Grit clung to the air like ash, swirling above the dying embers of scattered flames. The ground was scorched black, cracked with deep trenches that bled smoke into the atmosphere. The air reeked of charred flesh and burnt earth, a stench so foul it could curdle the soul. Amid this apocalyptic battlefield, nestled near the foot of a nearly collapsed mountain—its jagged ridges like the shattered teeth of a god—stood a single man.
He stood alone, unshaken by the ruin around him.
His figure was regal, his posture unwavering, even though blood matted his garments and bruises colored his once-pristine skin. Clutched tightly in his hand was a dark, towering staff that seemed forged from the very void itself. From its tip, violet energy coiled upward like a cursed flame, dancing around him in chaotic spirals. The aura surged out into the air like tendrils of a dying storm, staining the skies with its malignant hue.
His name was Fang Zhen—the greatest martial artist the world had ever known.
His eyes, cracked open beneath furrowed brows, burned not with hatred or rage, but with something far more unsettling—excitement. A crooked grin tugged at his bloodied lips, his expression alight with mad joy as he surveyed the carnage sprawled before him. Across the base of the mountain lay countless bodies—some still twitching, most long gone. The dead were not just men, but monsters, spirits, and immortals. Cultivators from different sects. Warriors who followed different gods. Even celestial beasts. All had fallen.
They had come together—entire empires, ancient sects, forgotten deities—to kill one man. All to dethrone him.
And they had failed.
His laughter broke through the eerie silence, a guttural sound that echoed off the cracked rocks like the cackle of a god gone mad.
"I was born defected, wasn't I?!" he roared, raising his staff high above his head. "Unable to cultivate mana! All of you laughed at me! Mocked me!"
His voice trembled with defiance and ecstasy.
"Now look at me! I stand at the summit of the martial dao! I am the man whom not one... not two... but all sect leaders gathered to destroy! Even the gods had to descend from their heavens to strike me down!"
The irony of it all flooded his heart with a twisted satisfaction. But even as the blood-rusted wind whispered his victory, Fang Zhen felt it—his body, finally, was beginning to betray him.
His fingers twitched violently, losing grip of the staff as a deep tremor ran through his arms. His legs, numb and worn, trembled uncontrollably, refusing to bear his weight any longer. He staggered forward, wobbling atop the rocky ridge like a drunk balancing on a sword's edge.
"Damn it..." he growled, nearly whispering the curse as his knees buckled.
The staff slipped from his hand, clattering against stone. Fang Zhen fell—back first—crashing against the jagged ground with a deafening thud. A spurt of blood erupted from his lips, spraying crimson across the cracked stone like the final stroke of a bloody painting.
'After all that show... I can't believe I'm dying like this,' he thought bitterly, his eyelids heavy as stone.
His gaze tilted upward, blurry vision catching the haunting image of the red blood moon hanging high above the mountain. It loomed like a sentinel, unmoving and cold, watching him fall with silent judgment.
'I have power... power greater than the world could ever dream of... and yet... this is the end.'
His chest rose and fell in short, shallow gasps. Another cough racked his body, this one deeper—wet and violent. Blood spewed again, thicker this time, as if his very soul was trying to escape his mortal frame.
'This is the limit of the human body, isn't it…?'
A moment of silence passed as his fingers curled, struggling to grasp onto anything, even the loose dirt beneath him. His heart pounded in his ears—slow, sluggish thuds.
'I'm not—done just yet... I'm too close...'
He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding with desperation.
'Just one more opponent… Just one more step… And I'll truly be the king of martial artists…!'
The world around him began to dim, but his spirit refused to yield.
'Please, body... fight back. Don't give up on me now... I don't want to die just yet...'
And so, even as darkness encroached upon the edges of his vision, Fang Zhen's will blazed—brighter than the embers of war, brighter than any flame still alive on that ruined field.
He wasn't done.
Not yet.