A young disciple kneels in the rain, expelled from his sect.
Lightning crashes.
Instead of fear, he feels hunger.
Not for food.
For the lightning itself.
And when it strikes him...
He does not die.
He devours it.
|Chapter 1|
Rain hammered the black tiles of the Xuanyin Clan's ancestral hall.
Shadows danced across carved pillars, and the sound of water striking stone echoed like a funeral drum.
In the center, a young cultivator knelt, head bowed, soaked through. His hair clung to his pale, flawless face.
The elders had spoken:
"He has no talent. He is unworthy. Expel him."
The words burned deeper than the storm outside. He was the son of a mortal mother and a god from the Upper Realm—born of divine blood—yet they saw him as nothing more than a discarded child.
No one knows exactly what his Father's origin is but her Mother.
Lightning split the sky.
The clan hall trembled.
And something ancient and forbidden awakened within him.
A hunger. Not for food. Not for revenge.
For the Dao itself.
From the shadows of his mind, a whisper called:
"Consume. Absorb. Become."
His vision sharpened. Every bead of rain, every flicker of lightning, every drop of spilled blood in the courtyard shimmered with possibility.
The Devouring Dao had chosen him.
He rose. No one spoke now. Even the storm seemed to hold its breath.
A senior disciple approached, sword drawn. Pride painted across his face.
He had no idea.
The young cultivator extended his hand.
A black aura swirled around him, coiling like a living thing.
The lightning struck him, and instead of burning his flesh, it merged into him, feeding the fire within.
The disciple swung his sword.
The aura leapt forward. It wasn't just a defense—it consumed the attack.
The cultivator's eyes glowed violet, deep as a void.
The Devouring Dao had begun its first feast.
Moments later, the disciple fell, eyes wide in horror, his cultivation energy being drawn into the boy like water into a storm.
Every secret technique, every insight, every fragment of his Dao comprehension was ripped from him, leaving only a lifeless husk.
The young cultivator's own body shivered. The whispers were louder now, a chorus of devoured Daos.
He could feel them—alive and angry in his mind—but he did not care.
A name formed in the wind, carried on the lightning:
"He who devours the Dao…"
And so it began. The storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest within him.
The world had taken a step closer to collapse—and the boy had only just risen from his knees.