Chapter 9 Heart of the Wielder

The Blood Burning Technique was suddenly interrupted. It wasn't stopped by Silas Thorne himself, nor by Vincent Hale's own doing. No-an unknown force had entered the scene, and even Silas looked on in pure amazement.

Floating silently above his head was a sword. It wasn't a large or flashy weapon. In fact, it was an old and delicate looking sword, its blade tinged with a faint purple glow. But despite its small size, it gave off an aura that was overwhelming. The world itself seemed to pause as it appeared, the sky and earth growing dull in its presence.

This sword-ancient and mysterious-did not need any embellishments. It hovered quietly in the air, like a natural-born king surveying its land. Its calm stillness was more terrifying than any raging storm. The air around it trembled. Trees in the distance swayed even without wind.

Even the ghostly mask that had been dancing with madness earlier was now trembling on the ground. The same grimacing face that had roared with bloodlust moments ago now looked pitiful and afraid. It lay on the ground like a frightened rabbit that had just come face to face with a lion.

The ancient sword let out a faint hum. A moment later, a powerful whooshing sound broke through the stillness. It flew forward in a blur. The air itself parted in its wake, leaving behind a black scar in the sky. That dark trail seemed like it could slice heaven apart. It was a strike that did not just pierce the body-it cut through the soul.

The grimace could only stare helplessly. Its red eyes no longer glowed with fury. They were now filled with desperation, like a cornered animal. It begged with its eyes, but no mercy came.

With a soft sound-huh-the sword pierced the mask cleanly. The impact was sharp, yet elegant. Then, a clear sword cry rang out. But this time, the sword did not sound angry. It sounded joyful, like a child who had finally found a favorite toy. The ferocity from moments before had vanished. The sword hovered back to Silas, spinning in the air like a proud child trying to earn praise from its parent.

From the pierced grimace, black mist began to rise. The smoke-like darkness flowed slowly, curling up the sword's blade. It was being drawn into the sword, bit by bit. The grimace turned fainter with each passing second. In the end, it faded into thin air, leaving behind no resistance. Not even a sound.

As the last of the black mist was absorbed, Vincent Hale, who had formed the grimace from his blood magic, let out a choked cry.

Poof!

A burst of blood shot from his mouth. He fell hard to the ground, his body shaking from the impact. His face had lost all color, replaced by a pale, sickly gray. There was fear in his eyes-and disbelief.

Only seconds ago, he had looked triumphant, with that sick grin on his face. He had believed victory was his. He had thought he could control the battle. But now, everything had flipped. The smile had turned into horror. His body was drenched in blood, his chest heaving.

"You... how... how could... this be..." he stammered weakly.

Before he could finish his sentence, his skin cracked open with fine lines. Tiny streams of blood sprayed out from every cut. In an instant, his body was soaked, red as a fresh wound. He looked like a man made of blood, crumpled on the earth.

A soft, bitter laugh escaped from his lips. It echoed faintly in the quiet mountains, growing softer and weaker until it vanished completely.

A cold wind blew through the trees.

The forest returned to its usual silence, as if nothing had ever happened. Only the blood splattered on the grass proved that a deadly battle had just taken place. A piece of torn cloth flapped in the wind, brushing lightly against a stone. The sound it made-whoosh, whoosh-was lonely.

Vincent Hale lay still, his body unmoving. But if one looked closely, they would see his chest was still rising and falling faintly. He was not dead yet.

Silas Thorne stood over him, eyes as cold as frost. He looked down at the broken man and spoke slowly, one word at a time.

"Those who kill... will be killed in return."

Everything had happened so fast. From the moment the purple ancient sword appeared to the time Vincent fell, barely a minute had passed. But in those forty seconds, the world had turned upside down.

Silas stepped forward, his eyes not blinking. He said nothing more, but every step he took was filled with determination and killing intent. His silence was more terrifying than any shout.

Vincent Hale had to die.

No matter how weak he looked now, Silas would not be fooled. If their roles had been reversed-if Vincent had won instead-he would not have shown mercy. He would have finished Silas without a second thought.

Even if he looked powerless now, Silas knew this man was dangerous. Someone like him, given just a little strength, would strike again without hesitation.

Squatting beside him, Silas placed a hand gently on Vincent's chest. A flicker of black light sparkled on his fingertips.

Vincent's eyes snapped open.

"What... what are you doing?!" he gasped in fear.

"Not pretending to be dead anymore?" Silas said, smirking coldly.

He didn't say another word. That black light-his greatest gain from the past two days-began to spread.

It was the power of Devouring.

Silas had long wondered about this strange ability. He had absorbed the energy of nature, the strength of the Ironwood tree, and now, he wanted to try something new-could he absorb the Life Force of another cultivator?

If so, he could one day absorb Primordial Energy too.

With the calmness of a scholar testing a theory, Silas sent the devouring power into Vincent's body. The black light glowed brighter.

Vincent gasped. He could feel it-his Life Force was slipping away, flowing toward Silas's hand.

"No... demon... you're... a demon..." he gasped.

Before he could finish the sentence, his body went still. His eyes froze wide open, full of horror. He died with fear locked into his face.

Silas could feel the Life Force gathering inside him. A shiver of pleasure ran through his body. The energy was pure, clean. He could already feel his power growing.

"I'm not a disciple of the Demon Path," he whispered.

As the last trace of energy entered him, Silas stood tall. A powerful force exploded from his body. The pressure in the air shifted. His cultivation had broken through-he was now in the sixth realm.

But before he could celebrate, a shadow crossed his mind. He frowned.

Even though the Immortal and Demon Paths no longer fought openly, most Immortal sects still forbade the use of Demon Path techniques. The Azurelight Order especially would never allow its disciples to learn something like Devouring Power.

He looked at himself: the cruel sword, the eerie power, and now the corpse of his enemy beside him. He didn't look like an Immortal disciple. He looked like someone from the Demon Path.

If the elders of Azurelight Order found out...

Silas's eyes narrowed. The consequences would be deadly.

The more he thought about it, the colder he felt. He had no clear way to hide his power. His breathing became heavy. Red light flickered in his eyes, like a madness waking inside him.

"Groan..."

A soft sound from the sword snapped him out of it. The purple ancient sword let out a gentle hum near his ear.

Silas blinked. His body relaxed. He realized just how close he had come to being consumed by a heart demon-a loss of control that could destroy a cultivator from within.

He turned to the sword, grateful.

This sword wasn't just a weapon. It had saved him twice now. The cold edge, the eerie glow-it didn't matter. This was his sword. Whether it was called cursed or demonic by others didn't matter.

A sword becomes fierce because of the hand that wields it. Good and evil are not in the blade, but in the heart of the one who holds it.

"If this sword chooses me," he whispered, stroking its body gently, "then I'll never betray it."

At that moment, the last trace of fear in his heart faded. He felt light again, like a heavy burden had been lifted. More than that, his Dao heart-the spiritual foundation of a cultivator-became solid.

A steady Dao heart was a rare and powerful gift. With it, a cultivator could grow without fear, face danger without hesitation, and stand tall when others fell.

"Yin..."

The sword responded happily, humming again. It rubbed gently against Silas's arm, like a child snuggling against a parent's side.

Silas smiled slightly.

He gently stroked the blade again, and for a rare moment, peace filled his heart.

But then, from deep within the forest...

There was a sound.

A crunch of footsteps.

Someone was coming.