncovered in the Ancestral Hall?

“What is going on? Explain it to me.”

“Master, until your strength grows, I cannot reveal everything. But I can refine soul essence to aid your cultivation. And… I can forge Soul Slaves to fight for you.”

Kael Draven’s frustration prickled, but he forced it down. If Eldric would not answer, pushing was pointless.

“One thing, then. You spoke of the Desolate Sacred Body. What is it?”

At this, Eldric’s tone shifted, like wind sighing through a graveyard. “Master, your physique is called the Desolate Sacred Body. In the ancient Desolate Era, it was hailed as the supreme cultivation form. Its speed of advancement was unmatched throughout history. But it was also feared and cursed. Alongside its brilliance, it was known as the greatest crippled body.”

The words hung heavy. A gift that could turn into a curse. Boundless potential balanced on the edge of ruin.

Kael Draven swallowed hard. The road ahead suddenly looked endless—and treacherous.