Ascension of The Unholy Immortal

The sea of fire vanished and the searing heat finally faded, It's then when Kai finally awoke, lying atop blackened stone—outside the gate.

His body trembled, his hair singed, his robes nearly ashes.But he was smiling. Because now… he had his own Martial Intent.

In the cultivation world, there were many paths. The Immortal Path was one of longevity, control, and refinement—rising by attuning oneself to natural laws, absorbing heavenly energy, mastering divine techniques, and eventually comprehending Dao in its pure, cosmic form.

Immortal cultivators built their strength on Essences—of fire, water, space, time, karma, or sword—abstract truths gathered through long enlightenment, often borrowed from the world around them. The more profound their comprehension, the more powerful their Essence became. But no matter how sublime, these were drawn from the world's will, not their own.

But the Martial Path was different.

It did not kneel before heaven. It did not ask for permission.

It was born not from serenity, but from struggle.

Martial Intent was not a Law of the world—it was the Law of the self. It did not seek to align with heaven, but with the self.

Where Immortal cultivators refined their Essences to harmonize with the heaven and earth, Martial cultivators forged their Intent to impose their will upon it.

It was not an understanding of an element.

It was an assertion:

This is who I am. This is my path. This is my truth.

The Martial Path was sharp, blazing, and short-lived—like a blade that burns too brightly to last.

The realms were few, but every step was steeped in danger and suffering:

Foundation Realm – Where the body is tempered like steel, made to house the storm to come.

Essence Refinement Realm – Where the martialist begins to control their internal qi with force, not balance.

Will Tempering Realm – The point where each strike must carry not technique, but conviction.

Intent Manifestation Realm – Where Martial Intent is born, and the practitioner no longer borrows power—they become it.

Martial Soul Realm – Where the Martial Intent etches itself into the soul, forming a resonance so fierce it can destroy the weak-minded with mere presence.

Flame-Will Realm – The apex of mortal martial cultivation, where the practitioner burns with such intensity that their very qi becomes flame—no longer needing elements, but fueled by their will alone.

But it came at a cost.

The average lifespan of a Flame-Will cultivator? A mere thousand years—a flicker compared to the near-eternity of those in the Void Transformation Stage, who could slumber for millennia and still awaken unchanged.

To blaze this path was to accept a brief, brilliant existence.

To burn instead of linger.

Because of this, the Martial Path was all but extinct in the vast heavens.

Only in one secluded realm did it endure.

The Martial Rising Realm. Here, Martial cultivators reigned.

But it was a prison as much as a haven.

To leave the Martial Rising Realm and traverse the Starry Sky required time—hundreds of years of flight across astral voids, drifting atop broken stars and crossing deathless storms.

And Martial cultivators did not have that time.

Their lives were not measured in centuries of patience, but in roaring years of war.

Only those who abandoned their path, converting to Immortal cultivation, could hope to leave. But in doing so, they forsook their Martial Intent—surrendering truth for survival, most martial cultivatiors won't be able to achieve that because doing so will risk breaking the Martial Intent, a certain death for martial cultivatiors.

Thus, the Martial Rising Realm remained a sealed crucible. A furnace from which few emerged.

Those who did were legends.

Long ago, when the Martial Rising Realm was still young and the heavens had not yet grown indifferent to mortal ambition, there lived a man whose name echoed like thunder across the ages—Zhuo the Undying.

He was not born of noble blood, nor trained in the halls of great sects. His cradle was a gutter in a war-ravaged border city, where steel decided fate and corpses paved the streets. By the time he could walk, his fists were already his voice. By ten, he had killed his first man—a bandit twice his size, strangled with his own severed tendons.

By twenty, he had stormed through the Foundation Establishment Realm not with inherited techniques or sect tutelage, but through sheer savagery and unrelenting will. Dozens of self-proclaimed geniuses fell beneath his hands—bones shattered, pride crushed. His path was not paved with fortune, but with the ruin of those who underestimated him.

Yet Zhuo was not merely a brute. He was a force of nature clad in mortal flesh.

When he broke into the Intent Manifestation Realm, cultivators waited to see the shape of his Martial Intent. Most conjured swords of flame, spears of ice, or beasts of thunder. But Zhuo's Intent was a thing unseen, a terror without form.

Heaven Fist Intent.

It was not an element, nor a beast, nor a weapon born of will. It was an assertion—raw and absolute. Where others imposed their power upon the world, Zhuo's Martial Intent overwhelmed it, declaring, without apology or compromise:

"This is the will of Heaven, and it is carried in my fist."

When he struck, mountains bowed. Cultivators in his presence felt their Qi recoil, as if the heavens themselves rejected their existence in favor of his. Techniques unraveled mid-execution. Bloodlines with ancient legacies found their inherited talents trembling into silence before his gaze.

Scholars would later debate the nature of his Intent. Some called it Heavenly Authority, others Absolute Supremacy. But to Zhuo, it was simple.

The heavens had too long turned away from the cries of mortals. So he became the answer.

When a high elder of the Nine Cloud Sword Pavilion descended to strike him down, wielding a divine-grade artifact forged in the outer heavens, Zhuo shattered it with a single blow—his fist splitting the sky above the city. The elder's martial soul tried to flee. It didn't make it past the first breath.

By the time he stepped into the Soul-Burning Realm, Zhuo's name was forbidden in dozens of sects. His existence contradicted their teachings, invalidated centuries of doctrine.

He was a walking blasphemy—worshipped in secret, cursed in public. But no one denied him.

He earned a hundred titles—Heaven-Breaking Fiend, Void-Forged Demon, Fist Saint of the Outer Realms—but only one name endured in whispered reverence across the lands:

Zhuo the Undying.

The Martial Rising Realm strained to contain him. With each step forward in cultivation, Zhuo felt the weight of a world too small. His body burned with power the world could no longer ground. His soul pressed against the sky like a storm trapped within a teacup.

Martial cultivatiors accepted their limits. Immortal cultivatiors sought ascension through divine tribulation or sect-sponsored ascension sites.

Zhuo walked alone, fists clenched.

And when he reached the Flame-Will Realm, he no longer simply channeled Heaven. He challenged it.

He climbed to the highest point beneath the domain barrier. He meditated for forty-nine nights beneath thunderclouds that burned blue with divine tribulations.

Then he stood.

And struck.

Once.

Twice.

Ten thousand times.