One week had passed since Nalan Ziyan first stepped onto the path of cultivation.
Seven days. Seven nights. In that short time, her entire existence had transformed into something unrecognizable. Her life was now divided into two completely separate worlds—the daylight hours, when she pretended to be the same poor village girl she had always been, and the dark hours, when she became something else entirely.
The technique she had inherited from the dead man had a name. She had discovered it on the third night, when she had finally understood enough of the scroll to read its title page.
Blood Demon Scripture.
The name alone should have been enough to make her stop. It should have filled her with horror, should have sent her running to the village temple to pray for forgiveness. Blood. Demon. These were not words associated with anything good.
But she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. Not anymore.
Every night, after her father fell asleep, she slipped out of the house and made her way to the forest. There, in the darkness under the ancient trees, she practiced. She breathed in the cold, dark energy that filled the night air. She pushed that energy through her body, forcing it into pathways that burned and ached with each passage. She endured pain that would have driven most people insane.
And she grew stronger.
The pain that had nearly broken her on the first night was nothing to her now. In fact, she had begun to enjoy it. Each spike of agony meant progress. Each moment of suffering meant power. The relationship between pain and strength had become clear to her, and she embraced it fully.
Her body had changed in ways that were impossible to hide completely.
The skin that had once been rough and weathered from years of outdoor work was now smooth and pale, like milk poured over snow. Her hair, which had been dry and brittle from poor nutrition, now fell thick and lustrous past her waist. Her eyes, once ordinary and unremarkable, now held a strange depth that made people uncomfortable when she looked at them too long.
She looked beautiful. Dangerously beautiful. The kind of beauty that didn't belong on a poor washerwoman's daughter in a remote village.
So she hid it.
Every morning, before anyone could see her, she smeared dirt and ash on her face. She rubbed charcoal under her eyes to dull their shine. She tied her hair back in a messy knot and covered it with a ragged cloth. She wore the loosest, most shapeless clothes she could find—old things that had belonged to her mother, patched and re-patched until they were more thread than fabric.
To anyone looking at her, she appeared the same as always. Perhaps a bit paler, a bit thinner. But nothing unusual. Nothing that would raise questions.
The cultivation world, she had learned from the knowledge implanted in her mind, was divided into stages. She was currently at the first stage—Qi Accumulation. This was the foundation, the beginning of everything. At this level, she was gathering energy, storing it in her dantian, building the reservoir that would power all her future growth.
Above Qi Accumulation came Foundation Creation, where cultivators solidified their power base and began to develop supernatural abilities. Then came Core Formation, where the accumulated energy crystallized into a solid core of power. And beyond that was Inner Soul Birth, where cultivators began to touch the realm of true immortality.
There were stages beyond even that, but the scroll's knowledge grew vague at those heights. The person who had created this technique had apparently never reached those levels himself.
Still, even at the lowest stage, Ziyan was already far beyond any ordinary human. She could lift weights that would strain a grown man. She could see in complete darkness. She could hear conversations from a hundred feet away. She could run faster, jump higher, and fight harder than anyone in the village.
But there was a cost. There was always a cost.
The Blood Demon Scripture did not feed on pure spiritual energy alone. It required something more. Something darker.
Blood.
The craving had started small—a slight interest when she saw a chicken being slaughtered for dinner, a momentary fascination when she cut her finger while washing clothes. But it had grown with each passing day. Now, the desire for blood was a constant presence in her mind, a hunger that never fully went away.
She couldn't use her own blood—the technique specifically warned against that. And she couldn't use human blood—not yet, not while she was trying to stay hidden. So she hunted.
Every night, after her cultivation practice, she stalked through the forest like a predator. Rabbits, squirrels, wild birds—anything she could catch became her prey. She would kill them quickly, then use their blood to fuel her advancement. The warm, copper-scented liquid would sink into her skin, drawn in by the power of the technique, and she would feel her strength grow.
It was wrong. She knew it was wrong. These were innocent creatures, killed not for food but for power. But she couldn't stop. The strength she gained was too addictive, and the alternative—remaining weak, remaining helpless, watching her father die slowly—was unacceptable.
During the daylight hours, she maintained her disguise. She cooked and cleaned and tended to her father. She fetched water and washed clothes. She did everything a dutiful daughter should do.
The neighbors noticed her absence from the usual gathering spots, of course. In a small village like this, everyone noticed everything.
"Ziyan! I haven't seen you at the river in days!" Mrs. Liu called out one afternoon, catching her in the courtyard. "The other women were asking about you. Are you avoiding them?"
Ziyan put on her most innocent expression—wide eyes, shy smile, nervous posture. "Oh, Auntie Liu, I'm so sorry. Father's condition has gotten worse. The coughing is terrible now, and he can barely eat anything. I have to stay with him almost all the time."
Mrs. Liu's expression softened with sympathy. "Poor child. You're too young to carry such a heavy burden. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Thank you, Auntie. You're so kind. But I think we're managing. The healer said he just needs rest and medicine."
"Well, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask. Your mother was a good friend to me, rest her soul. I want to look after her daughter."
"I will, Auntie. Thank you."
Mrs. Liu patted her shoulder and walked away, never suspecting that the frail-looking girl in front of her could now break her arm with a single squeeze.
On the seventh night, Ziyan decided to venture deeper into the forest than ever before.
She had been hunting the same area for a week now, and the small animals had learned to avoid it. She needed to find new prey—larger prey, if possible. The scroll indicated that the blood of more powerful creatures would provide greater benefits. A single large beast could be worth a hundred rabbits.
The forest grew denser as she walked, the trees pressing closer together until even the starlight couldn't penetrate. But darkness was no obstacle for her anymore. Her eyes cut through the shadows like lanterns, revealing every root and stone in her path.
She walked for nearly an hour, moving silently through the undergrowth, before she found what she was looking for.
The snake was enormous.
It lay coiled around the trunk of a massive tree, its body as thick as Ziyan's waist and at least thirty feet long. Scales the color of dead leaves covered its form, providing perfect camouflage against the bark. If not for her enhanced vision, she would never have spotted it.
But what caught her attention most were its eyes.
They glowed green. Not reflecting light—actually glowing, producing their own luminescence in the darkness. This was no ordinary snake. This was something more. Something that had begun its own cultivation, absorbing the energy of the forest to grow beyond its natural limits.
A spirit beast. The lowest level, barely awakened, but a spirit beast nonetheless.
The snake sensed her presence. Its massive head turned, those glowing eyes fixing on her with cold intelligence. A tongue the length of her arm flickered out, tasting her scent on the air.
It hissed—a sound like steam escaping from a kettle, loud enough to shake the leaves on nearby branches.
Then it attacked.
The snake launched itself from the tree with impossible speed, its jaws gaping wide to reveal fangs as long as daggers. Ziyan dove to the side, rolling across the ground and coming up in a crouch. The snake's head slammed into the earth where she had been standing, sending up a spray of dirt and leaves.
She didn't run. Instead, she smiled.
This was what she needed. This was the prey that would push her to the next level.
The fight that followed was brutal and desperate.
The snake was faster than anything she had faced before, its strikes coming almost too quickly to dodge. Twice it caught her with glancing blows, its scales scraping across her skin and leaving bloody trails. Once it managed to wrap part of its body around her legs, squeezing with crushing force until she thought her bones would shatter.
But she was stronger than she looked. Far stronger.
She grabbed the coils around her legs and pulled them apart, her fingers digging into the scales hard enough to draw blood. The snake hissed in pain and loosened its grip for just a moment—long enough for her to tear herself free.
Trees fell around them as the battle raged. The snake's massive body smashed through trunks as thick as men, sending splinters flying in all directions. Ziyan's own attacks left gouges in the earth, her feet tearing furrows in the ground as she lunged and retreated.
She discovered that her fingernails had changed. They were harder now, sharper, almost like claws. When she raked them across the snake's body, they tore through scales that should have been tough as leather armor.
The fight lasted nearly twenty minutes. By the end, Ziyan was covered in blood—some of it hers, most of it the snake's. Her clothes were shredded. Her body ached from a dozen impacts and near-misses.
But the snake was dying.
She had managed to get above it, to climb onto its back and wrap her arms around its neck. Her clawed fingers found the soft scales beneath its jaw, and she had torn and ripped until the head came free from the body in a spray of hot blood.
She stood over her kill, breathing heavily, her heart racing with exertion and something else. Triumph. Savage, primal triumph.
This was power. This was what it meant to be strong.
She sat down beside the snake's corpse and began her work. The blood was still warm, still rich with spiritual energy. She pressed her hands against the open wound and let the Blood Demon Scripture do what it was designed to do.
Three hours passed.
When she finally opened her eyes, the sky was beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. The snake's body was shriveled and dry, every drop of blood and energy drained away. And Ziyan...
Ziyan had changed again.
She could feel the difference immediately. Her muscles were denser, stronger. Her senses were sharper. The core of energy in her dantian had nearly doubled in size. Before, she estimated she could have fought perhaps three or four ordinary men at once. Now? Ten. Maybe more.
She stood up and stretched, feeling her new strength flow through her limbs. Then she looked around the destroyed clearing—the fallen trees, the gouged earth, the drained husk of the snake—and realized she needed to leave before anyone came to investigate.
She gathered some fruit she had spotted earlier, thinking her father might enjoy something sweet, and began the walk back to the village.
The first sign that something was wrong came when she reached the forest's edge.
Every morning, the village woke with a symphony of sounds. Roosters crowing. Dogs barking. Children crying for breakfast. The clatter of pots and the murmur of voices as people began their daily routines.
This morning, there was nothing.
Silence. Complete, unnatural silence.
Ziyan stopped walking. Her enhanced senses reached out, searching for any sign of life. She could hear the wind moving through the trees. She could hear insects crawling in the undergrowth. But from the village—nothing.
And then she caught the smell.
Blood. The unmistakable copper scent of blood, thick and heavy on the morning air. Not animal blood. Not the blood of a chicken or pig slaughtered for food.
Human blood. Lots of it.
She ran.
Her feet barely touched the ground as she raced toward the village, her new strength propelling her forward faster than any horse could gallop. In seconds, she had covered the distance that would normally take her fifteen minutes to walk.
What she saw when she arrived stopped her cold.
The village was destroyed.
Houses that had stood for generations were now nothing but charred ruins. Walls had been torn down, roofs had collapsed, and fires still smoldered in several places. The ground was soaked with blood—great pools of it, drying to a rusty brown in the early morning light. Drag marks led from the houses toward the village center, suggesting bodies had been moved.
But there were no bodies.
Ziyan walked through the destruction in a daze. Here was Mrs. Liu's house, where the kind neighbor had always welcomed her with a warm smile. Now it was rubble. There was the village well, where she had drawn water every day. Now it was stained red, contaminated with blood. The market square, the temple, the elder's hall—all destroyed, all empty.
Where were the people? Where were the bodies?
"Father."
The word came out as barely a croak. Then, louder: "FATHER!"
She ran to her own house. The door had been smashed inward, hanging from a single hinge. She burst through it without slowing down.
"Father! Father, where are you? Father!"
The room was chaos. Their few possessions had been thrown everywhere—the cooking pot overturned, the water jug shattered, their clothes scattered across the floor. Her father's sleeping mat was soaked with blood. So much blood.
But he wasn't there. No body. No sign of where he had been taken.
She searched the entire house, then the houses nearby, calling out desperately. No response. No survivors.
Finally, she collapsed in the middle of what had been the village square. Her knees hit the blood-soaked ground, and she sat there, staring at nothing, as the full reality of the situation crashed over her.
They were gone. All of them. Her father, the neighbors, the children, the elders—everyone she had ever known. Killed or taken, she didn't know which. But gone.
Tears streamed down her face, cutting tracks through the dirt and ash that still covered her skin.
Why? Why had this happened?
And then, slowly, her mind began to work again.
The man in the river. The dead cultivator she had found, with wounds that came from blades and supernatural force. He had been killed by someone. Someone powerful. Someone who might have been looking for what he carried.
The scroll. The necklace. The Blood Demon Scripture.
Had they come looking for it? Had they tracked their dead companion to this area and destroyed everything in their search? Had her village been massacred because of what she had taken?
The thought was like a knife in her chest. If that was true—if her greed had caused this—
No. She forced the guilt down. Guilt wouldn't bring anyone back. Guilt wouldn't help her find whoever had done this. Guilt was useless.
She didn't know for certain that the scroll and necklace were the reason. It could have been bandits. It could have been soldiers from some distant conflict. It could have been a hundred different things. She couldn't know for sure until she found the ones responsible.
And she would find them.
She stood up slowly, her tears drying on her face. When she looked toward the rising sun, her eyes held no more sorrow. Only cold, burning hatred.
"I don't know who you are," she said, her voice steady despite everything. "I don't know how many of you there are or where you've gone. But I will find out. I will track you down, wherever you run. And I will kill every single one of you."
She adjusted her ragged clothes, checked that the scroll and necklace were still secure against her body.
"Father, I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. But I swear to you—I will avenge you. I will avenge everyone. No matter how long it takes. No matter what I have to become."
She took one last look at the ruins of her home—the only home she had ever known—and burned the image into her memory. She would carry it with her always. It would fuel her when her resolve weakened. It would remind her of what she was fighting for.
Then Nalan Ziyan turned and walked away from the ashes of her past, heading toward an unknown future.
Behind her, the smoke from the destroyed village rose into the morning sky, a dark pillar marking the grave of everything she had once loved.