No matter how he strained his eyes, the half-wild man—once a warrior himself—had never witnessed a corpse unleash such terrifying power.

  Shock and insatiable curiosity tore at his heart as he clung to the branches, gazing down in breathless awe.

  Concealed in the dense foliage, pupils dilated in horror, he watched the crimson glow from the boy by the river swell like a devouring flame, spreading without mercy.

  The grass that had sheltered him moments ago withered in seconds, its life force brutally siphoned away, leaving only brittle husks.

  Even the tiny fish in the spring bobbed to the surface, belly-up and shriveled, as if scorched by years under a merciless sun.

  Swinging silently between the trees, keeping a desperate distance, the half-wild man could only observe, his chest tight with dread.

  In those fleeting minutes, Timo Yang had suffered suffocation, bone-searing cold, and a shattering fall—wounds that spelled certain death.

  When his eyes fluttered open, he was adrift in an endless void of darkness.

  "Where... am I dead?"

  His voice echoed hollowly as he ran through the abyss—legs never tiring, yet surrounded by nothing but suffocating black.

  "Brat—turn around!"

  The voice—warm, familiar, like a lifeline in the gloom—halted him.

  He whirled.

  A white-robed elder stood in the distance, waving gently.

  "Great-grandfather?"

  The Elder only smiled, eyes crinkling with unspoken tenderness.

  With a soft wave, a jade table materialized before them.

  "Come. Sit with me a while."

  Timo's heart ached as he hesitated, then sat opposite the figure he'd longed to see again.

  "Am I... really dead?"

  The Elder studied him intently, that serene smile never fading, words withheld like a gentle secret.

  "Azure essence spirit tea—perfect for you."

  A jade tea set appeared on the table.

  The cups slid forward as if drawn by invisible hands.

  The pot rose gracefully, pouring into both—not mere water, but shimmering, liquid essence breath that danced like captured starlight.

  "This is the afterlife?" Timo whispered, a fragile wonder piercing his grief. "If so... dying isn't as terrifying as I thought."

  He marveled at the Elder's effortless mastery, a pang of loss twisting in his chest—this warmth, this guidance, now only in death?

  "It hasn't truly begun—how could it end so soon?"

  The Elder gestured: drink.

  In life, Timo would have hesitated, fear gnawing at him.

  But now, in this limbo? Even poison held no threat.

  He raised the cup with trembling hands and drank deeply. No flavor, no warmth—yet it soothed something deep within his soul.

  "Great-grandfather... please, listen," Timo pleaded, voice cracking with desperation. "I didn't kill Aunt Guo. I never controlled Regiment Leader Yi to murder anyone. I'm not the Child of Darkness! And... I saw it—Madam Yi released purple mist toward you..."

  "Oh?" The Elder's eyes sparkled with quiet interest. "Tell me more."

  "She seized the Elder's token... became Prophet Elder. She claimed the Eye proved I'm darkness incarnate. That I manipulated Uncle Yi, caused Earth Mother's death. Called me a calamity... a curse..." Timo's words tumbled out, raw and broken, the weight of betrayal crushing him anew.

  The Elder listened in silence, that gentle smile unwavering.

  He poured another cup.

  "So... are you?"

  Timo shook his head violently, tears he couldn't shed burning in his eyes. "No! But how can I fight a prophecy? My wind essence... it's wrong, different. I sneaked a look at Sister's diary..."

  He choked on a sob that had no sound. "It's tied to my bloodline. Because of me, Sister suffered—heavenly thunder struck her in my place. I couldn't bear dragging her into the abyss... so I jumped. To protect her. Now... I'm gone. Truly gone."

  The Elder noted Timo's form beginning to flicker, translucent edges blurring, and gestured once more: drink.

  Timo stared at the cup—colorless, tasteless—yet it called to him like a final comfort.

  He drank, a profound peace washing over him. Faint scents of grass teased his nose. The murmur of streams reached his ears.

  Laughter escaped the Elder—deep, affectionate, laced with sorrow. He stroked his beard, eyes distant, as if gazing across a lifetime.

  "A person chooses who they become," he said softly. "That's the path I walked. The one who must depart... is me, child. Not you."

  He poured again, urging.

  Timo—now a fading specter, oblivious—drank deeply.

  "Their causes bear their fruits. Your cause... your fruit. Your path stretches on—unfinished."

  Timo's mind reeled, confusion mingling with aching love. He opened his mouth—

  The table, the tea set—dissolved into nothingness.

  The Elder turned, walking into the encroaching dark, his silhouette dimming like a dying ember.

  "Great-grandfather—don't leave me!" Timo cried, voice raw with anguish, reaching out to empty void. "What does it mean? Please!"

  No answer. Only silence.

  Alone again, the scents grew stronger, the sounds clearer—pulling him back.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Then, the darkness ripped apart.

  Verdant green flooded his vision.

  Agony exploded through him—searing, unbearable, a torrent that drowned all thought.

  He struggled to rise, only to confront the ruin of his body: limbs shattered, bones jutting through torn flesh, blood pooling warm and sticky.

  His throat constricted; screams trapped inside.

  Worse than any nightmare—worse than death.

  Branches impaled his abdomen. His neck twisted unnaturally. His skull throbbed, swollen and splitting.

  "I... who am I? Where...?" he gasped, the words a feeble whisper against the overwhelming torment.

  Trapped in this hell—alive, yet helpless, pain his only companion.

  His bloodied ears twitched faintly.

  Gurgling, slithering sounds—hungry, approaching.

  "Blood... from above. Fresh... exquisite delicacy!"

  Four fish demons slunk in the river depths, drawn inexorably.

  Their grotesque forms writhed forward, lapping greedily at the crimson-tainted water—the richest human essence they'd ever savored.

  "There! An essence wielder... heaven-sent feast! Da-da..."

  Eyes blazing scarlet with ravenous hunger, jagged teeth clacking in anticipation.

  They erupted from the water, jaws snapping at his exposed limbs.

  Timo heard the frenzy but could only endure.

  Fresh waves of torment crashed over him—flesh tearing, bones crunching—as hot tears carved paths through the blood on his face.

  High above, the half-wild man sobbed uncontrollably, snot and tears mingling in helpless grief.

  He was no match for so many.

  He should have mercy-killed the boy earlier—spared him this horror.

  But he couldn't. Not yet.

  He'd clawed through survival to bear witness, to carry the truth beyond these wilds.

  He couldn't throw it away now.

  Crouched in the leaves, heart shattering, he watched.

  He'd believed the boy extraordinary—an essence wielder touched by fate.

  But now... all hope seemed devoured.

  The half-wild man’s tears, streaming in great, heaving sobs, froze mid-fall—as though the world had drawn a breath and held it. He stood motionless, eyes locked wide, unable to tear away from the sight unfolding before him.

  Through that stunned gaze, he watched the distant red radiance, once spreading languidly, detonate in perfect silence. It was no explosion of fire or sound, but a sudden, total unraveling: a pulse of absence that swept across every living thing in its path.

  The grass curled black and brittle in an instant. Trees shed their leaves like ash. The four fish demons—faces twisted in grotesque hunger—had barely sunk their teeth into warm flesh when they sensed the wrongness. Too late. Their bloated bodies collapsed inward, skin shriveling against bone, collapsing into withered husks that no longer resembled anything that had once moved.

  And still it was not over.

  From the desiccated corpses of the four spirit-rich demons drifted pale orbs of essence—pure, luminous, unresisting. They streamed toward the boy in a single, inevitable current, vanishing into his chest without ripple or resistance.

  In their wake, healing surged through Timo Yang’s broken body.

  The agony in his skull gave way to a series of sharp, wet cracks—bones knitting, fragments sliding back into place with deliberate precision. His neck, wrenched and dislocated, snapped into alignment with a low, final crunch. The jagged branch still lodged through his abdomen was forced outward by an invisible tide, sliding free in a slow, wet withdrawal, leaving only the raw, weeping wound.

  A sound escaped him—low, ragged, almost surprised.

  “Ah…”

  His voice, so long denied, returned like a stranger’s.

  Life flooded back into dying limbs. The severed arm twitched once, then drew itself upward, muscle and tendon reconnecting with quiet, inexorable certainty.

  Now only two hungers remained: thirst that scorched the throat, and a deeper, more ancient starvation that clawed at the very root of his being.

  With one arm braced against the earth, he dragged himself forward—heedless of torn flesh, heedless of the pain that should have been unbearable—until the river’s edge welcomed him. He plunged his face into the current and drank in long, desperate pulls, water flooding his mouth, his throat, his very veins.

  When he could hold no more, he lifted his head. Sunlight poured over his skin, warm and forgiving. He drew breath—deep, unlabored, gloriously free—and a wild, trembling joy rose inside him.

  This was resurrection. Every inhale tasted of miracle.

  Then came the scent.

  Rich. Sweet. Alive.

  Timo Yang inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. His gaze snapped to the wild spirit herbs scattered along the slope—each one radiating delicate filaments of essence, faint pulses of life that called to the hollow inside him. Beyond them, other plants shimmered with the same quiet glow, each a promise of sustenance.

  His spirit root—starving, insatiable—reached out in silent hunger. One-handed, he clawed forward across the earth, intent only on closing the distance, on consuming what would fill the void.

  High in the canopy, the half-wild man swung between branches, ready to drop—until a massive black shadow bounded across the rocks below.

  Sapphire lightning flickered along its hide: a thunder-element demonic beast. The half-wild man opened his wide mouth and loosed a series of urgent, guttural cries.

  Below, Timo Yang paused at the strange sound, but the steep incline hid his would-be rescuer. Failing to locate the source, he turned—and froze.

  A dire wolf blocked the path ahead.

  Massive, lean, jaws parted to reveal fangs longer than fingers. Thick ropes of green saliva dripped to the ground, hissing faintly as they struck grass and dissolved it. The beast had scented fresh blood from two kilometers away. This was its territory; it had long grown weary of the fish demons’ rancid meat. The aroma of warm, living flesh had driven it mad with need.

  The half-wild man moved to intervene—arm extended—then stopped.

  Dread filled his eyes. He remembered the fish demons: drained in seconds, life sucked away as though they had never been. If that power triggered again now, in his own ruined body, there would be no escape.

  So he remained aloft, shouting, drool spilling from his lips in frantic streams. The dire wolf ignored him utterly. Old enemies, they had once hunted each other with single-minded fury—yet now the wolf regarded him as less than nothing.

  It advanced slowly, lips curled back, green saliva dripping in corrosive beads that smoked against the earth.

  “Done for…” Timo Yang whispered.

  Even so, hunger drowned fear. The emptiness inside him was so vast he half-wanted to tear into the wolf itself—to devour it whole.

  In that extremity, his vision flickered. The dire wolf’s form shifted in his sight: he saw the lightning-laced blood coursing through its arteries, the intricate lattice of bone and muscle, the violet spirit essence swirling like storm clouds in its abdomen.

  “What is that… lightning woven into the blood? Is that spirit essence? And there—inside the core—that’s the spirit root? So… magnificent…”

  He stared, lost in wonder, unaware that the wolf now crackled with full electric fury.

  It lunged.

  Jaws closed around his throat in a burst of pain.

  But Timo Yang’s first thought was not death.

  I want to eat you.

  He seized the massive head with desperate strength. His mouth opened wide. Teeth sank into the beast’s ear.

  The dire wolf’s green pupils dilated in shock. It sensed the danger—too late.

  A crimson tide unfurled from Timo Yang, wrapping the creature, sinking deep into flesh and bone.

  The wolf’s face contorted. It released its grip, staggering backward as though bound by invisible chains—inescapable, unrelenting. Bloodlust bled into terror, then into dull, ashen emptiness.

  In seconds the beast was consumed from within, dying in silent agony, fangs still bared in futile rage.

  With a thunderous crash, its body collapsed midway up the slope.

  White essence and violet spirit essence rose from the corpse—drawn into a crimson aura that flowed straight into Timo Yang.

  “Ah!”

  Still dazed, he let out a raw, involuntary roar.

  Cracking sounds echoed through his body as limbs fully rejoined.

  “Haha…”

  Eyes wide, tears streaming unchecked, he laughed—open, wild, unrestrained. Power thrummed in every vein, every muscle, every breath.

  He slapped the ground and rose.

  His left foot still dragged, but the soul-rending pain of before was gone. In its place: exhilaration, pure and bright.

  He threw his head back and howled—long and triumphant, echoing the wolf’s own cry.

  Then silence.

  He stood scratching his head, bewildered.

  “Who… am I? Why am I here?”

  Timo Yang turned slowly, taking in the world around him. He did not notice the blood that caked his body—his leather armor, his pouch, his skin—dark and thick as though he had waded through slaughter.

  A sudden heat flared against his backside. He fumbled through the pouch and drew out the gold-patterned snakeskin—now flattened, scorched with pale, ghostly marks.

  He shook it again.

  A blood-soaked red gem tumbled into his palm.

  The clinging crimson vanished swiftly, absorbed into his skin.

  Timo Yang lifted the gem carefully. In the sunlight it burned with crystalline fire—facets catching light like captured stars. It trembled faintly in his hand.

  Memory-less, he had no name for it. Yet instinct whispered truth: this gem had saved him. Its aura carried the gentle, unmistakable touch of healing.

  The Sacred Domain… No wonder its power was so absolute. Had the old Holy Lord truly fallen? She never reached the Spirit God throne—thank every star for that mercy.

  The half-wild man recognized the gem instantly: the red seal of the Holy Lord’s authority.

  Before he could move, the boy—once dying—turned toward him with uncanny certainty. The half-wild man tensed.

  But Timo Yang did not approach.

  He stepped clear of the withered grass and fixed his gaze on the spirit herbs lining the steep slope.

  Clutching the gem, he tested it once.

  A surge of power leapt outward.

  In an instant, the herbs—great and small—withered. Their life force snuffed out like candles in a sudden wind.

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