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Chapter 49: Demon Unending [Epilogue]
🕑 Added 2025-04-15 13:47:52 +0000 UTCThe man felt more confused than hopeful. The last time someone visited him was just recently after his humiliating defeat. A trio of fledgling cultivators — all barely within the Third Realm — led by some arrogant whelp who had just recently ascended to the Fourth.
The son of the Clan’s newest Patriarch, supposedly. The boy had come to gloat about his father’s victory over him, as if the triumph had been the coward’s and not the other slain Patriarchs who were brave enough to face him in glorious battle.
The man had not bothered trying to entertain the conceited child. A being who has not even reached a century of age was not worthy of speaking with — Not because of a lack of cultivated strength, but simply because someone that young would be void of any wisdom worth plucking from a conversation.
There might also have been the matter that man couldn’t even reply at the time, were he even inclined to. A Divine Sealing Mask had been covering his face at the start of his incarceration. That damnable thing had been preventing his ability to even breathe, let alone speak.
Thankfully, the idiotic brat had eventually grown tired of his unresponsiveness and had one of his underlings climb down into his gaol and remove it. He would forever be grateful to that boy; the years would have been far more unbearable if he couldn’t even see, breathe, or drink.
He remembered seeing the arrogant heir looking down, smugly smirking at him while saying all manner of insults the man couldn’t be bothered listening to. The man remembered smiling back, before he opened his mouth.
And roared.
They likely had to scrub the boy’s remains off the ceiling. He didn’t remember much after that. The talismans on him had activated after he unleashed his sound technique, rendering him temporarily unconscious. When he woke up, there was no one else around, and any remains of the corpse had been thoroughly removed. There wasn’t even so much as a drop of blood to fall into his mouth to feed on.
No one else dared to approach his cell afterwards.
Until now.
“Would this be prelude to exoneration, or execution?”
“Either way, it presents an opportunity.”
Those were definitely footsteps he was hearing. The sound felt alien to him after so long in isolation. And the echo was getting louder as well. There was nothing else around his gaol; whoever this was, they were coming for him.
The man found himself tense with anticipation. After so long, was he finally getting a chance to escape? But why now? He was sure that the Clan’s cultivators intended to starve him out, such was their fear of him. They had not even dared to muzzle him again with the mask after the incident with the Young Master. The lot had simply shut the hatch above him and left him alone for years.
They may be simply checking if he was dead. His body, even weakened and emaciated as it was, still held many valuable resources for cultivators. His Core alone would be a great boon to any who consume it, parasite within notwithstanding.
Yes, that had to be it. The cultivators of the Clan had finally come to harvest his body. The man found himself amused. Some might consider the practice uncouth, but he found it admirable behaviour for one who sought the path to Immortality, especially since the Gods hoarded all the best resources for themselves.
“It was always wiser to acknowledge one’s greed, rather than shy away from it.”
But just because he approved did not mean he was willing to give in so simply. Whoever came to make a meal of him would find no easy prey. His qi reserves may be a shadow compared to what he once held, but he still had enough for a final technique or two.
Not anything powerful, but perhaps enough for him to gain an opportunity to flee. At the very least, he was intent on bringing down at least one more cultivator—
Wait. That smell…
“Ah… Neither liberator nor executor, this one. Merely a beggar, here to supplicate before higher power…”
… There was a scent in the air. It took the man a while to recognise it, for his nose had not seen much use since he had been jailed down in that pit, but the familiar and mouthwatering tinge soon became unmistakable.
Blood. Qi-rich blood.
Only a single pair of footsteps approached. The man could also hear shallow panting, as if the person was struggling to draw breath. The faintest sliver of illumination began to shine between the cracks of his hatch, the first rays of light he had seen in years.
A small part of him rejoiced at the simple sensation of his sight returning, but the rest was far more preoccupied with something else.
The scent of fresh blood. And not just any blood, a cultivator’s blood. Strong, vibrant, and full of spiritual energy. Whoever was approaching was not only wounded, but strong as well. A cultivator from the Fifth Realm, if he were to wager a guess from the sanguine scent alone.
The man’s mouth was salivating. Razor-sharp fangs, unused for years but yet remained impossibly keen, emerged from his gums. His hunger, previously a yawning void, had transformed into a feral, ravenous beast.
He wanted them: the flesh of a cultivator to sate his hunger, the blood of a cultivator to quench his thirst. He wanted to lunge for the hatch in bestial hunger, tear it from its hinges, and devour—
No.
“No?”
His circumstances were no excuse for him to act like an animal, no matter how dire they may be. Misfortune, pain, and suffering were no reasons why a man could not continue acting with prudence, control, and dignity.
His beloved master taught him to be better than this. A man’s mind was his own. He must not be a slave to his hunger. That salivating savage within him was merely a childish impulse — a thing to be entertained at his leisure, and not something he was beholden to. He refused to be a beast.
His mind was his own.
The man swallowed back his saliva. He forced his fangs to retract, and he pushed the ravening hunger in his throat back down as far as he could. He must maintain sound judgement and look for the opportunity to escape. There might not be another chance.
The hatch above him was easily thrice his height, but he could see the person who opened it well enough in the light.
A young male cultivator, dressed in expensive robes that were no doubt once the proud product of skilled artificers and alchemists. They would have looked beautiful, if not for the blood and signs of battle damage that marred them. Tears, burns, and even what looked to be bullet holes littered almost every inch of them.
The cultivator appeared no better as well. He was clutching his side and breathing heavily. The man could smell blood coming from the youth’s breath — a lung wound, too heavy and deep to heal immediately, even with his advanced cultivation level. The boy carried a folding spear on his back, elegantly crafted and well-made, but its tip was chipped and stained with black blood. He held no torch; the illumination surrounding the youth came from a ball of fire that hovered close behind him.
The man in the hole looked into the cultivator’s eyes and frowned. They looked exhausted, and he could see the signs of qi depletion as clear as day. The cultivator flinched when their gaze met, but to the man’s pleasant surprise, the youth did not move away.
Instead, the boy forced himself to return his stare. After only a brief moment of hesitation, the youth jumped into the cell.
The cultivator landed gracefully before him. He stood upright, his back straight, and his head unbowed. His arms were crossed together beneath the sleeves of his robes. Despite his heavy wounds, the cultivator had managed to regain control over his breathing, appearing poised and arrogant before him.
Behind the veil of regal confidence, however, the man could still smell the blood leaking from the numerous wounds beneath his robes. More than that, the cultivator’s qi was severely out of balance, and stuck in a losing struggle to repair the damage to his body.
This boy had just been in a fight — one where he was injured grievously — and was given neither the time nor the means to recover from his severe wounds.
“I smell fourteen moderate lacerations. Six penetrated wounds, three of which have struck vital organs. One managed to punctuate both lungs in a single strike. There remain burnt grains of fulminated mercury interfering with his regeneration — the bullet wounded and exited across his torso. His ribs are shattered. He struggles to breathe. Without the rhythm of meditation, his qi cannot recover. He is dying.”
“What of his meridians?” The man asked in his mind.
“Stable. His injuries are entirely physical.”
“Then he might yet live if he seeks treatment.”
“And yet, he is here, seeking your company rather than that of the Clan’s chirurgeon. Why?”
The cultivator flared his qi. The surrounding air, previously lifeless and dead, suddenly regained vigour from that singular release alone. The air smelled sweeter, the temperature of the gaol rose to something resembling warmth, and even his surroundings felt less damp. The man took a deep breath, savouring the first dregs of spiritual energy he had in years.
“Are you the one they call the Devourer?” The cultivator said, his voice subtly laced with power. Its authority compelled him to listen, to obey. The man refrained from laughing at the pitiful attempt to control him. Instead, he licked his dry lips and considered the question.
He found it curious that the cultivator had referred to him by his old moniker, rather than by the dreaded title of which he was much more renowned.
“This one was called that before, yes.”
The Devourer spoke slowly, as if to taste the words in his mouth. It felt strange, almost unnatural, to speak aloud again. He had only ever whispered to the wraith in his heart, and even before his imprisonment, the man was more used to using his qi to communicate rather than through his voice.
The cultivator did not reply. Instead, the youth simply stood there, observing him. The Devourer did the same, noting the boy’s remarkable impassiveness. His heartbeat gave his true nervousness away, however. It was just the slightest bit too fast, the barest slip mistake over a body of otherwise perfect control.
The boy was afraid, that much was obvious.
The man sat up straighter, and the cultivator stiffened. This time, he did laugh. A dry, rasping sound echoed through the chamber as the youth bristled.
“Come closer, cultivator. It has been so long since I last had a visitor,” the man taunted. “Why don’t you take a seat? My accommodations are a bit lacking, but you do look tired.”
To his surprise, the cultivator did sit, uncaring of the grime and mud soiling his clothes. “They say that you are a Demon possessing great power. A fallen God. Is that true?”
The man blinked in surprise, then grinned.
He wasn’t expecting the cultivator to indulge him in a conversation. His jailers had always been too afraid to interact with him after the previous incident. For them to suddenly change their ways now, right when he was on the brink of finally perishing?
Something was amiss. After countless years of waiting, an opportunity had finally presented itself for him to leave his prison. But why now? What was developing on the surface? This boy was not one of his retainers, nor a face he recognised. What purpose would the Clan have to send a wounded child down here to meet him?
Something foul was afoot, yet the man was in no position to complain. If fortune smiled upon him, he might yet be soon able to continue his most unholy of crusades.
And perhaps, if he were truly lucky, he would be able to steal a bite of Divine flesh along the way.
But first, he had to answer the cultivator before him, who had just asked him a most curious question. A Demon, was he? The Devourer’s grin widened, revealing inhumanly sharp teeth.
“No.” / “Yes.”
This could be fun.
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Demon
A fictional entity said to have originated from beyond the Abyssal Ridge — the grand mountainous divide that encircles the territory of the Jade King and his Celestial Court. The legends claim that the world beyond the cultivated shadows of Mount Tai holds the realms of the Underworld, populated by fallen gods cast out from His Majesty’s Kingdom.
However, there has never been any recorded sighting of a so-called “Demon” emerging from beyond the King’s borders, nor have any official expeditions across the frontier ever encountered or found any evidence that would support the existence of such a creature, Divine or otherwise.
Tales of monstrous figures made of twisted human organs or giant metallic humanoids that could unleash rays of incendiary light invading from beyond the illustrious lands of the Kingdom are preposterous. They are but the products of superstitious folktales and overly imaginative heathens, made to taint the minds of the intellect and the enlightened.
As a loyal citizen of His Heavenly Majesty, it is your duty to report any such sources of knowledge pollution to your nearest constable or Celestial Official immediately. The Path to Immortality already has enough obstacles without adding more distractions to it. We must all do our part to ensure the continued prosperity and peace of our beloved Kingdom.
– Excerpt from Wisdom of The Jade King; this particular publication was the last edition that held any mention of the word ‘Demon’ before the very name of it was removed from the official Kingdom Lexicon and banned from utterance under pain of death.
