The Author's Draft

Chapter 69: Sea of Slaughter II

Instead, Long Chen held a different sword. Ancient, black as night, with a simple crossguard and worn grip. But the blade itself seemed to absorb light, drinking in the dim illumination of the battlefield.

And inscribed at the base of the blade, where it met the guard, was a single word in characters that burned with red light:

杀 (Slaughter)

The moment Long Chen’s eyes focused on that word, something changed inside him.

Heat bloomed in his chest. Not painful, but intense. His heartbeat accelerated, pounding faster and faster. His vision sharpened, every detail of the charging army becoming crystal clear.

And his eyes began to turn red.

Not the whites turning crimson like Yan Shou’s. But red patterns spreading outward from his pupils like cracks in glass, like blood vessels bursting and spreading across his irises.

[Warning: Narrative Overwrite in Progress.]

The system notification appeared in his vision—not Azazel’s usual commentary, but something else. Something from Nabu’s system directly.

[Current Role Assignment: "The Berserker"]

[Current Author Identity: 100% → 95% → 90%...]

[Warning: Extended exposure to assigned role will result in permanent identity corruption.]

The red spread further, seeping beyond his eyes and onto his skin. Crimson lines appeared on his face, running down from his eyes like tears of blood. The patterns crawled across his cheeks, down his neck, spreading onto his arms.

His Sword Aura, which had been wrapping around his body protectively, began retreating. Not dissolving, but being pushed back, compressed, forced inward by the expanding red patterns.

[Author Identity: 85% → 80%...]

Long Chen barely noticed.

The army was almost upon him now—only seconds away.

And he charged to meet them.

His body moved on instinct, the black sword raising above his head. Long Chen’s mouth opened in a wordless roar as he crashed into the first line of soldiers.

The blade came down.

It cut through the half-finished armor like paper, through sketched flesh like mist, through incomplete bone like nothing at all. The soldier’s body separated cleanly, dissolving back into spiritual energy.

Long Chen didn’t stop.

He pivoted, bringing the sword around in a horizontal slash. Three more soldiers fell, their unfinished forms dissipating.

Thrust forward—the blade punched through a wireframe shield and the sketched man behind it.

Duck under a transparent spear thrust, counter with an upward slash that opened a soldier from groin to throat.

Spin, block an incoming axe with the flat of his blade, redirect and take the attacker’s half-rendered head with the return stroke.

[Author Identity: 75% → 70%...]

At first, Long Chen fought for survival. Each movement was defensive, reactive, desperate. He killed because not killing meant dying himself.

But as time passed—minutes bleeding into hours—something shifted.

The red patterns on his body spread further, covering more of his skin. They crawled down his arms like living tattoos, wrapped around his torso, descended his legs. Each new pattern that appeared pushed his Sword Aura further back, compressing it deeper into his core.

[Author Identity: 65% → 60%...]

And with each pattern, with each percentage lost, Long Chen’s fighting changed.

He stopped defending. Stopped reacting.

He started attacking.

Not out of fear or desperation. But because that’s what the sword in his hand wanted. What the Slaughter Dao demanded. What the role of "The Berserker" required.

His strikes became faster, more precise. Every movement was economical, efficient, designed solely to end existence. No wasted motion. No hesitation.

A soldier with a half-sketched face lunged at him—Long Chen’s blade was already through his incomplete heart before the lunge completed.

Two soldiers with wireframe weapons flanked him—both lost their heads in a single horizontal sweep.

A transparent spear came from behind—Long Chen sidestepped without looking and killed the attacker with a backward thrust.

He waded through the army like death incarnate, the black sword rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Each strike claimed an unfinished life. Each movement brought him deeper into the endless mass of abandoned characters.

[Author Identity: 55% → 50%...]

Blood soaked his clothes, his hair, his skin. But he didn’t care.

The red patterns continued spreading across his body, and his eyes burned with crimson fire.

He was forgetting who he was. Forgetting Aiden. Forgetting the flat in London, the rejection letters, the failed manuscripts.

He was becoming the role. The Berserker. The embodiment of slaughter.

[Author Identity: 45% → 40%...]

And still he fought, killing without pause, without thought, without mercy.

Outside the Slaughter Dao realm, on the fortieth floor of the Tower, a massive screen had appeared on the chamber wall.

It showed a projection of Long Chen—a window into the Dao realm, displaying everything happening to the challenger in real-time.

In front of the screen stood two figures.

One was Azazel, manifested in his mist form—a writhing mass of dark spiritual energy shaped vaguely like a humanoid figure. Red eyes glowed within the darkness, watching the screen intently.

Beside him stood Yan Shou, the guardian’s posture straight and formal.

The guardian was trembling slightly. His hands shook. His breathing had quickened. When he looked at Azazel’s manifested form, his eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and reverence.

"Lord Azazel," the guardian said, his voice carrying genuine awe. He immediately began to bow deeply—

"Don’t," Azazel cut him off sharply. "Don’t call me that. Don’t bow. I’m not a lord anymore. Just a defeated remnant who has to rely on someone else to survive. Those titles mean nothing now."

But Yan Shou completed his bow anyway, lowering his head fully before straightening.

"Despite your circumstances, you are still worthy of this bow," the guardian said firmly. "For everything you did for the Upper World before your fall. For the battles you fought. For the sacrifices you made. Your deeds cannot be erased by defeat."

Azazel was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice carrying a strange tone—not quite bitter, not quite amused.

"You know what’s ironic? Aiden’s prose was always too proud. He wrote characters who looked down on the heavens, who sneered at fate, who acted like they were above everything and everyone."

The demon’s red eyes flickered.

"He did that because he was a failure who wanted to feel superior. A broke writer in a moldy flat who couldn’t even afford rent, compensating by making his characters act arrogant. That ’Author’s Pride’—that pathetic ego—is the only reason I could manifest in this trash draft of a story."

Azazel’s mist form shifted, becoming more defined.

"My power doesn’t come from his cultivation or his bloodline. It comes from his Writer Ego. The more he acts like an author playing god with this world, the stronger I become. And if he loses that ego completely—if he forgets he’s Aiden and becomes just Long Chen—I disappear."

Yan Shou’s expression shifted, understanding dawning. "Then if he loses himself to the Slaughter Dao..."

"I die with him. Permanently." Azazel’s tone was matter-of-fact. "The Equal Life Contract binds us. If his Author Identity drops to zero, both of us cease to exist."

On the screen, Long Chen continued fighting. The red patterns covered most of his body now, pulsing with crimson light.

[Author Identity: 40%...]

"How are my traitorous brothers doing these days?" Azazel asked suddenly, his voice carrying that cryptic edge again.

Yan Shou’s expression darkened immediately. "After the battle where you were sealed, only two of your brothers remained active in the public eye. Envy and Greed. They..."

He hesitated, as if speaking the next words caused him physical pain.

"They created the Demon Path in your name. Claimed it as your legacy. Built an entire cultivation system around demonic techniques and called it the Path of Pride in your honor."

The temperature in the chamber dropped instantly.

Vast, overwhelming pressure descended from nowhere and everywhere at once. The stone floor beneath their feet cracked, spiderwebs of fractures spreading outward. The chamber walls groaned under the weight of spiritual force so dense it became visible—dark energy that warped the air itself.

Yan Shou gasped, his knees buckling under the pressure. Even his late Foundation Establishment cultivation couldn’t withstand it. The guardian was forced down, barely able to remain standing.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the pressure vanished.

Azazel smiled. The expression was visible even through his mist form—a wide, dangerous smile that showed too many teeth.

"Good," he said softly. The word dripped with dark promise. "Good, good, good."

His voice grew quieter, more dangerous.

"They even dared to use my name. To build a path in my image. To claim my legacy as theirs."

The smile widened further.

"I’m going to enjoy destroying everything they’ve built. Slowly. Piece by piece. Until nothing remains but ashes and regret."

Yan Shou straightened carefully, still shaken by the pressure display. "The other brothers—Wrath, Lust, Gluttony, and Sloth—they all went into hiding after your sealing. No one has seen them in centuries. Some believe they’re dead. Others think they’re waiting for something."

"They’re not dead," Azazel said with certainty. "They’re just smart enough to stay hidden. For now."

Before their conversation could continue, the screen showing Long Chen flickered.

A change was happening.

The red patterns covering Long Chen’s body pulsed brighter. They covered his arms completely now, wrapped around his torso, descended down his legs. The intricate designs glowed with power.

[Author Identity: 40% → 35%...]

Yan Shou’s eyes widened in shock. A gasp escaped his lips.

"That’s... that’s impossible!"

"What?" Azazel’s attention snapped to the screen.

"He’s entered the first stage of Slaughter Aura already!" The guardian’s voice carried disbelief. "It’s only been thirty minutes! Thirty minutes and he’s already manifesting the physical signs of first-stage comprehension!"

On the screen, Long Chen continued fighting, his movements becoming more fluid, more deadly. The black sword in his hands moved like an extension of his will, claiming unfinished lives with every swing.

But Yan Shou’s expression shifted from shock to concern.

"He’s in danger."

"What do you mean?" Azazel asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

"The red patterns are spreading too fast. His Sword Aura is being compressed too quickly." Yan Shou pointed at the screen. "Look at the system notification. His Author Identity is dropping below forty percent. At this rate, he’ll lose himself completely within the hour."

He turned to Azazel, genuine worry on his face.

"He’s losing himself to the role. The Berserker is overwriting who he is. In another few minutes, there won’t be anything left of Aiden or Long Chen—just a mindless killing machine wearing his skin."

[Author Identity: 35% → 30%...]

The guardian reached toward the screen as if to intervene—

Azazel smiled wider and raised his hand, stopping him.

"Watch," the demon said simply.

"But—"

"Just watch. Trust me."

Yan Shou hesitated, then lowered his hand. His eyes returned to the screen, watching Long Chen fight against the endless army of abandoned characters.

The red patterns continued spreading. Long Chen’s eyes burned like crimson suns. His Sword Aura had been compressed so far inward it was barely visible.

[Author Identity: 30% → 25%...]

And still he fought, killing without pause, without thought, without mercy.

The guardian’s hands clenched into fists as he watched, clearly struggling with the decision not to intervene.

But Azazel just stood there, his mist form perfectly still, his red eyes fixed on the screen with something that looked almost like pride.

"Watch," he repeated softly. "This is where it gets interesting."