The God Realm's skies were fractured, blackened streaks of energy cutting across the heavens like rivers of shadow. Floating islands, once pristine, now lay in ruin—scorched, fractured, and trembling from the sheer force unleashed. The army of the Celestial Convergence Dynasty had been obliterated, their generals defeated or ensnared, their legacies shattered in a single campaign.
The Demon Dragon, standing atop the highest shard of blackened crystal, allowed himself a slow, deliberate scan of the battlefield. His obsidian-scaled dragon form gleamed, wings spreading like eclipsing shadows, blotting out the divine light. Every remaining cultivator, even those hidden in the far reaches of the realm, felt the pressure of his aura—an inexorable force that reminded the gods of their mortality.
He summoned his artifacts once more:
Celestial Dragon Spear, now crackling with a fusion of lightning and abyssal energy.
Eclipse Fang Sword, shadow flames licking across its edge.
Worldbreaker Gauntlets, each punch a potential apocalypse.
Net of the Fallen Gods, pulsing with containment energy that could snare even the most divine entities.
The generals who survived the initial massacre trembled in place. A single thought ran through their minds: this was not a battle—they were witnesses to a force beyond comprehension.
From the council of elder gods, a voice rang out, hesitant yet commanding:
"Demon Dragon… why? What purpose drives you to wreak such devastation upon the God Realm?"
The Demon Dragon's gaze cut through the distance, eyes like molten gold piercing their souls. "Purpose?" His voice resonated like a storm echoing across the void. "My purpose is simple: the world must remember strength, and my bloodline will not be underestimated. Let this be a warning. Let every god, every realm, know that power carries responsibility—and defiance invites oblivion."
He extended a clawed hand, and the Net of the Fallen Gods pulsed outward, sending tremors across distant planes. Islands shuddered, rivers of divine energy twisted violently, and even the realms untouched by the immediate battle felt the ripple. The gods themselves flinched at the display—a silent acknowledgment that no force here could challenge him without consequence.
The Demon Dragon shifted into human form, towering, devilishly handsome, his aura serene yet lethal. In one measured motion, he released the bound generals, a calculated gesture to sow fear rather than breed rebellion. They fell to their knees, trembling, fully aware of the price of defiance.
He spoke again, voice carrying across all realms:
> "Know this—Xuan Mo's name will rise in the mortal world, and when he steps into the wider realm, you will remember today. The Demon Dragon has judged, and the warning has been sent. Let the heavens tremble in anticipation."
With that, he spread his wings once more, sending a shockwave across the God Realm, marking the boundaries of his influence. The landscape, shattered and warped, would serve as a permanent testament to his might.
The Demon Dragon then turned, a figure of calm devastation, and vanished into the ether, leaving only echoes of power and devastation behind—a reminder that he was a force that even gods would hesitate to challenge.
The God Realm, forever scarred, bowed silently to the might of Xuan Mo's father, a harbinger of the storm yet to come in the mortal realm.