Legends say that when the Ancient Era still breathed—before Great Sects fractured, before the heavens dimmed—there walked ten absolute beings.
They were the pillars of that age, figures whose mastery had reached the fabled Deity Realm, true immortals who could shatter mountains with a glance and reshape worlds with a single breath.
Among those ten was a man whose very name could silence entire Sects and freeze the blood of Immortals.
He was called—
DEATH GOD.
Not a title.
Not an exaggeration.
But the purest definition of death itself.
Yet even the most terrifying beings had beginnings.
Long before the world trembled under his shadow, before his hands stained continents crimson, the Death God was once nothing more than an assassin of an upper-level sect, a silent blade hidden in the dark. Records describe him as efficient, emotionless, and precise—one of the sect's most promising shadows.
Then… seventeen years vanished.
It began with a mission—one so secret that even now, in contemporary times, historians debate its nature. Some say it was a mission to infiltrate a forbidden realm. Others claim he pursued a divine treasure. A few whisper that he descended into hell itself. But all agree on one thing:
He never returned.
Not for seventeen long years.
Sects mobilized. Information networks dug into forgotten tombs, bribed ancient families, and interrogated hermits who had lived longer than empires.
Yet not a single clue surfaced.
He had disappeared as though swallowed by a void outside reality.
And then—he returned.
No warning.
No words.
Only death.
The upper-level sect he once served, the one that had raised him, trained him, and sent him into the unknown—
was annihilated in a single night.
Scholars record that not even the screams were heard. When daylight arrived, the entire sect had been erased: disciples, elders, children, women, elderly, allies, distant relatives—anyone with even the faintest connection to the sect was found lifeless.
Not a drop of blood remained on the ground.
No one knew why.
No one dared to ask how.
From that day, the world understood something fundamental:
There were assassins.
There were monsters.
There were immortals.
And then…
there was him.
The Death God.
A being who rose beyond mortality, whose domain of death overshadowed all other assassins in history. After stepping into the immortal realm, he founded the legendary Silent Killing Pavilion, a sect so feared that even immortal clans hesitated to mention its name.
It became one of the Seven Great Sects of the Ancient Era, a supreme temple of death where shadows breathed and blades whispered.
But eras pass.
Glory fades.
Even legends fracture.
When the ancient era crumbled, the Silent Killing Pavilion split into countless small factions. Some vanished completely; some weakened until they were mere shadows of their former grandeur. Some clung stubbornly to the remnants of their lineage.
And one such remnant…
was the Silent Crown Sect.
A once-promising branch, now withering under time's cruelty—a flickering ember on the verge of extinguishing.
⸻
A Gathering of Shadows
In a dark, windowless chamber lit only by a single trembling lantern, seven figures sat around a long rectangular table. Six occupied the sides—faces hidden beneath black hoods, their masks carved with faint patterns of crowns.
But the seventh man…
he sat at the head.
Unlike the others, he wore no mask.
The lantern's glow revealed a man in his mid-twenties, handsome in a cold, pristine way. His blond hair fell lightly over sharp brows, and his blue eyes gleamed with a chilling calmness—like winter skies above a battlefield. The aura around him carried a silent authority that made the others straighten unconsciously.
This man was the leader of the fractured sect's remnant.
He was known simply as:
Reaper.
In the oppressive silence, footsteps echoed outside the chamber. A guard entered, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head deeply.
"Lord Reaper," the guard announced, voice trembling slightly, "we… we have received an assassination request."
The six masked assassins stiffened.
The guard swallowed hard before continuing,
"And… the consideration offered is—ten thousand spirit stones."
For a moment, the silence shattered.
"Ten thousand?!"
"Impossible—did we hear that correctly?"
"Who would spend such a fortune on a single kill?!"
Their voices collided in disbelief. Spirit stones were life. Power. Survival. For a sect on the edge of death like Silent Crown, ten thousand spirit stones were equivalent to a second lifetime.
Their sect had not seen such a number in decades.
But Reaper…
He did not react with excitement.
He leaned back in his seat, fingertips lightly tapping the wooden surface. His eyes remained tranquil, calm as a still lake—yet sharp enough to cut stone.
"If someone is willing to pay that amount," Reaper said, voice smooth and low, "then the target is not simple."
His words immediately silenced the room.
He wasn't wrong.
No sect—major or minor—would spend ten thousand stones lightly.
Reaper did not outright refuse. His gaze turned toward the kneeling guard.
"Who posted the request?"
The guard bowed again.
"Flowing Cloud Sect of Yunlai Village, my lord."
A faint shift rippled through the assassins.
Flowing Cloud Sect was a lower-level sect, one barely strong enough to maintain relevance.
Yet they dared to offer such an astronomical price?
For what kind of man?
Reaper's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing more. The lantern flickered, casting shadows across his sharp jawline.
"Bring the request document," he ordered quietly.
The guard bowed and retreated.
Reaper closed his eyes briefly.
Silent Crown Sect was dying. Their coffers were nearly empty. Their influence had evaporated. Missions of large scale had not come their way in years. An opportunity like this was a siren's call.
But opportunities coated in gold were often the ones drenched in blood.
Still…
Ten thousand spirit stones.
Even a dying sect would gamble.
⸻
Flowing Cloud Sect – A Gamble With Fate
Meanwhile, in the Flowing Cloud Sect, a heated argument raged inside the Sect Leader's private chamber.
"Father!"
Li Cheng's voice quivered between frustration and disbelief. "Why did you offer ten thousand spirit stones?! That is nearly eighty percent of our entire sect's savings!"
He slammed his hand against the table.
"As a lower-level sect, we barely earn spirit stones as it is! How can we afford such a reckless decision?"
The Sect Leader, a middle-aged man with stern eyes and a rigid posture, did not respond immediately. He stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching moonlight spill across the courtyard tiles.
After a moment, he spoke, voice heavy with steel.
"Li Cheng. That man—that Divine Doctor—is the distance between our sect and the Spirit Realm."
Li Cheng trembled.
The spirit realm…
The threshold that determined whether their sect would rise to prominence or fade into mediocrity forever.
His father continued, tone solemn as a decree:
"If we fail to secure our ascension, then not only will we lose our chance at future glory… we will incur the wrath of Branch Manager Bai of the White Dragon Hall."
A chill raced down Li Cheng's spine at that name.
"She is not someone we can afford to offend," his father continued. "If she becomes displeased with our sect, then even our bones will not remain."
His voice hardened:
"So even if I must sacrifice every last spirit stone our sect possesses to secure our future, then I will do so without hesitation."
Li Cheng clenched his fists. He understood… but he couldn't quiet the uneasy feeling in his heart.
Especially when he remembered…
Aelric's eyes.
Those calm, abyss-like eyes that saw through him as if he were nothing.
His father, unaware of his son's turmoil, continued confidently:
"I have already communicated with multiple assassin sects. Tonight, he will not see the sunrise."
A laugh—sharp and triumphant—rose from his chest.
"With that man gone, nothing will stop our rise! The Flowing Cloud Sect will claim its rightful place in the Spirit Realm!"
Li Cheng forced a smile, burying the lingering dread that clawed at his chest.
He reassured himself:
Even that monstrous man can't kill an entire army of assassins.
Especially at night—the assassins' most favored battlefield.
His thoughts eased further when he remembered:
His brother, the sect's strongest cultivator, would return from closed-door training the next morning.
Everything would be fine.
Li Cheng bowed respectfully, praised his father's decisiveness, and left the chamber.
But the dread in his chest…
did not fade.
⸻
A Residence Drenched in Moonlight
At the residence's quietest corner, Aelric was seated in meditation when he suddenly opened his eyes.
A faint, chilling killing intent brushed against his skin like a cold breeze.
His lips curved into a thin, cold smile.
"Come out."
His voice was quiet, but filled the room with undeniable authority.
Above him, on the roof, three assassins stiffened. Their eyes met—shock flickering between them. They had hidden their presence flawlessly.
Yet… he sensed them instantly.
Still, a mission was a mission.
They sprang into action.
Like shadows dripping from the ceiling, they lunged toward him—the first two aiming for his neck and waist, their daggers glinting with poison.
Aelric didn't move dramatically.
Just a tilt of his head.
A shift of his waist.
A breath.
Both blades sliced through empty air.
Before the assassins registered what happened, Aelric's hand shot forward—
Crack!
He snapped the first assassin's neck so swiftly the man didn't even gasp.
Using the momentum, Aelric plucked the falling dagger from the dead man's loosening grip and flicked his wrist.
Swish.
The blade embedded itself in the second assassin's forehead with a dull thud.
He died instantly, collapsing without a sound.
The last assassin froze.
His mind couldn't process what happened.
How?
When?
What level is this man?!
But his shock lasted only a heartbeat.
Because Aelric blurred.
In an instant, he crossed the distance, appearing before the assassin like a specter.
Another crack echoed as the man's neck snapped sideways, eyes wide with confusion even in death.
Aelric exhaled softly.
"These assassins…" he murmured, gazing at the lifeless bodies. "Not even third-rate."
And if such insignificant insects had come for him…
Then stronger ones were on the way.
As if answering his thoughts, Aelric turned toward the window.
His eyes narrowed.
Outside, under the moonlit sky—
hundreds of assassins were rushing toward him.
Their movements silent, synchronized, terrifying to any normal cultivator.
But among them…
one figure stood out.
A killing intent sharper, older, colder.
An assassin who had walked through oceans of blood.
A true threat.
Aelric's smile deepened.
"So," he whispered, standing slowly, "the night finally becomes interesting."