The journey to the Serpent's Pass was made in grim silence. Luo Zhen led the group—Luo Cheng, five of his most bloodthirsty clansmen, and Su Mei'er—on spirit-steeds that ate up the miles with preternatural speed. The clansmen were tense, eager for the fight, their auras buzzing with the violent energy granted by the Demonic Baptism. Su Mei'er rode slightly apart, her posture rigid, her new, darkly luminescent energy a cold knot in her chest. The memory of the previous night's agony was a fresh brand on her soul, a constant, painful reminder of the path she had chosen.
Luo Zhen paid them little mind. His focus was inward, feeling the thrum of his Demonic Foundation, a caged beast eager for release. The Iron Sword Sect disciples would be the whetstone upon which he would sharpen his new blade—Su Mei'er—and the key to unlocking the next level of his power.
The Serpent's Pass lived up to its name. It was a deep, narrow gorge cutting through harsh, rocky mountainsides. The path was barely wide enough for two carts to pass, and shadows clung to the rock faces even at midday. It was a place of echoes and hidden dangers.
"Set the ambush on the high western ridge," Luo Zhen commanded, dismounting. "Luo Cheng, you have command. Wait for my signal."
"My Lord, you will not join us on the ridge?" Luo Cheng asked, surprised.
"I will greet them on the road," Luo Zhen said, a faint, cruel smile touching his lips. "It would be rude not to introduce myself personally to our guests."
As the Luo clansmen scrambled up the steep slope to find hiding places among the rocks, Luo Zhen turned to Su Mei'er. "You will stay with me."
She nodded mutely, her hands clenched tight on her reins. The fear was back, a cold serpent coiling in her gut, but the Netherbone Pill had forged it into something harder, sharper. She could feel the dark energy within her, restless and hungry, responding to the anticipation of violence in the air.
They didn't have to wait long. Within an hour, the sound of approaching hoofbeats and the clatter of wagon wheels echoed through the pass. A convoy appeared around the bend: three wagons laden with chests, a dozen riders in the distinctive blue and white robes of the Iron Sword Sect, and at their head, a young man who radiated an aura of arrogant authority.
He was handsome, with sharp features and cold eyes, his cultivation base a solid, if recently advanced, Foundation Establishment, First Level. This was Senior Brother Leng Feng, Elder He's prized disciple, sent to handle this "demonic nuisance" and collect the City Lord's generous tribute. By his side, in one of the wagons, sat a young woman in fine silks, her face pale and fearful—Feng Lian, the City Lord's daughter.
Leng Feng held up a hand, halting the convoy as he saw the two figures blocking the path. A youth in simple black robes and a pale, beautiful girl in a servant's grey dress. He sneered.
"Peasants. Clear the road. You are blocking the passage of the Iron Sword Sect." His voice was laced with condescension, his spiritual pressure pushing outwards in a dismissive wave meant to send commoners scrambling.
The pressure hit Luo Zhen and Su Mei'er and dissipated like a breeze against a mountain. Luo Zhen didn't move. Su Mei'er flinched but held her ground, her new energy rising instinctively to defend her.
Leng Feng's sneer faltered. These were not peasants.
"Iron Sword Sect," Luo Zhen said, his voice flat, carrying easily in the narrow pass. "You are expected. You have brought me a gift." His eyes flicked to the wagons. "And an appetizer."
Understanding dawned on Leng Feng's face, followed by fury. "You! You are the demonic cultivator? The one who has been troubling Floating Cloud City?" He laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "You're just a boy! And you dare to block my path? I will take your head back to Elder He and collect the bounty on top of the City Lord's gifts!"
He dismounted, drawing his spirit sword. The blade glowed with a sharp, metallic light. "Disciples! Surround them! Leave no escape!"
The other eleven disciples, all at the peak of Pulse Condensation or the half-step into Foundation Establishment, fanned out, drawing their weapons. Their auras merged, forming a crude but effective sword formation.
Luo Zhen looked utterly unimpressed. He turned to Su Mei'er. "The weaklings are yours. Show me what the Netherbone Pill has wrought. If you survive, you may be of use to me."
Su Mei'er's blood ran cold. He was sending her alone against eleven Iron Sword Sect disciples? It was a death sentence!
But the command was absolute. The fear crystallized into a sharp, cold point. The dark energy within her, born of her suffering and the pill's malevolence, surged in response to the threat. Her hands, once used for embroidery, curled into claws. Her Violet Mist Art was gone, replaced by something raw and desperate.
The disciples, seeing only a pretty girl at the seventh level of Pulse Condensation, charged with confident laughs.
The first one reached her, his sword aiming to disable her arm. Su Mei'er didn't dodge. She moved into the attack, her body flowing with an instinct she didn't know she possessed. Her hand shot out, not to block the blade, but to slap the flat of it aside. As she did, a wisp of inky, dark energy—a perversion of her former mist—coalesced around her fingers and lashed out, scoring a deep gash across the disciple's wrist.
He screamed, not just from the cut, but from a sudden, freezing cold that shot up his arm, numbing it instantly. His sword clattered to the ground.
The other disciples hesitated, shocked by the strange, corrosive energy.
Su Mei'er didn't give them time to recover. She became a whirlwind of desperate motion. She had no formal combat training, only the brutal, efficient movements her body seemed to remember from watching Luo Zhen. She used the environment, kicking dust into faces, using the narrow space of the pass to limit how many could engage her at once. Her dark energy was weak, but it was insidious. A touch would cause numbness and a deep, chilling pain. A glancing blow from a sword would be deflected by a hastily conjured shield of murky violet-and-black energy that seemed to sap the weapon's light.
She was wounded. A cut opened on her cheek. Another on her arm. But each injury seemed to fuel her, making her movements sharper, her energy more vicious. She was fighting for her life, and the dark power within her thrived on it.
Luo Zhen watched, his analytical gaze missing nothing. Good. The instinct is there. The energy is crude but effective. She is learning.
While Su Mei'er battled the disciples, Leng Feng grew impatient. "Enough of this farce!" he roared, his Foundation Establishment aura erupting. He thrust his sword towards Luo Zhen. "Iron Swan's Dive!"
A projectile of condensed, sharpened metal energy shot from his blade, screaming through the air towards Luo Zhen's heart.
Luo Zhen didn't move. He simply raised his hand and opened his palm.
The powerful sword energy hit his palm and... vanished. It was absorbed without a sound, without a ripple. The energy, refined by the Nine Profound Heavens Demonic Art, became a tiny trickle added to his reservoir.
Leng Feng's eyes bulged. "Impossible!"
"Your turn," Luo Zhen said softly.
He moved. There was no technique, no fancy name. It was simply speed. One moment he was ten feet away, the next he was directly in front of Leng Feng.
Leng Feng barely had time to bring his sword up in a panicked block before Luo Zhen's palm slammed into his chest.
It wasn't a powerful blow. It was a light tap.
But it was enough.
The black tendrils of the demonic art shot from Luo Zhen's palm, piercing Leng Feng's dantian. The senior brother's scream was one of utter, soul-shattering horror. He could feel his Foundation—his proud, hard-earned Foundation Establishment core—being unraveled. The spiritual energy that had taken him years to accumulate was being violently siphoned away, consumed by the infinite hunger of the demonic art.
His body didn't wither like the Pulse Condensation cultivators; the energy was too vast for that. Instead, his Foundation crumbled from within. His cultivation base plummeted from Foundation Establishment, to the ninth level of Pulse Condensation, to the eighth, seventh... His aura disintegrated. Within seconds, he was left kneeling on the ground, his eyes wide and vacant, his cultivation completely and irrevocably destroyed. He was a mortal. A hollow shell.
The energy that flooded into Luo Zhen was immense, vast, and satisfying. It was the catalyst he needed. The barrier to the second level of Foundation Establishment, which had stood firm against piles of spirit stones, shattered like glass.
Foundation Establishment, Second Level!
Power, raw and devastating, flooded his being. The air around him crackled with dark energy. He felt invincible.
The remaining Iron Sword disciples, who had been staring in horror at their leader's fate, now broke. Their formation collapsed. They turned to flee.
"Now," Luo Zhen said, his voice a calm command that carried to the ridge above.
From the high rocks, Luo Cheng and his five clansmen descended like avenging demons. Empowered, ruthless, and eager for blood, they fell upon the fleeing disciples. It was not a fight; it was a slaughter. The disciples, already terrified and leaderless, were cut down without mercy. Their cries were short-lived.
Su Mei'er stood panting in the middle of the carnage, her grey dress stained with blood—hers and others'. She was wounded, exhausted, but alive. She had held her own against eleven disciples. The look in her eyes was no longer that of a frightened girl, but of a survivor who had stared into the abyss and found something dark looking back.
Luo Zhen walked over to the wagons. The drivers and attendants were cowering, begging for their lives. He ignored them. He opened the chests. They were filled with spirit stones, rare herbs, jade, and precious manuals. The City Lord's "gift." He also found Feng Lian, huddled and weeping.
He looked at her for a moment, then at Su Mei'er. "Take her. She is your responsibility now. Another attendant for you to manage."
He then turned to the loot and the bodies. "Strip everything of value. Luo Cheng, pile the bodies."
As his men hurried to obey, Luo Zhen stood before the pile of dead Iron Sword Sect disciples and the catatonic Leng Feng. He placed his hands on the pile.
The Nine Profound Heavens Demonic Art activated to its full, horrifying potential.
Black smoke erupted from him, enveloping the entire pile. The bodies desiccated at an alarming rate, turning to dust that was carried away on the wind. Their leftover spiritual energy, their life force, their unfulfilled potential—all of it was devoured, refined, and absorbed.
The energy was a feast. It solidified his second level and pushed him significantly towards the third. The Demon Foundation within him swelled, darker and hungrier than ever.
When it was done, there was no sign that a dozen Iron Sword Sect disciples had ever been in the pass. Only dust.
Luo Zhen turned to his group. His clansmen looked at him with religious awe. Su Mei'er watched him, her new icy resolve warring with a deep, primal fear.
"The Iron Sword Sect will be angry," Luo Cheng said, a hint of worry in his voice.
Luo Zhen's smile was terrifying. "Angry? No. They will be terrified. And then they will send a true course for the feast. An Elder. And I will be waiting."
He mounted his spirit-steed. "Now, we return home. We have a message to send to the City Lord."
He looked towards Floating Cloud City, his eyes glowing like hellfire.
"His gift was received. And it was delicious."