"What the fuck do you an by my consciousness got displaced"
[The contract you signed allows him to intervene if he feels the situation is life threatening.]
[And seeing how your dumb self just almost had his head lopped off a few monts ago u do seem awfully chirpy.]
"Does that an he can take over my body whenever he wants? " Long Chen asked, a little worried.
[No, he can’t do anything to harm you he only allowed to take control of your body once you’re in a situation you can’t survive.]
Long Chen let out a sigh of relief.
Azazel stood over Elder Feng’s broken body, the red aura swirling around him like obedient serpents. The elder was still alive—barely. His cultivation was shattered, his body ruined, blood pooling beneath him in quantities that should have killed him minutes ago.
But King Realm cultivators were stubborn. Their vitality clung to life even when death would be rciful.
"You know," Azazel said conversationally, tilting Long Chen’s head at the elder, "I was going to drag this out. Make it last and really savor the experience." He sighed, genuinely disappointed. "But honestly? You’re boring. Weak. No creativity in your techniques, no fire in your spirit. Just... trash"
Elder Feng tried to speak. Blood bubbled from his mouth instead of words.
"So I’ll make this quick." Azazel raised his right hand, and the red aura condensed around it, forming into sothing that looked almost like a glove made of crimson energy. "Let show you sothing I haven’t used in a long ti."
The aura on his hand shifted, condensing further, sharpening until it looked less like energy and more like hundreds of invisible blades overlapping each other.
"I call this one..." Azazel smiled that too-wide smile. "Asura Blade Of Extinction."
He brought his hand down in a casual swipe.
The air itself scread.
What happened next wasn’t a single attack, it was a cascade. The red aura exploded outward in a do of cutting force that lasted exactly three seconds.
In those three seconds, Elder Feng’s body was struck one thousand tis.
Simultaneously.
Every angle, every surface, every exposed piece of flesh and bone hit by razor-sharp blades of condensed wrath energy.
The sound was horrible. Not one clean cut, but a thousand wet slicing sounds overlapping into a single sustained shriek of tearing at and splintering bone.
When the technique ended, Elder Feng wasn’t a body anymore.
He was turned to pieces.
Hundreds of them. Scattered across a ten-ter radius like soone had put a person in a grinder and turned it on high. Blood painted the trees, the ground, the leaves. Chunks of flesh hung from branches. Fragnts of bone embedded in the dirt.
There wasn’t enough left intact to identify what had been human.
Azazel looked at his handiwork and nodded, satisfied. "Better. Much cleaner than expected for a body this weak."
Then he yawned.
The gesture was so sudden, so incongruous with the carnage around him, that it would’ve been funny if it weren’t so disturbing.
"Mmm... I’m tired." Azazel stretched Long Chen’s arms above his head, working out the stiffness. "Three hundred thousand years sealed in a sword, then I get out and imdiately have to fight such trash. No rest for the wicked, I suppose."
He glanced down at Long Chen’s transford body—gray skin, black horns, claws where fingernails should be.
"We should have a proper chat later, you and I." Azazel spoke as if Long Chen could hear him from inside the red space. "Set so ground rules and discuss boundaries. Figure out how this partnership is going to work." He smiled. "I have a feeling we’re going to get along wonderfully."
Then his eyes closed.
The red aura that had been swirling around Long Chen’s body suddenly receded. It pulled back like a tide going out, flowing inward through his skin, his pores, every opening, returning to wherever it had co from.
The transformation began reversing imdiately. The gray skin faded back to normal. The horns crumbled to dust. The claws retracted. Within seconds, Long Chen looked human again—battered, bloody, and broken, but human.
His eyes snapped open.
Long Chen gasped, stumbling forward, nearly falling before catching himself on a tree. His hands—his own hands, under his own control—gripped the bark hard enough to tear off chunks.
’I’m back. I’m—’
The pain hit him.
All of it, all at once.
The Heavenly Demon Transformation had shut off his pain receptors. Now they were back online, and they had a backlog to report.
His broken ribs scread. His shattered collarbone sent white-hot agony shooting down his arm. His torn muscles felt like they were being pulled apart by hooks. The crater in his chest where Elder Feng’s palm strike had landed throbbed with each heartbeat.
Long Chen’s legs gave out. He collapsed to his knees, teeth gritted so hard his jaw ached.
’Fuck. Fuck. Everything hurts.’
Before he could fully process the pain, notifications started flooding his vision.
[Ding!]
[Ding!]
[Ding!]
[Ding!]
ssage after ssage appeared, stacking on top of each other faster than he could read. The green text filled his vision like a wall of scrolling information.
[Possession ended]
[Control returned to primary host]
[Analyzing combat data...]
[Warning: Severe injuries detected]
[Warning: Qi reserves critically low]
[You’ve gaine........]
"Not now," Long Chen muttered through gritted teeth. "System, minimize. I’ll check later."
The notifications condensed into a small blinking icon at the edge of his vision.
He took a slow, careful breath. Every inhale felt like knives in his lungs, but at least he was breathing. At least he was alive.
At least he was in control of his own body again.
Long Chen forced himself to stand, using the tree for support. His legs trembled but held on. Good enough.
He looked around the clearing—or what remained of it. The landscape had been torn apart. Craters everywhere, trees reduced to splinters. The ground scorched and cracked from techniques that had released enough energy to reshape the terrain.
And in the center of it all, scattered across ten ters of blood-soaked earth, were the pieces of Elder Feng.
Long Chen stared at the carnage. His stomach turned, but he didn’t look away.
’Azazel did that. Using my body. My hands.’
The thought should have horrified him more than it did. Maybe he was too tired. Too hurt. Too numb from everything that had happened.
Or maybe so part of him—the part that had been enjoying combat more than he should—didn’t mind as much as it ought to.
He was still staring when he felt spiritual pressure approaching. Fast.
Long Chen’s hand went to Demon Dweller’s hilt instinctively. The blade was quiet now. No whispers. No killing intent. Just a normal sword hanging at his waist.
But he knew what was sealed inside it now and exactly what he’d made a contract with.
The spiritual pressure resolved into a figure stepping through the trees.
Dugu Jian.
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