The Azure Dragon Tempest Abyss devoured all who dared draw near.
Within its depths, eternal storms raged without pause—winds sharp enough to flay immortal flesh, lightning carrying the wrath of forgotten heavenly tribulations, and tides of chaotic qi crashing against jagged peaks formed from the petrified remains of ancient beasts. Legends whispered that this forbidden chasm was the grave of an Azure Dragon Venerable from primordial times—a being that had once raised its head against the Heavenly Dao itself.
Heaven had answered that defiance with annihilation.
Struck down for its hubris, the venerable's colossal corpse fused with the land, its undying resentment birthing an endless tempest that roared as both tomb and warning.
No cultivator entered lightly.
Righteous or demonic, all recoiled before it.
Even ninth-rank immortals skirted its borders, fearful that the lingering draconic will would corrupt their souls and fracture their dao hearts.
Yet now—
A broken figure plummeted through the howling chaos.
Ling Feng tumbled end over end, his body a ruin of shattered meridians and cracked bones. Blood sprayed from his lips in crimson arcs, torn away instantly by gale-force winds. His robes—once pristine white, the proud uniform of a Heavenly Sword Sect inner disciple—hung in tatters, darkened by his own life essence.
In his clenched fist lay a stolen jade slip, its surface fractured, yet still humming with a forbidden aura.
Pain ravaged every fiber of his being.
But Ling Feng's mind was unnervingly clear.
No screams.
No pleas to heaven.
Only cold, ruthless analysis.
Predictable.
Memory struck like lightning.
The forbidden library beneath the sect's main peak.
The guardian formation's flaw—so subtle it had escaped generations of elders, yet patiently deduced by Ling Feng over years of quiet observation.
And there, buried beneath dust and seals of fear, he had found it—
Fragments of the Mad Sword Dao.
An inheritance sealed away for millennia.
A path not of harmony, but of defiance.
A sword intent that devoured divine beast essences, severed threads of fate, and ascended through unrestrained madness.
He had not even finished memorizing the fragments when the sect descended upon him.
At their head stood Zhao Yun—his senior brother, their so-called chosen genius, fattened by resources and blessed by heaven-granted fate.
"Junior Brother Ling," Zhao Yun had said, sorrow dripping from his voice as dozens of disciples encircled him, "the Mad Sword Dao is demonic. It severs one's bond with the Heavenly Dao and invites eternal insanity. For the sake of the sect's righteousness… you cannot be allowed to live."
Righteousness.
Ling Feng had not begged.
He had merely looked into their eyes—and seen naked greed dressed in virtue.
They feared the technique's potential. Feared that if he mastered it, their hoarded legacies and exalted bloodlines would become meaningless. That a transmigrator, once an ordinary man from a distant blue star called Earth, could surpass them all.
So they struck together.
Formations. Flying swords. Spirit treasures.
Overkill—directed at a mere mid-Foundation Establishment cultivator.
Ling Feng had killed three before they crippled him and cast his body into the abyss bordering the sect's domain.
As he fell, the storm's roar swallowing all sound, clarity sharpened within him.
All paths are the same.
Righteous sects preached virtue while monopolizing resources.
Demonic cultivators slaughtered openly for power.
Both were tools of the same truth:
The strong exploit the weak.
The weak invent morality to endure it.
Lightning split the darkness.
Below him emerged colossal skeletal remains, coiled around obsidian peaks like a serpent guarding its hoard. The bones of the ancient Azure Dragon Venerable—scales still shimmering faintly with undissipated azure light. Empty eye sockets seemed to follow his descent, cold and judging.
Primordial draconic qi thickened the air.
Winds howled like dying dragon roars.
Ling Feng's vision dimmed from blood loss and exhaustion.
Death loomed.
Yet in the crystalline instant before oblivion—
A spark ignited in his soul.
Not despair.
Not rage.
Resolve.
Heaven wants me dead through its puppets.
Then I will not beg heaven.
I will defy it.
With his last intact shred of spiritual sense, Ling Feng pierced the jade slip.
Fragments of the mantra detonated within his sea of consciousness:
The sword is madness.
Madness is freedom from fate's chains.
Sever laws. Devour essences.
Ascend through defiance alone.
Emotion is illusion. Morality is shackle.
Only the mad sword reaches eternity.
Agony erupted.
The incomplete dao seed forced itself into existence, colliding violently with his shattered meridians—like a blade carving directly into his soul.
Then—
Impact.
His body slammed into a viscous pool, the fall barely cushioned by its unnatural density.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
Consciousness returned slowly.
Ling Feng floated in eerie stillness at the abyss's core. Above, the storm raged unseen, reduced to a distant, muted thunder. Around him stretched a vast pool of azure blood—thick, luminous, preserved for eons by a venerable's unyielding will. It pulsed faintly, as if alive.
His body—miraculously intact—absorbed trace essences instinctively.
Broken bones knit.
Meridians flickered, reconnecting.
Opportunity.
No gratitude.
No awe.
Only calculation.
A venerable's blood. Undiluted by time.
If refined…
The fragment of the Mad Sword Dao circulated on instinct. Jagged, defiant sword intent surged from his dantian—raw, incomplete, yet fearless.
It pierced the blood.
Resistance erupted instantly.
The pool boiled, ancient arrogance surging forth—an illusionary pressure crashing down as the dragon's dying resentment manifested.
You? A mortal ant? Begone.
Visions assaulted him: the dragon's final battle, its proud roars as heaven's tribulations tore it apart.
Ordinary cultivators would have knelt.
Would have submitted.
Ling Feng remained expressionless.
You defied heaven with pride and bloodline arrogance… and failed.
Pride is weakness.
Bloodlines are chains.
He pushed deeper.
Invisible sword intent slashed outward.
Slash.
The suppression cracked.
Essence flooded his meridians—violent, purifying, rebuilding them stronger than before. Draconic resilience fused with human flesh, yet stripped of the dragon's fate-bound arrogance.
Pain transcended language.
Veins bulged like rivers of azure light. Skin split, scales flashing into existence before sealing shut. Madness whispered within his consciousness.
Fragments of his former Earth life surfaced—memories of warmth, compassion, morality from a gentler world.
Weakness.
Liability.
Emotion bound cultivators to predictability.
Mercy invited betrayal.
Without hesitation—
Slash.
He severed those threads himself.
The refinement accelerated.
Power surged without restraint.
No heavenly backlash.
No rejection of fate.
Time lost meaning.
When it ended—
Ling Feng stood.
Atop the massive skull of the Azure Dragon Venerable, winds whipping his long black hair now bound in a high warrior's knot, strands shimmering faintly with azure light. His tattered robes had fused with dragon scales, forming dark, ornate armor pulsing with restrained power.
In his hand manifested an ethereal sword of pure azure intent—mad, sharp, humming with defiance.
Realm leap:
From a crippled mid-Foundation Establishment cultivator
to peak Core Formation, foundations rivaling ancient heavenly geniuses.
Sword intent—nascent mastery.
More than that—
The First Stage of Sword Insanity had awakened: Whispers of Defiance.
Subtle urges coiled within his mind—question authority, slaughter for growth, devour to ascend.
Ling Feng felt no fear.
Only acceptance.
This is true power.
Not bestowed by heaven's favor.
Stolen through will and calculation.
He gazed upward, through layers of storm toward the distant abyssal exit.
The Heavenly Sword Sect believed him dead.
Optimal.
Assumptions bred vulnerability. Zhao Yun and the elders would relax, redistribute his resources, lower their guard.
A faint smile curved Ling Feng's lips—cold, precise, devoid of warmth.
When I return, the sword will drink deeply.
Not for revenge—revenge is emotional waste.
For resources.
For growth.
For eternity.
Far above, thunder boomed unnaturally, as if the Heavenly Dao itself had sensed the birth of an abomination.
The path of mad defiance—
Had begun.