Daniel tried to circulate mana—
—and almost screamed.
His spine arched violently as something inside him tore against flesh. His breath shattered, air ripping out of his lungs as if his chest had been struck from the inside. He slammed a hand against the stone floor to steady himself, fingers digging until his nails cracked.
The pain was wrong.
It wasn’t sharp.
It was heavy.
Like molten iron being poured through his veins, dragging everything down with it.
He was able to handle it because of the title effect he acquired previously.
Daniel forced himself not to scream.
His teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached. His vision blurred, black spots blooming at the edges as his muscles locked one by one.
This wasn’t training.
This was his body rejecting him.
“…Still alive,” he rasped.
He sat there for a long moment, trembling uncontrollably, sweat soaking his clothes as his heart hammered erratically. Every breath felt like it scraped his lungs raw.
When the pain dulled to something survivable, he understood.
This was Asura.
Not exploding.
Not raging.
Crushing.
It pressed inward, demanding space his body didn’t have.
Daniel closed his eyes and began the Yama Arts.
Inhale.
Stillness.
Exhale.
The familiar framework formed slowly, painfully, like broken bones being forced back into place. His muscles loosened just enough for him not to collapse.
Then—
The demonic mana stirred again.
It pushed.
His dantian burned as if something had sunk claws into it and twisted. Blood rose in his throat, metallic and hot. Daniel swallowed it back down, refusing to let even a drop escape.
Ten seconds.
That was all he managed before the circulation snapped.
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He collapsed forward, gasping, palms flat against the floor, saliva dripping from his lips.
His whole body shook.
“So… this is the cost,” he whispered.
Asura didn’t care about balance.
It cared about control.
Either he dominated it—
—or it would grind him into something unrecognizable.
Daniel tried again.
The second attempt was worse.
The moment Asura activated, his nerves screamed. His arms went numb, then burned as if lit from the inside. His heartbeat spiked violently, so fast it felt like it might tear itself apart.
Five seconds longer.
His vision flashed red.
For a split second, a thought slipped in—cold, clean, terrifying.
Kill whatever is nearest.
Daniel choked on his breath and tore the circulation apart.
He retched, bile burning his throat as he collapsed onto his side, clutching his abdomen. His muscles spasmed violently, refusing to obey him.
“No,” he whispered hoarsely.
“That isn’t me.”
The room was silent.
But the mana wasn’t.
It pressed against him like a presence, waiting.
That night, sleep brought no rest.
Daniel dreamed of standing knee-deep in corpses, their blood warm around his ankles. He felt nothing as he walked through them—no anger, no hatred.
Only efficiency.
He looked down at his hands.
They were black to the elbows.
He woke choking, fingers clawing at his chest as his heart thundered painfully against his ribs. His sheets were soaked through with sweat.
It took him several minutes to remember where he was.
And even longer to remember who.
The days that followed were hell measured in hours.
Mornings were Yama Arts—slow, disciplined, grinding stability into his shattered system. Even then, his body screamed in protest. Every circulation felt like forcing broken glass through muscle.
Nights were Asura.
Pure suffering.
Each session left him shaking, veins bulging painfully beneath his skin, blood leaking from his nose and mouth despite his best efforts. His bones felt heavier, denser, like they were being reforged without mercy.
He passed out twice.
Both times, he woke on the cold floor, heart racing, mana still crawling through him like something alive.
And still—
He continued.
Not because he wanted to.
Because stopping felt worse.
Strangely, his strength barely increased.
But his endurance under agony sharpened frighteningly fast.
He learned how to breathe through pain that would have made others beg. How to move while his limbs screamed for him to stop. How to maintain precision when every instinct told him to lash out.
People noticed.
Servants avoided his eyes. Disciples instinctively stepped aside. Even elders frowned faintly when he passed, unease flickering across their faces.
The Patriarch confronted him one evening.
“You feel wrong,” his father said quietly.
Daniel bowed, hiding the tremor in his hands.
“I’m holding it together.”
The Patriarch’s gaze lingered.
“Make sure that remains true.”
That night—
Ding.
[ System Log:
Hybrid cultivation ongoing
Physical strain: Critical ]
Daniel laughed weakly.
“So now you’re watching.”
The system didn’t answer.
Instead—
[Ding.
Sub-Quest Unlocked: Mental Anchor
Objective: Maintain cultivation for one hour without emotional fluctuation
Reward: Mentality + 5
Failure: Loss of emotional regulation]
Daniel stared at the screen, then closed his eyes.
An hour.
His body screamed within minutes.
Pain flared and faded and flared again, waves crashing over him as Asura tested his limits relentlessly. Violent urges rose—strike, dominate, end.
Daniel acknowledged them.
And let them pass.
Not suppressing.
Not accepting.
Just… enduring.
When the hour ended, his body finally gave out. He collapsed forward, barely conscious, breath shallow and ragged.
Ding.
[ Sub-Quest Completed
Mentality: 23 → 28 ]
Daniel lay there, unmoving, tears leaking silently from the corners of his eyes—not from emotion, but from sheer neurological overload.
The world felt distant.
Muted.
Clear.
As he forced himself upright, one truth settled painfully in his chest:
This path would never forgive weakness.
If he slipped—
Asura would take everything.
And Yama would only watch.
As Daniel stared into the darkness of the Crimson House, his hands trembling faintly, he realized—
The coming duel wasn’t about victory anymore.
It was about proving that his will could still be called someone of Crimson House.
