Chapter 105: First Crisis, Epilogue

Outside the Heavenly Demon Tomb, night had fallen completely, painting the landscape in deep shadow.

Qing stretched luxuriously, every limb popping.

Phew, thought I was gonna die trying to keep that tough act together.

Truthfully, the urge to just ditch everything and bolt down the exit stairs had surged through her multiple times during the whole ordeal. But hey, whatever works. She’d played her part splendidly, and most importantly, she’d survived.

A wave of relief washed over her, mingled with the pure, simple joy of being alive. Unconsciously, buoyed by the excitement, Qing started moving—gliding backward with impossible smoothness, performing the most successful dance move in human history.

The signature step of a certain Mr. Jackson from Indiana. The Moonwalk.

The underlying principle the Heavenly Demon had demonstrated while controlling her body had somehow stuck, imprinted on her—easily the most precious bit of enlightenment she’d gained from the whole clusterfuck.

She was still celebrating with her little victory dance when—

“Ahem.”

The sudden cough made Qing jump, startled.

“Shit, you scared me! Gramps. Why the hell did you follow me out here?”

“I gathered your belongings,” Choi Leeong said, holding up a bundle. “I was going to give them to you when you left. Even if you’re leaving, you should take your things, shouldn’t you? You careless girl.”

“Wow, really? You packed everything?”

Only now did she even remember her luggage.

Right—there was the Yangtze River Free Pass, all those guest tokens her various ‘friends’ had given her, and wasn’t there also that letter from her Master she was supposed to deliver to the Abbess of the Emei Sect?

Come to think of it… the old man’s earlier words must have been genuine then.

Before the possession, he’d probably intended to let her go quietly after she opened the tomb entrance with the Bokshinjeok. He’d even packed her bags in advance. The subsequent personality change—the Heavenly Demon taking over—would have wiped out his prior interest in her, but the preparation was already done.

Qing scurried after Choi Leeong like an eager puppy.

He led her to a specific luggage cart, ducked inside, and emerged with the bundle, revealing several familiar items.

Qing eagerly snatched the one she was happiest to see.

My Moonlight Sword! You’re back!

It had been a while since she’d held Moonlight Sword (No. 8), but the grip felt perfectly molded to her hand, instantly familiar, as if they’d never been parted.

Grinning, she fastened the sword securely to her waist.

But as she reached for the rest of her bundle, Choi Leeong hesitated, holding onto it sluggishly.

Qing’s eyes narrowed.

“What’s the deal? Is the rest of my stuff… pay-to-retrieve?”

Seriously? Is haggling over someone’s own property some kind of ancient Chinese tradition too?

Choi Leeong looked uneasy, avoiding her gaze.

“Ahem. I am old… I don’t know how much longer I have to live. I was thinking… of going to look for a good burial spot. Perhaps… would that be alright?”

Asking my permission to find his grave? What the— Oh… wait. Qing sighed deeply.

Pretending she didn’t get the subtext wouldn’t make him just give up and wander off.

He wasn't talking about real estate.

This was his roundabout, pathetic way of asking if he could stay with her, spend his remaining days by her side, and eventually die near her.

“Gramps, let’s get one thing crystal clear,” Qing stated bluntly, meeting his gaze. “I have absolutely zero, zilch, nada intention of adopting you as my new stepdad. Got it? However,” she continued, softening slightly, “I don’t really care how you choose to think of me in your head. You wanna stick around? Fine. But you’ll be carrying my luggage, pulling the cart if we get one, and basically doing every single shitty chore I can think of.”

The words were sharp, disrespectful even, but the message was clear: permission granted.

Choi Leeong’s eyes immediately reddened.

“Thank you… Thank you. Even that… is more than I deserve…”

Well, Qing thought, if letting the old man tag along and act as her glorified servant gives him some peace in his twilight years, she could allow it.

He’d suffered enough, tortured himself long enough over his past, shackled himself to his dead daughter’s memory. He was too old for that self-abuse now.

But, she added mentally, if he starts pulling that ‘you are my daughter’ shit later, this whole arrangement goes up in flames.

Kindness turning sour? Yeah, not dealing with that drama.

“One more condition,” Qing said aloud, her tone hardening again. “I don’t have some weird hobby of traveling the world with a notorious Great Demonic Warlord, getting stared at and pointed at everywhere we go. That demonic art you practice—the one you clearly can’t even control properly? Get rid of it. Disperse it. Now. What happens if you snap later, go crazy, start accusing me of deceiving you, demand I ‘give back your daughter,’ and attack me?”

She was telling him to destroy his entire life’s cultivation.

For a martial artist, that was often considered worse than death.

“I will do so,” Choi Leeong replied instantly, without a flicker of hesitation. “Right now, if you wish.”

Qing sighed again, a little of the wind taken out of her sails by his immediate agreement.

“Okay, okay. Let’s just get the hell out of this area first, then you can deal with that. If we hang around here any longer, all those other high-level psychos are going to swarm us.”

Inside the Heavenly Demon Tomb, the remaining elite masters of the Divine Cult gathered nervously around Ji Seungju.

In a cult governed by the Law of the Strong, these elites were the de facto leadership.

“Look here, Demonic Brain,” one of them finally spoke, voicing the tension. “Are you really planning to follow that… that wench?”

Ji Seungju met his gaze coolly. “She is the Heavenly Demon of this era. Did you not just witness her wielding the Sky-Rending Demonic Energy with your own eyes?”

“Maybe so,” another master grumbled, “but she’s still just a slip of a girl! What about the dignity, the prestige of the Divine Cult?”

“Isn’t her youth precisely what makes her potential so brilliant?” Ji Seungju countered smoothly. “Think back to the legends of the Celestial Martial Sword Demon. Must figures of such caliber only arise within the ranks of the Righteous Faction?”

“But isn’t she already affiliated with the Righteous Faction?” someone pointed out.

Ji Seungju allowed a small, knowing smile. “Did you not see her methods just now? Gouging out the Supreme’s eye with such… enthusiasm? Trust me. The Heavenly Demon will inevitably return to the fold. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Hmm…”

Contemplative murmurs spread through the group.

They couldn’t deny the chilling ruthlessness they’d just witnessed.

Blinding a living person, especially the Supreme, and doing it with a bright, cheerful smile, like a child torturing an insect… that required a level of cruelty few possessed.

Still, old ambitions died hard. “But… must we truly abandon the sacred mission?” another asked hesitantly. “The goal we’ve dedicated our entire lives to? And… reconciliation with those Central Plains bastards? Is such a thing even conceivable?”

“Perhaps,” Ji Seungju said thoughtfully, “it is for the best. As she herself said, ‘The strong don’t get beaten up when they go outside.’ With her power demonstrated, what force in the Central Plains would truly dare to provoke an open war with the Divine Cult now?”

He had a point. The Heavenly Demon Divine Cult had already proven its terrifying strength in four great wars against the combined might of the Orthodox martial world.

Though ultimately defeated each time, they had always inflicted grievous wounds on their enemies.

If the cult now declared an end to hostilities and sought to integrate peacefully… the martial world wouldn't risk another bloody conflict just to say no. They wouldn’t dare.

“Honestly,” Ji Seungju continued, lowering his voice slightly, “how long can we sustain ourselves by controlling the population of Shinshi? Isn't our entire history of failed invasions ultimately rooted in that limitation?”

The cult was confined to barren, hidden lands, incapable of supporting a large populace.

The gold brought in by the Outer Hall’s various ‘business ventures’ across the Central Plains was finite.

This limitation was the very reason the brutal Law of the Strong had become necessary— to maintain a small but extremely elite fighting force.

The irony was that the bane of such elite forces was sheer numbers.

Even with a vastly superior kill ratio, every loss sustained by the cult was crippling.

Protracted wars inevitably favored the larger populations of the Central Plains, forcing the cult into retreat and defeat, time and again.

Everyone present understood the crippling downsides of their system.

They had all clawed their way to the top by devouring those weaker than them.

They knew the cycle was unsustainable, but trapped in their isolation, what other choice did they have?

And undeniably, the system had produced results.

Despite Qing’s constant mockery, the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult was arguably the single most powerful and cohesive martial organization in the world.

Still, the masters looked unconvinced, their faces sullen.

Most of them, like the illusions they’d been lost in, had dreamed of personal wealth, power, and glory following the conquest of the Central Plains.

Ji Seungju, however, was different. Respected as the Secret Pavilion Leader and Demonic Brain despite his mediocre martial talent, he saw a different path.

Give him enough time, he was confident he could manipulate these simple-minded, strength-obsessed leaders.

The Heavenly Demon Divine Cult already controlled territory along the vital Silk Road. If they could consolidate that power openly, establish legitimate governance mixing doctrine with practical morality… achieving far greater prosperity and influence than they currently possessed was not only possible, but likely.

Ji Seungju inwardly savored the ambition, his face remaining impassive.

He recalled the words of the ancient general Taishi Ci [^Famous general from China's Three Kingdoms period]:

‘If born a true man, should one not wear a seven-foot sword and ascend the steps to stand beside the Son of Heaven?’

To stand above ten thousand, yet below only one—the pinnacle a strategist could hope to achieve.

The Supreme had no name.

He’d never known his father. All his mother had ever given him was cold, bitter hatred.

Indifference and hatred—that was the entirety of his world.

He hadn't even been granted the basic dignity of a name.

Yet, he hadn’t been dissatisfied.

As the one and only, unique Supreme, why would he need a name?

If there was only one Supreme in existence, a name was superfluous.

But now… now he understood the other reason.

He was never meant to be a person. He was merely a vessel, prepared for the Heavenly Demon’s soul to inhabit.

There was no need to grant such a temporary container the luxury of a personal name.

When that realization had first struck him, despair had consumed him.

But no longer.

For the first time in his existence, he had felt the sting of being scolded, truly disciplined.

And then, also for the first time, he had felt the gentle, caring touch of a hand stroking his head.

He had heard words implying forgiveness.

He remembered that genuine smile, directed solely at him, filled with a sincere pleasure he’d never known—the image was so vivid he could recall it perfectly even with his eyes closed.

This… this was the love a parent gives a child.

Yes.

That was it. Can someone who merely, irresponsibly creates a body and dumps it into the world truly be called a parent?

No. The qualification, the essence of parenthood, lay in that affection, that selfless care.

Age, appearance, even gender were irrelevant to that core truth—wasn’t that why humans simply called men ‘father’ and women ‘mother’?

But… there was still one thing missing.

The most precious gift a parent gives their child.

Something the Supreme still lacked. A name.

She had told him to be good. So he would be good. He would strive for it.

And when they met again… perhaps, through keeping that promise, he would finally receive a name.

The Supreme looked over at the assembled elites of the Divine Cult.

Insolent fools, daring to ignore him, whispering amongst themselves.

Rage began to boil deep within him.

Anger coalesced, turning into strength. Black demonic energy surged and seethed.

He was, fundamentally, a martial artist who had reached the Profound Realm. He had only appeared weaker because he had deliberately suppressed his cultivation, sealing his power for the sake of becoming a suitable vessel for Demonic Descent.

With his energy center now shattered by Qing, those self-imposed seals were broken.

His realm instantly stabilized at the Profound Realm[^for those whos forgotten. (me) Peak realm → Transcendent realm → Unrestrained Realm → Profound Realm {He's here!!}→Life and Death Realm → Celestial Realm → Natural Realm].

Drawing upon that recovered enlightenment, he forcibly began to mend his shattered energy center. It was rough, patchwork—like stitching together rags—but somehow, he managed to preserve its basic function.

This body had been meticulously prepared for the Heavenly Demon.

The potent medicinal properties of countless elixirs consumed like food since childhood still permeated his limbs and meridians.

As long as the basic structure of his energy center remained, full recovery wasn't impossible—it would just take time.

He consciously calmed his anger.

It wasn't difficult now.

Just recalling the memory of that smile—the one directed at him—was enough.

His mind and body settled, the tension easing, the corners of his lips relaxing unconsciously into a faint, soft smile of his own.

As you said… I will be a good boy.

My beloved…

Mother.

The Supreme, forty-seven years old this year.

Sometimes, a person’s upper energy center momentarily aligns, allowing them to unconsciously perceive the subtle flows of heaven and earth—the workings of the cosmos.

Some called it a sixth sense. Others, a premonition.

Qing, miles away now, walking out under the night sky, suddenly shivered, a cold dread washing over her inexplicably.

What the hell was that? Seriously just got goosebumps all over.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t pinpoint any reason for the sudden, intense feeling of wrongness.

She just chewed on the unsettling sensation, vaguely disturbed.

Of course she couldn't know the reason.

How could she possibly guess that, in addition to gaining an unwanted adoptive father and an older sister-figure, she had just acquired a deeply disturbed, forty-seven-year-old grown-ass son?