Days blurred together in the blood sea, each one bleeding into the next until ti itself lost aning. Long Chen killed endlessly, and the black sword in his hands rose and fell in an endless rhythm that never stopped, never wavered, each strike ending a life while each death fed the red patterns spreading across his skin like living tattoos.
He’d stopped counting after the first thousand soldiers fell beneath his blade, because the numbers no longer mattered when the army seed infinite and the killing never ended.
The soldiers kept coming in waves that crashed against him like a crimson tide, millions of them charging forward with their half-rendered faces and incomplete armor, weapons raised high while those blank void-eyes stared without truly seeing anything at all. Long Chen cut them down with chanical precision, his movents flowing from one kill to the next without pause or hesitation.
A spear thrust toward his chest and he sidestepped smoothly before opening the soldier’s throat in one fluid motion, then spun imdiately as an axe ca from behind and drove his blade through armored ribs without breaking stride. Three more attacked simultaneously from different angles, but his sword carved through all three in one horizontal slash that left them crumbling to ash before they even hit the ground.
The movents were automatic now, thoughtless and precise, because his body moved purely on instinct while his mind drowned beneath an ocean of red that consud everything else.
The red patterns had consud everything by now, covering his arms completely while wrapping around his torso and crawling up his neck and face in intricate designs that pulsed brighter with each kill, spreading further across his skin like a disease that couldn’t be stopped. With each new pattern that appeared, his Sword Aura retreated deeper into his core, trying desperately to protect what remained of his consciousness.
The third-stage power compressed inward and ford a barrier around his mind, but the red mist proved relentless in its assault. Every soldier Long Chen killed released more of that crimson energy, and it poured into him through the patterns on his skin while flooding his ridians and saturating every part of his body until the Slaughter Intent condensed layer upon layer, building up weight that crushed everything else beneath it.
His Sword Aura flickered weakly as it struggled against the overwhelming pressure, then weakened further before compressing so far inward that its presence beca almost invisible, barely a spark in the depths of his consciousness. Long Chen’s eyes had turned completely red by this point, with no trace of their original color remaining and only crimson fire burning in their depths, seeing nothing except targets that needed to be killed.
He didn’t rember his na anymore, couldn’t recall why he was fighting or what had brought him to this place, because all mory had been stripped away until nothing remained except the next strike, the next death, the next soldier falling beneath his blade in an endless cycle of violence.
A week passed in the blood sea while Long Chen continued his chanical slaughter, though outside the Dao realm ti moved differently and only hours had gone by in the real world. Inside this pocket dinsion, he’d been killing for seven days straight without rest or pause or rcy, his blade rising and falling in that sa endless rhythm.
On the fortieth floor of the Tower, Yan Shou watched the screen with an expression caught between pity and disappointnt as Long Chen moved through the battlefield like a machine built solely for killing. His technique had beco flawless over the course of the week, with every strike perfectly placed and every movent economical while every kill demonstrated ruthless efficiency, but his eyes remained empty and dead, devoid of any trace of consciousness.
"He’s gone," Yan Shou said quietly, his voice heavy with resignation. "The Slaughter Dao has consud him completely."
The guardian’s hand moved toward the controls that would terminate the test and end Long Chen’s suffering, but Azazel’s voice cut through the chamber before he could activate them.
"Stay your hand, Guardian."
Yan Shou’s hand froze mid-motion. The command in Azazel’s voice wasn’t loud or aggressive—it didn’t need to be. The weight of absolute authority pressed down on the chamber like the heavens themselves had spoken, and Yan Shou found his body responding before his mind could question the order.
He turned slowly to face the demon mist, and for the first ti since Azazel’s manifestation, genuine uncertainty flickered across the guardian’s features.
"Lord Azazel," Yan Shou said, his voice carefully asured and respectful in a way it hadn’t been monts before. "Forgive this one’s presumption, but the boy has clearly lost himself to the Dao. I’ve witnessed this descent countless tis across the centuries—"
"You presu to lecture on the nature of the Slaughter Dao?" Azazel’s tone remained calm, almost conversational, but sothing shifted in the air around them. The red eyes burning within his mist form intensified, and the spiritual pressure radiating from the demon’s essence made the very stones of the Tower groan. "I who walked the battlefields of the Upper World when the Weapon Path was still being forged? I who witnessed the birth of Intents that your Weapon Progenitor codified into the four lines?"
Yan Shou imdiately lowered his head, his posture shifting into sothing approaching a bow. "This humble guardian ant no disrespect, Lord Azazel. Your experience far exceeds my own—"
"Then trust that experience now," Azazel said, his tone softening slightly but losing none of its command. "What you’re witnessing is not re talent being consud by comprehension too vast for mortal mind. This is transformation."
The guardian remained silent, waiting for permission to speak. When Azazel’s pressure eased fractionally, Yan Shou carefully raised his gaze.
"Lord Azazel speaks of transformation, but this one sees only the sa pattern that has repeated through the ages. The boy absorbed more Slaughter Intent in one week than most cultivators comprehend in lifetis. Such speed—"
"Is precisely why he survives where others failed," Azazel interrupted, though his voice carried patient instruction rather than rebuke. "Guardian Yan Shou, you’ve stood watch over this floor for how many centuries?"
"Three thousand years, Lord Azazel, since the Slaughter Line’s fall."
"Three thousand years of testing candidates," Azazel mused, drifting closer to the screen. "And in all that ti, how many reached this fortieth floor?"
"Two hundred and thirty-seven souls, my lord."
"And how many entered the Slaughter Dao realm as this boy has?"
Yan Shou hesitated before answering. "Seventeen, Lord Azazel."
"Seventeen in three millennia." Azazel’s mist form swirled thoughtfully. "And every single one lost themselves, did they not? Beca nothing more than mindless beasts that had to be terminated before they could escape this Tower and slaughter their way across the mortal realm."
"Yes, my lord." Yan Shou’s voice grew quieter. "Without exception."
"Then tell , Guardian—if this boy follows the sa pattern you’ve witnessed seventeen tis before, why am I not concerned?" Azazel turned his burning gaze fully upon the guardian. "Why does one of the Seven Deadly Sins, whose very existence depends on the Equal Life Contract binding my soul to his, appear so confident that he won’t share their fate?"
Yan Shou opened his mouth, then closed it. The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.
"I... confess I don’t understand, Lord Azazel."
"Then allow to enlighten you," Azazel said, his tone taking on the quality of a master instructing a promising but limited student. "Tell what you know of the Upper World before the Weapon Path’s formalization."
Yan Shou straightened slightly, grateful to be on firr ground. "Before the Weapon Progenitor established the four lines, weapon cultivation was chaotic and unstructured. Practitioners followed individual paths without unified theory or—"
"Yes, yes, the historical record is accurate as far as it goes," Azazel cut him off with a wave of mist. "But there are truths that never made it into those records, Guardian. Truths that the Weapon Progenitor himself chose to... redact from history."
The guardian’s eyes widened with sudden interest. Any knowledge involving the supre being who created this very Tower demanded absolute attention.
"Lord Azazel honors this one with knowledge beyond my station," Yan Shou said carefully.
"Perhaps." Azazel’s form drifted closer to the screen showing Long Chen’s continued slaughter. "Before the Weapon Path was formalized, before the four lines were established with their distinct philosophies, there existed an expert whose very na was struck from the heavenly records."
Yan Shou felt his breath catch. Erasure from the heavenly records wasn’t re censorship—it required the combined will of multiple supre beings, an act reserved for existences so dangerous that even their mory posed a threat.
"This expert," Azazel continued, his voice dropping to sothing approaching reverence, "achieved what should have been impossible. He dyed the skies of the Upper World red with blood—not taphorically, Guardian, but literally. For three full years, the heavens themselves ran crimson with the essence of his slaughter."
"That’s..." Yan Shou struggled to comprehend the scale. "Even a Dao Fusion expert at cultivation’s peak couldn’t—"
"He was beyond Dao Fusion," Azazel stated simply. "He achieved sothing no cultivator before or since has replicated."
"What... what did he achieve, Lord Azazel?" The question erged as barely more than a whisper.
"He beca one with the Slaughter Dao itself."
The silence that followed pressed down on the chamber like a mountain’s weight. Yan Shou stared at the demon mist, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief to dawning horror.
"Forgive this one’s ignorance, Lord Azazel, but such a thing is impossible." Yan Shou’s voice trembled slightly despite his attempt at composure. "The Slaughter Dao is absolute. It consus everything it touches without exception or rcy. To fully rge with it while maintaining consciousness—" He shook his head firmly. "Every practitioner of the Slaughter Line learns this fundantal truth from their first day of training. We comprehend it, we channel it, we draw power from its depths, but we never—we can never—"
"Beco one with it," Azazel finished for him, understanding the guardian’s shock perfectly. "Yes. That is the boundary that has stood absolute for eons. Everyone who attempts full rger loses their mind within heartbeats, becoming nothing more than a beast driven by endless bloodlust." He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "Except this one expert transcended that absolute boundary."
"How?" The question burst from Yan Shou before he could stop himself. "How is such a thing possible? The very nature of Slaughter Intent is consumption—it devours consciousness and leaves only the instinct to kill. There exists no technique, no cultivation thod, no amount of willpower that can stand against sothing absolute!"
"That," Azazel said quietly, "remains one of the great mysteries. When questioned by other supre beings, the Weapon Progenitor would only say that this expert possessed sothing unique—so quality inherent to his very existence that allowed him to touch the Dao’s absolute depths without being devoured."
Yan Shou stood motionless, his mind racing through implications. Then his eyes snapped to the screen where Long Chen continued his chanical slaughter, and understanding crashed over him like a tidal wave.
"Lord Azazel suggests..." He couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the thought.
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