The stench of blood and rot was suffocating—thick and cloying, a miasma that clung to the boy’s lungs.

  Yun Jin crouched low, his small body trembling as he pressed himself deeper into the pile of corpses. His arms wrapped tightly around his knees, his breath muffled by his sleeve.

  All around him, chaos raged. Shouts, screams, and the sickening clang of steel on steel filled the air.

  The once-green fields of Yunhe Valley had become a sea of red, the ground slick with blood and strewn with the fallen. Soldiers, villagers, and twisted forms of demonic cultists lay where they had collapsed, their faces frozen in terror and agony.

  This valley had been intended to herald a new future.

  Yun Jin and his parents had been traveling to a secret assembly—the founding of a new Warrior Federation that would unite the martial world and end the chaos of the Blood Age.

  But they had been ambushed by the entire demonic cult.

  “It’s the demonic cult! Alert the Sword Saint!”

  That desperate cry had rung out moments before the battle began, but even its memory was now drowned beneath the ceaseless clash of steel and the anguished wails of the dying.

  “Hide here, and don’t make a sound,” his mother had whispered, pressing him into the pile of bodies.

  “Mother, please!”

  Yun Jin stared up at her, his wide eyes brimming with tears.

  “I love you, Yun Jin.” She kissed his forehead.

  Then she was gone, vanishing into the fray alongside his father.

  He hadn’t fully understood—only that his parents had no chance. They weren’t fighting to win; they were fighting for time—even one extra second for their son to survive.

  Yun Jin peeked through the tangled limbs of the dead, his tear-filled gaze searching for them.

  He saw flashes of steel, sprays of blood, and then—finally—a burst of crimson light against the pale sky.

  His father’s sword met the blade of a towering figure cloaked in black.

  The man’s face was sharp and striking, unnervingly clean despite the carnage, but his eyes burned with malice. Wild hair framed his features like a storm cloud, and an oppressive aura radiated from him.

  Cheonma, the Heavenly Demon.

  Yun Jin’s father fought with everything he had, each movement a testament to decades of Wudang training. But it wasn’t enough. Against the Heavenly Demon—one of the three absolute powers of the martial world—it was like hurling pebbles into an ocean.

  Cheonma’s blade swung with the weight of a mountain. In a single, devastating strike, Yun Jin’s father’s sword shattered into glittering shards. Blood sprayed into the air as the blade continued its deadly arc, slicing him in half as though he were soft meat.

  “Is this all the so-called Warrior Federation has to offer?” Cheonma said, his voice smooth and mocking.

  Desperate to avenge her husband, Yun Jin’s mother charged forward with a dagger clutched in trembling hands.

  She didn’t make it far.

  “Foolishness.”

  Without even sparing her a glance, Cheonma flicked his wrist. An invisible wave of qi ripped through the air, hurling her like a rag doll into the dirt. She landed with a sickening crack, her body crumpled unnaturally, limbs twisted by the devastating force.

  Both of Yun Jin’s parents had been warriors of renown—his father, an elder of the Wudang Sect; his mother, a descendant of a prestigious martial family.

  Yet, before Cheonma, they were nothing.

  Yun Jin bit down on his sleeve to stop himself from screaming. Every fiber of his being wanted to flee or leap out to help, though he knew both were futile.

  The Heavenly Demon stood at the pinnacle of unorthodox martial power, his very name whispered in fear even among the demonic sects he ruled.

  Together with the Demon King of the Evil Sect and the Sword Saint of the Righteous, he was one of the three absolutes of the martial world.

  The Demon King was already dead—slain by his hand.

  And now, Cheonma sought to destroy the last bastion of hope: the Sword Saint.

  “Cheonma!”

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  The voice cut through the chaos like a blade slicing the sky.

  Everything stilled. Even the demonic cultists paused.

  A gust of wind swept across the valley, pushing aside smoke and ash. Through the haze, a lone figure emerged.

  He wore white robes that shone faintly in the light.

  At his side hung a simple-looking green sword, its edge gleaming like a sliver of stardust.

  Baek Tianjun, the Sword Saint.

  Cheonma’s lips curled into a grin, teeth gleaming like fangs. “Finally,” he said, spreading his arms wide in mock welcome. “The so-called savior of the martial world graces us with his presence.”

  Baek Tianjun’s gaze swept over the battlefield. His eyes burned with fury, his fists clenched at his sides. He had arrived mere minutes too late, and the bodies of the innocent now lay strewn before him.

  He was no hypocrite, no self-serving fraud cloaked in righteousness. He truly walked the path of virtue—and the anger swelling within him now was staggering.

  “Your reign of blood ends today!”

  Cheonma laughed, a low, guttural sound. “Bold words, Baek Tianjun.” Crimson light flared around his blade as he raised it. “Come, then. Let us see whose sword holds the truth of this world.”

  Baek Tianjun stepped forward, resting his hand on the hilt of the Heaven Ruling Blade, a weapon bestowed upon him by the Emperor himself.

  Cheonma grinned, fingers tightening on the Divine Blood Sword. The blade pulsed with a sinister red glow, dark energy rippling through the air with every heartbeat.

  They surged at each other, swords colliding in a dazzling flash of fury and light.

  The battle raged on, relentless, for three consecutive days.

  By the end of the third day, both warriors were pushed to their absolute limits. Their strikes slowed, their steps grew heavier, but neither backed down.

  Everything around them lay in ruins—grass and trees ground to splinters, human bodies scattered like broken dolls, the once-proud mountains scarred by their unyielding conflict.

  Baek Tianjun swung the Heaven Ruling Blade in a sweeping arc. It cut through Cheonma’s defenses, grazing his shoulder. Blood sprayed into the air like crimson mist.

  Cheonma retaliated, driving the Divine Blood Sword into Baek Tianjun’s side. The blade tore through flesh, dark energy rippling outward with a sinister hum.

  Both men stumbled back, their breathing ragged, yet the fire in their eyes never dimmed.

  Baek Tianjun’s blade shot forward like lightning, aiming for Cheonma’s heart. The Heavenly Demon twisted his wrist to deflect it, countering with a slash that sent sparks flying.

  Exhaustion took hold of Baek Tianjun’s legs, and he fell forward onto his hands. For an instant, darkness crowded his vision.

  Seeing his foe falter, Cheonma let out a ragged laugh, the sound tinged with bitter triumph. He wiped blood from his lips, his crimson aura sputtering but still present.

  “You’re old, Baek Tianjun, or should I say, Master,” Cheonma rasped. “Ten years younger, and perhaps…” He paused, his grin fading momentarily. “Perhaps you could have killed me.”

  Baek Tianjun tightened his grip on the Heaven Ruling Blade. Despite his body’s screams of fatigue, his resolve never wavered. “You talk too much.”

  Cheonma smirked. “Take solace in this, Master: Your greatest failure has become the pinnacle of the martial world. The world doesn’t need your dreams—it needs men like me.”

  Baek Tianjun’s voice was cold and firm. “The world needs neither of us. My dream was to guide you to kindness, Cheonma. But you turned into a nightmare.”

  Cheonma sneered. “Your dream? A world where the weak smile while the strong stand idle? A world without evil or a demonic path? That’s a fantasy! Power is the only law of this world—you taught me that better than anyone!”

  “No,” Baek Tianjun said quietly. “I failed to teach you what true strength is.”

  “You… you became soft after all these years, Master. Now… get out of my sight!”

  The Divine Blood Sword pulsed with malevolent energy as Cheonma raised it high, the crimson blade crackling with destructive qi. The very air seemed to scream, resonating with the finality of the killing blow about to land.

  But before he could strike, a small shadow darted from behind.

  Yun Jin, face smeared with dirt and blood, emerged from the corpses like a ghost.

  He leapt forward, driving a dagger into Cheonma’s back, straight into his dantian.

  The blade pierced the core of the Heavenly Demon’s power. Cheonma staggered, qi flaring wildly as a guttural roar tore from his throat. He whipped around, fury and disbelief twisting his features.

  “You little insect!” Cheonma bellowed, hand crackling with crimson energy, ready to snuff the boy out.

  Baek Tianjun’s eyes widened. He had been waiting for this moment. Despite his battered body, he summoned a final burst of speed. The Heaven Ruling Blade exploded with light as it cleaved the air.

  In a single, fluid motion, Baek Tianjun’s sword severed Cheonma’s head, cutting through flesh and bone as if guided by the heavens themselves. The Heavenly Demon’s red aura flickered and died the moment his head hit the ground with a dull thud.

  Yun Jin collapsed, his small hands trembling, the dagger slipping from his grasp.

  For days, he had hidden among the dead, crawling through oceans of blood. Every step, every breath was torment. Yet he endured, driven by a singular purpose: to avenge his family.

  Now it was over. His soul felt at peace. And with it, his body threatened to give out.

  “No,” Baek Tianjun murmured, voice hoarse yet resolute. “Not yet.”

  He knelt down, placing a steady hand on Yun Jin’s head.

  The boy’s skin was cold, his breathing faint. But his eyes flickered open as Baek Tianjun channeled qi into him, stabilizing his faltering life force.

  Slowly, Baek Tianjun stood. Sheathing the Heaven Ruling Blade, he used it for support. With his free arm, he lifted Yun Jin, cradling the boy’s frail body to his chest.

  Then he walked.

  Dawn’s pale light broke through the smoke-filled sky, illuminating the ruined valley.

  Cheonma was dead. His reign of terror had ended.

  And with it, the Blood Age.