Ascension of The Unholy Immortal

It was a long-forgotten memory—buried under layers of blood, years, and the silence of the dead. A memory from before the separation, before the black mirror ever etched its mark into his soul. A time when Liang was still young, untempered, and nameless—just another outer disciple of the Cloudfire Sect.

More precisely, it was the first time he killed.

And more importantly—it was the first time someone tried to kill him for no other reason than being a witness.

It had rained that day.

Not a gentle mist, but a heaven-breaking downpour, washing the mountain trails of Cloudfire Peak into slick rivers of mud and stone. Liang had taken shelter beneath the half-collapsed roof of a ruined spirit shrine along the east path, its guardian statues broken, its incense long extinguished. He hugged his soaked robes tighter, hoping the storm would pass before nightfall.

Then he heard shouting—followed by the sharp clang of steel.

From the curtain of rain emerged Yan Rou, a senior disciple famed for her poison arts and frost techniques. Her robes were torn, her arm slick with blood, and in her hand she gripped a jade slip, its surface pulsing with faint azure light.

She staggered, eyes scanning wildly.

Behind her, like a vengeful ghost, came Mu Fen—a rogue cultivator expelled years ago from Cloudfire Sect for stealing secret techniques. His eyes glowed with killing intent, and in his hands he wielded a spirit-forged saber wreathed in flickering black fire.

"You can't run forever, Yan Rou," he snarled, blocking her escape path with a lazy twist of his wrist. "Give me the jade slip, and maybe your corpse will still be whole."

"Try and take it," she spat, flinging a frost talisman.

Mu Fen waved his saber, scattering the icy burst with brute force. He advanced.

Liang, pressed against the shrine's inner wall, held his breath. He was a nonentity to both of them, barely in the Qi Condensation stage—if they noticed him, he'd die without ever raising a hand.

But something happened.

As Mu Fen lunged, Yan Rou's footing slipped on the wet stone. Her frost technique wavered, and his blade tore a line across her ribs. She screamed, stumbled—and turned toward the shrine.

Toward Liang.

Their eyes locked for an instant.

Her expression changed.

Not fear.

Calculation.

She moved, fast—almost too fast to see—and flung a poison needle at Mu Fen, forcing him back. Then, without a word, she rushed into the shrine.

And struck.

Her hand shimmered with violet mist—poison qi.

Liang barely raised the rusted ceremonial dagger he'd picked up from the altar earlier, catching her wrist in blind panic.

"You saw everything," she said coldly, eyes unreadable. "You won't live to speak of it."

"You were the one being chased—why—?"

"It doesn't matter." She twisted, slashing with a hidden blade from her sleeve.

She was fast. Trained. Senior disciple. Core inner circle.

Liang was no match.

But Mu Fen wasn't finished either.

The rogue crashed into the shrine's entrance, blood trailing from a gash on his side. "Bitch!" he bellowed. "You think I'll let you take my prize?"

He lashed out with a soul-burning talisman, the air rippling with explosive force.

Yan Rou turned to counter Mu Fen's strike—just for a moment.

And that was when Liang moved.

Whether it was instinct or desperation, he never figured out. Teeth clenched, breath ragged, he lunged forward and drove the dagger into her back, just beneath the left shoulder blade—exactly where her guard had dropped in the motion of her parry.

She screamed.

Staggered.

Spun around, eyes wide with fury and disbelief.

Her palm surged with qi—a killing technique already prepared.

Venomous Lotus Palm.

Liang froze, half-turned, unable to dodge.

But the blow never landed.

Because Mu Fen's saber punched through her chest from behind.

The breath fled her lungs. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out—only a faint rasp as her eyes dimmed.

Then Liang struck again.

The dagger found her throat this time. Smooth. Precise. Final.

She collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut, her body folding silently between them.

Mu Fen gave a low laugh, stepping past the corpse.

"Heh... you got her. Not bad, brat. Now hand over the jade—"

He never finished.

Liang had already pulled a frost talisman from her sash. He slapped it against Mu Fen's chest, releasing a burst of cold qi that froze the rogue's upper body in place—armor, limbs, and all.

Before the ice finished spreading, Liang stepped in and drove the dagger upward into Mu Fen's jaw, the blade vanishing into bone and brain.

The man didn't even scream.

He simply dropped.

Then came silence.

No more footsteps. No more threats. No more rain.

Just the iron tang of blood, thick in the air.

So much blood.

Liang stared at the corpses. His hands trembled, stained red. He was breathing too fast. The jade slip lay between Yan Rou's limp fingers. He took it—almost afraid it would bite.

And then he took their space rings.

It was only after checking their space rings, once his hands had stopped shaking, that Liang found the identity token.

Simple. Elegant. Silver-etched with the Cloudfire Sect's inner crest.

And below it, a personal seal.

Yan Rou.

Daughter of the Sect Master.

He stared at it for a long time, seated on the cracked stone floor of the ruined shrine. Rain was still falling outside. Blood was drying on his robes. The jade slip rested in his lap.

He didn't feel anything right away. No panic. No guilt. Just a sense of weight settling behind his eyes, like something in the distance had gone still.

The Sect Master was a Core Formation expert. Respected. Feared. The most powerful figure in Cloudfire Sect. And now his daughter was dead. Killed by an outer disciple with a dull blade and no name.

By morning, Liang was gone.

By the end of the week, his name had spread across counties and provinces. Bounty talismans were distributed to mercenaries and disciples alike. Some wanted justice. Others wanted coin. A few just wanted a reason.

The charges were predictable: murder, theft, betrayal.

But Liang understood the real reason.

They wanted the jade slip.

Whatever was inside it was more important than who had died to protect it. Or who had killed to survive.

He kept moving.

He lived in places people didn't go. Slept during the day, walked at night. Ate whatever grew near spirit veins or under fallen leaves. Sometimes he went weeks without speaking to another person. Sometimes he forgot how to.

He fought when he had to. Ran when he couldn't.

There were bounty hunters with spirit-sensing birds, cultivators from affiliated sects who attacked without warning. Once, a group of disciples ambushed him outside a broken tea house. Another time, he was poisoned by a root seller in a border town.

Pain taught him. Hunger sharpened him. And hatred gave him direction.

And one day, far from any city or sect, his cultivation broke through.