The Author's Draft

Chapter 73 - 69: Slaughter Awakens I

Days blurred together in the blood sea, each one bleeding into the next until time itself lost meaning. Long Chen killed endlessly, and the black sword in his hands rose and fell in an endless rhythm that never stopped, never wavered, each strike ending a life while each death fed the red patterns spreading across his skin like living tattoos.

He’d stopped counting after the first thousand soldiers fell beneath his blade, because the numbers no longer mattered when the army seemed infinite and the killing never ended.

The soldiers kept coming in waves that crashed against him like a crimson tide, millions of them charging forward with their half-rendered faces and incomplete armor, weapons raised high while those blank void-eyes stared without truly seeing anything at all. Long Chen cut them down with mechanical precision, his movements flowing from one kill to the next without pause or hesitation.

A spear thrust toward his chest and he sidestepped smoothly before opening the soldier’s throat in one fluid motion, then spun immediately as an axe came from behind and drove his blade through armored ribs without breaking stride. Three more attacked simultaneously from different angles, but his sword carved through all three in one horizontal slash that left them crumbling to ash before they even hit the ground.

The movements were automatic now, thoughtless and precise, because his body moved purely on instinct while his mind drowned beneath an ocean of red that consumed everything else.

The red patterns had consumed everything by now, covering his arms completely while wrapping around his torso and crawling up his neck and face in intricate designs that pulsed brighter with each kill, spreading further across his skin like a disease that couldn’t be stopped. With each new pattern that appeared, his Sword Aura retreated deeper into his core, trying desperately to protect what remained of his consciousness.

The third-stage power compressed inward and formed a barrier around his mind, but the red mist proved relentless in its assault. Every soldier Long Chen killed released more of that crimson energy, and it poured into him through the patterns on his skin while flooding his meridians and saturating every part of his body until the Slaughter Intent condensed layer upon layer, building up weight that crushed everything else beneath it.

His Sword Aura flickered weakly as it struggled against the overwhelming pressure, then weakened further before compressing so far inward that its presence became almost invisible, barely a spark in the depths of his consciousness. Long Chen’s eyes had turned completely red by this point, with no trace of their original color remaining and only crimson fire burning in their depths, seeing nothing except targets that needed to be killed.

He didn’t remember his name anymore, couldn’t recall why he was fighting or what had brought him to this place, because all memory had been stripped away until nothing remained except the next strike, the next death, the next soldier falling beneath his blade in an endless cycle of violence.

A week passed in the blood sea while Long Chen continued his mechanical slaughter, though outside the Dao realm time moved differently and only hours had gone by in the real world. Inside this pocket dimension, he’d been killing for seven days straight without rest or pause or mercy, his blade rising and falling in that same endless rhythm.

On the fortieth floor of the Tower, Yan Shou watched the screen with an expression caught between pity and disappointment as Long Chen moved through the battlefield like a machine built solely for killing. His technique had become flawless over the course of the week, with every strike perfectly placed and every movement economical while every kill demonstrated ruthless efficiency, but his eyes remained empty and dead, devoid of any trace of consciousness.

"He’s gone," Yan Shou said quietly, his voice heavy with resignation. "The Slaughter Dao has consumed him completely."

The guardian’s hand moved toward the controls that would terminate the test and end Long Chen’s suffering, but Azazel’s voice cut through the chamber before he could activate them.

"Stay your hand, Guardian."

Yan Shou’s hand froze mid-motion. The command in Azazel’s voice wasn’t loud or aggressive—it didn’t need to be. The weight of absolute authority pressed down on the chamber like the heavens themselves had spoken, and Yan Shou found his body responding before his mind could question the order.

He turned slowly to face the demon mist, and for the first time since Azazel’s manifestation, genuine uncertainty flickered across the guardian’s features.

"Lord Azazel," Yan Shou said, his voice carefully measured and respectful in a way it hadn’t been moments before. "Forgive this one’s presumption, but the boy has clearly lost himself to the Dao. I’ve witnessed this descent countless times across the centuries—"

"You presume to lecture me on the nature of the Slaughter Dao?" Azazel’s tone remained calm, almost conversational, but something shifted in the air around them. The red eyes burning within his mist form intensified, and the spiritual pressure radiating from the demon’s essence made the very stones of the Tower groan. "I who walked the battlefields of the Upper World when the Weapon Path was still being forged? I who witnessed the birth of Intents that your Weapon Progenitor codified into the four lines?"

Yan Shou immediately lowered his head, his posture shifting into something approaching a bow. "This humble guardian meant no disrespect, Lord Azazel. Your experience far exceeds my own—"

"Then trust that experience now," Azazel said, his tone softening slightly but losing none of its command. "What you’re witnessing is not mere talent being consumed by comprehension too vast for mortal mind. This is transformation."

The guardian remained silent, waiting for permission to speak. When Azazel’s pressure eased fractionally, Yan Shou carefully raised his gaze.

"Lord Azazel speaks of transformation, but this one sees only the same pattern that has repeated through the ages. The boy absorbed more Slaughter Intent in one week than most cultivators comprehend in lifetimes. Such speed—"

"Is precisely why he survives where others failed," Azazel interrupted, though his voice carried patient instruction rather than rebuke. "Guardian Yan Shou, you’ve stood watch over this floor for how many centuries?"

"Three thousand years, Lord Azazel, since the Slaughter Line’s fall."

"Three thousand years of testing candidates," Azazel mused, drifting closer to the screen. "And in all that time, how many reached this fortieth floor?"

"Two hundred and thirty-seven souls, my lord."

"And how many entered the Slaughter Dao realm as this boy has?"

Yan Shou hesitated before answering. "Seventeen, Lord Azazel."

"Seventeen in three millennia." Azazel’s mist form swirled thoughtfully. "And every single one lost themselves, did they not? Became nothing more than mindless beasts that had to be terminated before they could escape this Tower and slaughter their way across the mortal realm."

"Yes, my lord." Yan Shou’s voice grew quieter. "Without exception."

"Then tell me, Guardian—if this boy follows the same pattern you’ve witnessed seventeen times before, why am I not concerned?" Azazel turned his burning gaze fully upon the guardian. "Why does one of the Seven Deadly Sins, whose very existence depends on the Equal Life Contract binding my soul to his, appear so confident that he won’t share their fate?"

Yan Shou opened his mouth, then closed it. The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implication.

"I... confess I don’t understand, Lord Azazel."

"Then allow me to enlighten you," Azazel said, his tone taking on the quality of a master instructing a promising but limited student. "Tell me what you know of the Upper World before the Weapon Path’s formalization."

Yan Shou straightened slightly, grateful to be on firmer ground. "Before the Weapon Progenitor established the four lines, weapon cultivation was chaotic and unstructured. Practitioners followed individual paths without unified theory or—"

"Yes, yes, the historical record is accurate as far as it goes," Azazel cut him off with a wave of mist. "But there are truths that never made it into those records, Guardian. Truths that the Weapon Progenitor himself chose to... redact from history."

The guardian’s eyes widened with sudden interest. Any knowledge involving the supreme being who created this very Tower demanded absolute attention.

"Lord Azazel honors this one with knowledge beyond my station," Yan Shou said carefully.

"Perhaps." Azazel’s form drifted closer to the screen showing Long Chen’s continued slaughter. "Before the Weapon Path was formalized, before the four lines were established with their distinct philosophies, there existed an expert whose very name was struck from the heavenly records."

Yan Shou felt his breath catch. Erasure from the heavenly records wasn’t mere censorship—it required the combined will of multiple supreme beings, an act reserved for existences so dangerous that even their memory posed a threat.

"This expert," Azazel continued, his voice dropping to something approaching reverence, "achieved what should have been impossible. He dyed the skies of the Upper World red with blood—not metaphorically, Guardian, but literally. For three full years, the heavens themselves ran crimson with the essence of his slaughter."

"That’s..." Yan Shou struggled to comprehend the scale. "Even a Dao Fusion expert at cultivation’s peak couldn’t—"

"He was beyond Dao Fusion," Azazel stated simply. "He achieved something no cultivator before or since has replicated."

"What... what did he achieve, Lord Azazel?" The question emerged as barely more than a whisper.

"He became one with the Slaughter Dao itself."

The silence that followed pressed down on the chamber like a mountain’s weight. Yan Shou stared at the demon mist, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief to dawning horror.

"Forgive this one’s ignorance, Lord Azazel, but such a thing is impossible." Yan Shou’s voice trembled slightly despite his attempt at composure. "The Slaughter Dao is absolute. It consumes everything it touches without exception or mercy. To fully merge with it while maintaining consciousness—" He shook his head firmly. "Every practitioner of the Slaughter Line learns this fundamental truth from their first day of training. We comprehend it, we channel it, we draw power from its depths, but we never—we can never—"

"Become one with it," Azazel finished for him, understanding the guardian’s shock perfectly. "Yes. That is the boundary that has stood absolute for eons. Everyone who attempts full merger loses their mind within heartbeats, becoming nothing more than a beast driven by endless bloodlust." He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "Except this one expert transcended that absolute boundary."

"How?" The question burst from Yan Shou before he could stop himself. "How is such a thing possible? The very nature of Slaughter Intent is consumption—it devours consciousness and leaves only the instinct to kill. There exists no technique, no cultivation method, no amount of willpower that can stand against something absolute!"

"That," Azazel said quietly, "remains one of the great mysteries. When questioned by other supreme beings, the Weapon Progenitor would only say that this expert possessed something unique—some quality inherent to his very existence that allowed him to touch the Dao’s absolute depths without being devoured."

Yan Shou stood motionless, his mind racing through implications. Then his eyes snapped to the screen where Long Chen continued his mechanical slaughter, and understanding crashed over him like a tidal wave.

"Lord Azazel suggests..." He couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the thought.