Hey everyone!So, I managed to write around 3,500 words for this chapter. finally! I just wanted to say sorry for not uploading anything these past couple of weeks. Life’s been a bit hectic. Also, apologies if the quality feels a little off this time around. I really tried my best, but sometimes the words don’t flow the way you want them to.Thanks so much for your patience, and I hope you still enjoy the chapter!

  The air was thick—not just with the iron scent of blood, but with a tension so heavy it crushed every thought the elders tried to form. Before any of them could utter another word, footsteps echoed from outside the cavern.

  Then came the voices.

  “Elder! Elder! We smell blood—strong blood! It’s coming from Elder Han Ye’s cave!”

  Disciples, mostly young and inexperienced, flooded toward the entrance, curious and armed by the potent scent. But the moment they entered and id eyes on what y within…

  They froze. Some gasped. Others turned pale.

  A few gagged.

  Several doubled over and vomited onto the floor of the cavern.

  It wasn’t just the dried blood streaking the walls and pooling beneath Han Ye’s feet—or the sight of his blood-soaked torso still seeping—but something far more disturbing: Han Ye himself, smiling gently, divine and terrifying all at once. A contradiction in flesh.

  The disciples—many of whom had never seen true battle, much less this kind of grotesque sanctity—trembled where they stood.

  But then, a few among them stepped forward.

  And fell to their knees.

  “Oh, my Lord,” they said in unison. Their voices calm. Aware. Devoted. They had no confusion—only faith.

  They were the ones Han Ye had encountered in the marketpce. The ones who had witnessed the impossible and returned changed. They had become his cultists.

  Their devotion only deepened the horror for the others present. Murmurs of disbelief and fear rippled through the gathered disciples, while the elders and Vice Master Xi stood stiff with a new wave of unease.

  Only Elder Xian and Elder Ji, having seen the marketpce scene firsthand, managed to remain composed—barely.

  Perhaps they had already felt this madness crawling beneath their skin once before.

  “Rex,” Han Ye said gently, turning toward the kneeling ones. “We’re all cultivators, aren’t we?”

  “But you are our Lord,” one answered without hesitation.

  Han Ye turned to the others. “See? I can’t even change their minds.”

  He sighed softly, like a parent indulging foolish children. “Alright then—everyone, back to your own caves. This isn’t a theater.”

  Then he pointed toward one particur disciple—the one kneeling so hard that blood had begun dripping from his forehead where it cracked against the cavern floor.

  “You. Yes, you.”

  The disciple looked up shakily. “Y-y-yes, my Lord?”

  Han Ye approached him. He raised his hand and made a small, graceful gesture—a mirror of the Creation of Adam, fingers poised delicately as if to bestow a spark of life. He touched the disciple’s forehead.

  In a fsh, the wound vanished.

  It was as if reality rewrote itself to obey Han Ye’s will.

  The disciple gasped. Then wept. But the tears were not of pain—they were of worship. He had been touched by a god. Or so he believed.

  “That’s enough,” Han Ye said kindly. “Go now.”

  And they obeyed.

  Every st one of them—devotees and horrified onlookers alike—shuffled out of the cave. Even the elders and Vice Master Xi followed in silence.

  Behind them, the air inside the cave pulsed once again with something old and watching. Something that waited within Han Ye—still smiling softly, eyes glimmering with something not of this world.

  Something human, and yet not.

  The elders and Vice Master walked away from Han Ye’s cave—not flying, just walking in silence, as if any sudden movement might trigger something worse. The oppressive atmosphere still clung to their robes like damp mist.

  After a few minutes of uneasy silence, Elder Xian finally spoke, his voice low.

  “Hey… as far as I remember, Han Ye is still in mid Arc III, right? How the hell did he heal someone instantly without even using a healing technique?”

  The others stopped walking, struck by the same thought. Their faces darkened, brows furrowing in realization. Logic didn’t expin what they had just witnessed.

  Then—without a word—Vice Master Xi turned around and flew straight back to Han Ye’s cave.

  They watched him go, too stunned to stop him.

  A few minutes ter, he returned, descending calmly and rejoining the group with a neutral face.

  “…Why did you go back, Vice Master?” Elder Meng asked. He sounded far better than before, no longer pale or trembling. Thankfully, he hadn’t fallen into heart demon territory from the shock.

  The Vice Master held up his storage ring, shaking it lightly. “Well, we were offered free resources. With all the madness earlier, I nearly forgot to ask for them. So I went back, asked Han Ye… and he gave me everything.”

  Everyone blinked in disbelief.

  “Everything?”

  “Everything—except for the stuff he’s reserving for his, uh… ‘mp project,’ or whatever that is.”

  Their jaws practically hit the ground. That alone felt surreal—but what stunned them even more was what the Vice Master had just done.

  “Wait… You actually went back in there? Alone? After that? Just for some resources?” Elder Jian stared in disbelief.

  “Hey, we need funding, alright?” Vice Master Xi said, shrugging. “And if we’re not going to get our stolen funds back anytime soon, then at least we can use these materials to make proper uniforms for our sect.”

  “…That’s… true,” the other elders muttered in agreement, almost ashamed they hadn’t thought of it first.

  For all their spiritual cultivation, they had never had proper sect uniforms.

  But Elder Ji was still uneasy. His grip tightened slightly on his new weapon—the one Han Ye had crafted.

  “…Is this really safe?” he asked quietly.

  The Vice Master turned his head, his voice ced with dry sarcasm. “Hey, look at that shiny new weapon you’re holding. Maybe reflect on that before asking dumb questions.”

  Elder Ji opened his mouth to protest, but embarrassment caught him mid-breath. He shut it again and looked away.

  He had no comeback.

  Because he liked the weapon.

  From that incident onward, everyone in the Archer Sect came to understand what—and more disturbingly, who—Han Ye truly was. The word spread like wildfire. Especially among the cultists who had already pledged themselves to him.

  Those who knew the exact location of Han Ye’s cave began setting up camp nearby, building crude tents and shelters along the stone pathways and cliff edges. They waited in reverent silence, hoping to receive a “blessing”—the same kind of divine touch the injured cultist had experienced. That man, whose fractured skull had been healed with a mere touch, now walked with the arrogance of someone chosen by the heavens. His cim that he was “favored” sparked envy among the others, pushing them to abandon their cultivation schedules just to wait outside Han Ye’s cave.

  Han Ye only smiled when he saw them. A tired smile, ambiguous in its meaning. He hadn’t even officially accepted them as his followers. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

  “Hah... I’m confused,” he muttered, massaging his temple with two fingers. His tone was quiet, but audible in the deathly silent cave.

  Suddenly, loud voices echoed from outside—an argument was escating.

  Han Ye walked to the cave entrance and saw Lan Ji and Xun Lian in a heated dispute with a group of cultists. Apparently, Lan Ji had unknowingly trespassed into what they now considered “sacred ground.” The cultists, wrapped in blood-colored robes and self-righteousness, had blocked the two’s path. Some had already begun channeling Qi, preparing techniques not for show but for real combat.

  Before things spiraled out of control, Han Ye’s voice rang out across the clearing like a divine decree.

  “Let them through. He’s my friend.”

  The cultists froze. Then, like a wave parting before a tide, they stepped aside in total silence. Their heads bowed—not to Lan Ji or Xun Lian, but to Han Ye, who had just spoken as though issuing an oracle.

  Lan Ji and Xun Lian exchanged a gnce, still tense, before cautiously entering the cave.

  But once inside, the air turned heavy.

  There was a sound—a soft dripping, spshing—that didn’t belong in the cave.

  They looked down and saw pools of fresh blood, still wet and thick, rippling ever so slightly as if stirred by invisible forces.

  Han Ye didn’t even gnce up from where he sat.

  “It’s my blood from yesterday. Don’t worry.”His voice was calm, unnervingly so. It answered the unspoken question before they could ask it.

  Lan Ji and Xun Lian stood frozen, unsure what to say or do.

  A month ago, Han Ye had been eccentric—but not terrifying. But now… the transformation was undeniable. His aura felt ancient, inhuman. The cave had changed too. The blood-smeared symbols still pulsed faintly on the walls.

  When their eyes turned back to Han Ye, they found him sitting cross-legged, absorbed in a book he always carried. His hands moved with measured grace, carefully drawing something on a parchment. It looked like he was continuing his mysterious mp project, completely unfazed by their presence or the cultists outside waiting for a sign.

  “Han Ye, what exactly happened to you? Why have you become like this? And… you haven’t bathed, have you?”The three questions burst out in a single breath from Xun Lian, surprising even herself. Usually, it was Lan Ji who spoke. But this time, her concern overcame her silence. Her voice trembled—not just from the smell, but from the eerie weight hanging in the air.

  She looked at him with a mix of worry and disbelief. In just under a month, Han Ye’s demeanor, aura, and cultivation level had shifted so drastically it defied reason. He was now at mid Arc III, a leap that should’ve taken years even with guidance. His once-curious eyes now shimmered with a strange emotion—a gleam that bordered on madness.

  And that book—the one he had once called cursed, the one he had said no sane person should read—was now in his hands, being flipped through as though it were a treasured scripture. His fingers traced its pages with a reverent touch, and his gaze held the intensity of someone who believed.

  Han Ye was silent at first, hunched slightly as he adjusted a crystalline piece within the strange mp contraption he was building. But then, slowly, he lifted his head.

  From his lips came a sentence:“Shur’khel uman da’ir ven ul.”

  The words were soft, yet they echoed unnaturally in the chamber. The moment they were spoken, both Lan Ji and Xun Lian instinctively stepped back, as if a cold wind had just passed through their souls.

  It wasn't a known nguage. Not one from this continent. Not even demonic or divine. It was… wrong, and their bodies knew it even if their minds didn’t understand it.

  Han Ye, however, didn’t react to their discomfort. He gently pressed his hand to the body of the incomplete mp, whispering something inaudible. Then it happened.

  The mp flickered to life.

  But not like before. Unlike the unstable prototypes he had crafted prior—those that flickered erratically or responded only to Qi—this one glowed steadily. A soft, white-gold light began to fill the cave, pushing back the shadows, illuminating every blood-written symbol along the walls.

  The oppressive aura in the room lifted just slightly. The blood on the ground shimmered, reacting as if respectful of the glow.

  Lan Ji blinked. “Did… did that just work?”

  Han Ye finally spoke again, this time clearly:“It works. Without its influence.”

  He didn’t crify what it was.

  He simply returned to his project, gently adjusting the light’s intensity, scribbling down results in his notebook with quiet satisfaction.

  Lan Ji and Xun Lian stood still, silent and uncertain. Before either could speak again, Han Ye’s voice echoed from the shadows—calm, cold, final. “Leave. I want to sleep.”

  Sleep? In the middle of the day, while dozens of his fanatics waited outside his cave, hoping to bask in his presence and receive his so-called blessing? It was lunacy, and yet neither of them dared question it.

  Before they could turn to go, Han Ye handed them a mp—his own creation—its light a strange, pulsing thing. Then he gave them weapons: a bow and a knife, both unmistakably of his forging. This time, no blood rituals were involved. Was that mercy? Or had he simply forgotten the ceremony?

  They tried to refuse. He forced the items into their hands anyway. His expression left no room for argument.

  So they fled.

  Not from Han Ye—but from the frenzied devotion that swarmed outside. They hurried out of the cave, afraid the cultists might notice them and erupt into violence. Behind them, Han Ye sealed the cave entrance with nothing more than a wooden door. An absurd barrier—pitifully ordinary—for the thing that y behind it.

  None of the cultists spoke. Though some had honed their hearing to supernatural levels, not a single word from within had reached them.

  Inside, darkness cimed everything.

  But Han Ye did not sleep.

  He couldn’t.

  His mind was unraveling, fraying like an ancient scroll exposed to fire. He wanted to scream—but his throat refused him. He clutched his head in trembling hands as if to stop his thoughts from leaking into the dark. His halo flickered, dim, stuttering like a dying star. The root-like sigil on his palm pulsed violently, with pain so intense it threatened to break his spine from within.

  And then the book—the cursed tome—dragged him back into the Void.

  It didn't ask.

  It simply took.

  That pce, that timeless absence, swallowed him whole.

  According to his fragmented memory, he had once spent 6.5 years trapped there. But here, time was meaningless. Direction did not exist. No above. No below. No edge. No center. Just silence. Just torment.

  A year could pass. Or a thousand. Or a billion.

  Or...

  Or does time even exist here?!

  The book poured its secrets into him—into his soul, not his mind—burning each truth into his essence like acid on flesh. There was no speed to the knowledge. It simply was. All of it. At once.

  Yes... yes...

  There is no time.

  Only knowing.

  Only becoming.

  Only breaking.

  “HahahahahAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

  The book had not finished with him when his eyes glimpsed—

  What was that?

  Who am I?

  Yes... Han Ye.

  I am—Han Ye.

  “HAN YE!!! WAKE UP!!!”

  The voice tore through the dark.

  He tried to open his eyes, but something bound them—tight wrappings, soaked in something warm. Blood. His blood. His other senses surged to compensate. He could smell copper and dust, ash and oil.

  “Han Ye!! Thank the heavens. You’re awake! What happened in there?” Xun Lian’s voice trembled with genuine concern. “We were gone for only three minutes. Then the whole cave shook like it was coming down.”

  Xun Lian. His sect sister. Her voice was unmistakable. She had heard the csh of something—someone—at the cave mouth. Fighting his cultists...

  My cultists?

  I have cultists?

  “Hey! Han Ye! Would you mind controlling your lunatic followers?!” Lan Ji shouted, gritting his teeth as he tried to restrain the maddened zealots. He was only at Arc 1, and yet—somehow—he held the line. Barely. He wasn’t winning. Just surviving.

  Three against one.

  And they were ughing.

  And Han Ye...

  Han Ye just y there, blind, bleeding, and smiling.

  Despite the blood streaming down his face—no, not tears, but blood—Han Ye rose.

  Unsteady. Swaying. Bleeding.

  But standing.

  He took one step, then another, staggering toward the fight where Lan Ji struggled against three self-procimed cultists of Han Ye.

  When the cultists saw him approaching, they froze.

  The battle stopped.

  All eyes turned to the figure walking through his own blood—his hair matted, his body trembling, yet his presence undeniable.

  Han Ye.

  One of the cultists, his voice twitching like a junkie starved of poison, asked, “M-my lord… are you… are you alright?”

  That question was their st hope of survival.

  Behind Han Ye’s cracked smile, something darker brewed. A quiet, vicious desire to kill them all for disturbing him.

  “I’m fine,” Han Ye said simply. “Tell the others outside to go back to their lives.”

  Silence.

  Then one of the cultists began to scream.

  Not from fear. From agony.

  Before their eyes, his body began to twist—bones snapping, flesh warping, anatomy reshaping—until he became a chair. Not made of wood or metal, but of himself. Flesh, bone, sinew bent into the form of a throne-like seat.

  He couldn’t move.

  He only wept.

  “Take the chair out,” Han Ye said softly. “Let it be a warning. Then bring it back here.”

  He smiled. And they obeyed.

  Without question.

  Han Ye turned to his friends, now wounded—an arrow lodged in Xun Lian’s arm, a gash across Lan Ji’s shoulder.

  He healed them both with a touch, cold and effortless.

  Then he staggered again.

  Lan Ji caught him just before he fell.

  “Xun Lian,” Han Ye asked, voice hoarse, “why are my eyes bandaged?”

  “Your eyes…” Xun Lian hesitated. “They were crying blood. I did what I had to.”

  “Good,” Han Ye muttered.

  He couldn’t see—but still moved with uncanny grace.

  The pool of blood on the ground shimmered, and Han Ye crouched, drawing it together with his hand. The liquid coalesced into a dense, pulsing bloodstone—deep crimson, like a clot carved from the heart of something ancient and wrong.

  The scent of blood still lingered in the cave, thick and cloying, though less overwhelming than before.

  Han Ye stood in silence, brooding.

  Thinking.

  What should he do with his cult?

  What should he do with himself?

  He didn’t know.

  And yet he smiled.

  Moments ter, the two cultists returned, carrying the grotesque chair of living flesh. They pced it quietly in the center of the cave, bowing low, then turned and fled.

  Leaving Han Ye alone with the throne.

  With his thoughts.

  And with the thing growing inside him.

  Han Ye then transformed the bloodstone and took some of the remaining materials to craft a longbow that y in the corner of the cave. He forged his own bow by melting, shaping, inscribing runes, and finally performing a ritual as he had done before. However, the ritual for his weapon was far more dangerous because he used more sacrifices—and, of course, the bloodstone in the creation of the longbow.

  Then the bow floated.

  “FATHER... FATHER...”

  A voice echoed, coming from the floating bow.

  “Yes, my child,” said Han Ye, opening his arms as if to embrace a child—or more precisely, his new bow. Lan Ji and Xun Lian seemed invisible, their confusion and fear intensifying. They had seen Han Ye’s mental state shift dramatically multiple times, but this time, Han Ye had completely—

  An explosion sounded at the cave’s entrance. The elders and Vice Master Xi arrived, armed. They saw the flesh-made chair pleading for help, then their eyes turned to Han Ye and his new bow. This time, Han Ye’s crime was too great. Without hesitation, the elders and Vice Master Xi attacked simultaneously—not like in cliché xianxia stories where they shout first.

  Even though they attacked at the same time, what shocked them was Han Ye—he vanished!

  “Shadow teleport?! How can you—” Before Elder Xian could finish, an energy arrow whizzed toward his head. Fortunately, he dodged it in time. Elder Xian scanned his surroundings, but Han Ye was nowhere to be seen—not even from the direction the arrow came from.

  “How is that possible?! Did he merge with the shadows?” said Elder Ming with heightened alertness.

  Vice Master Xi, deep in concentration, realized something.

  “You learned the Howling Whisper Doctrine, didn’t you?” This time, Vice Master Xi was serious. The bow was already filled with qi. The Howling Whisper Doctrine was a secret technique that allowed its user to merge with shadow and wind. A powerful technique—one even the elders and Vice Master Xi himself had never mastered. It had been sealed, yet a newcomer had learned it in less than a month? And how did he read the technique if it was sealed?

  “The technique Vice Master Xi mentioned is usually usable at Arc VI, but with some changes, I can use it at Arc III,” replied Han Ye, still hiding in the shadows. “As for how I read the technique—that’s a secret.”

  Silence. Suddenly, Vice Master Xi stabbed the shadow swiftly, and the sound of someone vomiting was heard. He had pierced Han Ye’s heart, which had manifested as shadow.

  “You know what? Even if I can’t use the technique, that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to counter it,” said Vice Master Xi coldly. The elders didn’t stand still either; they also attacked specific shadows that were parts of Han Ye’s body.

  Han Ye’s ughter echoed, “Hahaha... Vice Master Xi, of course I know the weaknesses of this technique. I’ve modified it—and that voice earlier? I was just pretending. And what you attacked? Just shadows.”

  Vice Master Xi then ordered all the elders, including Lan Ji and Xun Lian who were hiding, to leave Han Ye’s cave. The elders were about to protest but were silenced by Vice Master Xi’s sharp gre. When only Han Ye and Vice Master Xi remained in the cave, Vice Master Xi unched a brutal assault, though none of his attacks struck their target. Finally, he used a clever trick—he emitted a blinding light so intense that no shadows remained. Han Ye was forced out from his hiding, and Vice Master Xi shot an arrow that struck Han Ye in the chest. When Han Ye tried to remove the arrow, dizziness overwhelmed him, and he fainted once again.

  Vice Master Xi carried Han Ye’s body out of the cave. The elders saw him exit, nodded, and then disappeared into the glow of the te afternoon sun.