Fang Han had known that following Fang Qingxue into the depths of the earth would be perilous — but he hadn't expected this.
Before him stretched an army vast enough to annihilate kingdoms and burn cities to ash. Beneath the towering Altar of the Demon God, the ground writhed with countless Yasha, while the skies churned with Winged Yasha, their shadows blotting out the red glow of the subterranean heavens. Even a master who had stepped into the Divine Mystery Realm would find themselves hard-pressed to survive here, let alone prevail.
Fang Han clenched his sword. Killing twelve Yasha earlier had already pushed him to his limits; without his breakthrough to the Ninth Level of the Mortal Body — Spirit-Linked Realm, and without the protection of the Demon-Slaying Sword and his enchanted robes, he would've been torn apart.
Now, there were thousands.
Even one Winged Yasha was a nightmare to fight — defeating a single one required every ounce of strength he possessed, and even then, only with his flying sword. Against this horde, even divine steel would be shredded.
If two hundred Yasha rushed him together, he thought grimly, there would be nothing left of him to bury.
He crouched behind a jagged rock formation, eyes fixed on the Altar of the Demon God in the distance. It towered higher than the tallest structure in Dragon Abyss City, its blood-red stones pulsing with an eerie light. Upon it stood a massive idol — a demonic elephant with eyes that seemed to sweep the cavern, radiating a pressure that made Fang Han's soul tremble.
Beneath the statue stood several figures. One, wreathed in curling smoke, was unmistakably Heavenly Wolf Daoist Wang Molin. Among the others, one appeared to be a woman.
But the most striking of all was a creature that seemed half-man, half-demon. Its face was hauntingly beautiful — almost human — yet its lower body was that of a Winged Yasha, massive and armored, with great black wings fanning the air.
A human head, the body of a Yasha — an abomination of elegance and terror.
Fang Han recognized it instantly.
A Shura.
In the underworld hierarchy, the Shura were the equivalents of inner disciples — beings of immense power and intellect. Above them were the Great Shura, akin to sect elders. Beyond even that stood the Demon Emperors, counterparts to the supreme patriarchs of the human sects.
A Shura's humanlike face signified its intelligence — and its frighteningly rapid cultivation. If it ascended to become a Great Shura, its demonic scales would fall away entirely, and it would take on full human form — capable of powers equal to a cultivator in the Divine Mystery Realm.
All of this Fang Han remembered from The Worlds Beyond, the handbook of the Feathered Gate. It warned disciples precisely of monsters like this — the ones you never fought unless you had no other choice.
Could these be the very targets of the Feathered Gate's purge mission? he wondered. The Red Dust Prince is already dead by my hand. That leaves Wang Molin, the fox spirit girl… and this Shura commander.
If they're all here, I don't stand a chance. Best to hide and wait it out.
But before he could move, a voice growled in his mind — cold and ancient.
"Too late to hide. They've already sensed us."
It was Yan, the dragon spirit bound to his soul.
Fang Han looked up sharply — and saw Fang Qingxue flare like a thunderstorm.
Her entire body erupted in violet light. Arcs of lightning danced around her, and the twin serpents of yin and yang thunder coiled about her form, hissing with divine power. The air itself screamed as thunder cracked in all directions.
The explosion of sound and light stunned the demon army below. Even from miles away, the figures on the altar turned their gaze toward her brilliance.
Then, from atop the Demon God Altar, a searing beam of light shot outward — a divine spotlight cutting through the gloom — and struck directly where Fang Han and Fang Qingxue stood.
Every demon saw them.
Fang Han's heart sank.
Wonderful, he thought bitterly. She's a goddess of thunder, and I'm the bait. If this is her version of "training," I might as well dig my own grave.
Still, though danger pressed from every direction, Fang Han did not move. He lifted his sword, pressing the blade's edge between his brows. His breathing slowed, his heartbeat faded into silence — and his mind slipped into a meditative calm.
As the horde of demons surged forward like a black tide, he remained still, serene as a monk in prayer, peaceful as a child in slumber.
From above, Fang Qingxue watched him, her eyes narrowing — not in anger, but in approval.
Even with death closing in, he doesn't flinch.
Composure under threat — that was something no elixir could teach. It came from the marrow, from one's root.
"Not bad," she murmured softly. "The more desperate the danger, the sharper the edge of one's spirit. Every true master is forged in moments like these. If he can survive this… his cultivation will soar."
Her voice reached Fang Han's ears, cool and steady, but he didn't respond.
Then — a sneer cut through the thunder.
"Fang Qingxue! You dare come alone to the Altar of the Demon God? What gave you such arrogance? Did you truly think you could destroy this place on your own?"
It was Wang Molin.
He rose from the altar, his Seven Fiends Gourd glowing in his grasp. With a flick of his wrist, a storm of spectral wolves howled into existence, galloping toward Fang Qingxue like a hurricane sweeping the plains.
He looked nothing like the man she had nearly incinerated two days earlier — the burns, the blood, the ruin — all gone. His power had fully returned.
Fang Qingxue laughed — a sound as cold as the edge of her blade.
"Destroying your little altar? Child's play. One day, I'll walk into the Demon God Sect itself and challenge your so-called god. Let's see what passes for divinity among demons."
She swept her arm, and the Purple Lightning Yin Thunder Saber roared to life. A hundred and eight arcs of lightning — the Heavenly Gang and Earthly Fiend Blades — shot outward, cleaving through Wang Molin's storm and slicing straight toward the altar.
The entire cavern blazed with purple fire. Winged Yasha screamed as the arcs split them midair, their bodies igniting before crashing to the ground in showers of blood and flame.
Even the Feathered Gate's inner disciples would have quailed before a single Winged Yasha — yet Fang Qingxue had cut down several with a casual gesture.
While she tore through the skies, Fang Han was left below — surrounded.
Hundreds, then thousands of Yasha closed in, snarling and shrieking. Deprived of a chance to strike at Fang Qingxue, they turned their hunger toward the lone mortal on the ground.
"Fang Han," Yan's voice growled again, low and eager, "this danger can be your fortune. Kill them — every one of them — and I'll draw their blood essence into the Yellow Springs River. It will temper the bodies of your ten Winged Yasha servants… and turn them into Shura."
Fang Han's eyes hardened.
"So," he whispered, raising his sword as the demons charged, "this is the opportunity hiding inside the storm."