"...So this is how it ends."
A man sat atop a pile of corpses stained with blood and only blood.
Corpses who were his—
Enemies.
Friends.
Even the people who once called him brother.
All dead.
All by his hand.
He was a tall man clad in flowing black robes of the immortal path.
A long outer robe draped over layered inner garments, the fabric light yet dignified, stitched with faint silver cloud patterns and ancient runic embroidery that shimmered like starlight beneath the dark weave. The hems were stained in blood, crimson spreading across the spiritual silk as though ink spilled across a celestial scroll.
His wide sleeves hung like quiet wings, edges heavy with drying red. A jade belt bound his waist, from which hung crescent-shaped spirit charms, black tassels, and a small obsidian token engraved with archaic symbols. Even these sacred ornaments were streaked with blood.
His hair was long and ink-black, half-tied with a simple dark ribbon while the rest cascaded down his back. Strands clung to his pale face where blood had dried, a thin line trailing from his temple to his jaw as if fate itself had brushed him with a crimson finger.
His skin was fair as cold jade, yet splattered with scarlet. The contrast only deepened his otherworldly presence.
His eyes—half-lidded and distant—held the stillness of an ancient cultivator who had walked through countless massacres without stirring his heart. No rage. No haste. Only detached clarity.
A faint spiritual aura lingered around him, subtle but suffocating, like pressure from an unseen mountain. The air itself seemed reluctant to approach him.
His black boots touched the ground lightly, barely making a sound, though faint bloodstains marked their surface.
He stood tall and unmoved, robes fluttering slightly in an unseen wind, blood marking his body, hair, face, and clothes as though he had just stepped out from a battlefield of immortals.
Yet his expression remained calm—almost indifferent.
Not a warrior drunk on slaughter.
But a cultivator who had simply done what the Dao required.
The crimson moon hung in the dark sky, casting a dim light over the battlefield.
A sword rested in his hand, stained dark.
Below him, a wounded man struggled to breathe, his body trembling.
"P-please…" he begged weakly. "Let me live… I have a wife… childrens waiting for me…"
The man above looked down at him.
His expression didn't change.
Then—
He swung his sword, cutting of his head in one fell swoop.
Everything fell silent.
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
Cold. Distant.
"…Wife and children?" he said softly. "Like I care."
His gaze shifted across the battlefield.
Bodies everywhere.
"You all deserved this."
"I killed them… every single one."
"The ones who betrayed me… the ones behind my death…the ones who tried to take advantage of me....all of them"
"My suffering… my anger…"
The wind passed through the silent night.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Waiting.
For something.
Anything.
But—
"…Nothing."
His voice was quiet.
"…Why do I feel nothing?"
No joy.
No satisfaction.
Only emptiness.
He slowly opened his eyes again.
"I took my revenge…"
"…so why is there nothing left?"
"I thought… all this time…"
His voice was low.
"…that taking my revenge would make me happy."
A faint pause.
"…so why… do I feel nothing?"
Silence covered the night.
Even the wind seemed to stop.
After a while, he spoke again, softer this time—
"What do I truly need…?"
"Power? Revenge? Wealth?"
A faint smile formed on his lips.
"…All of it feels meaningless now."
A quiet laugh escaped him.
He raised his blood-stained hand and covered his face.
For a moment, he just stood there—
Then slowly, he looked up.
At the moon.
"…Beautiful," he murmured.
"Just like the day I first came to this world…"
His eyes lingered on the sky.
Everything had changed.
Everything had been destroyed.
Yet the moon… remained the same.
Unmoving.
Untouched.
His thoughts drifted.
The man's final words echoed in his mind—
Wife… children…
A soft scoff left his lips.
"…How foolish."
His gaze turned distant.
"I achieved everything."
"Wealth. Power. Dominance."
"The peak of martial arts… techniques no one could match."
He paused.
His voice grew quieter.
"…And yet…"
His fingers tightened slightly.
"…I'm empty."
A long silence followed.
"…Why?"
"…Just why…"
His voice trembled slightly.
"…the man I just killed… had more reason to live than me?"
He let out a hollow breath.
"I have power… unmatched in this world."
"Wealth… beyond what anyone could dream of."
"I even took my revenge…"
A faint pause.
"…so why?"
His hand clenched.
"…why do I still feel like this?"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"…Someone… tell me…"
His lips parted slightly.
"…Master…"
A tear slid down his cheek.
Slow.
Unnoticed.
"…Just tell me…"
He stood there in silence.
Then a faint, self-mocking smile appeared.
"…Looks like…"
"…I still have emotions left after all."
A thought crossed his mind.
His master's voice… faint, yet clear.
"If you wish to truly live… then live for beauty… for women… for love."
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
"Master… you really were…"
He let out a quiet breath.
"…a true scum."
Back then, when he first came into this world, he had dismissed those words.
Nonsense.
Weak thoughts meant for ordinary people.
But now—
"…why am I thinking about it?"
His gaze dimmed slightly.
"Love…?"
He gave a soft, self-mocking laugh.
"…How ironic."
"How am I supposed to love anyone… when I can't even be a complete man?"
A pause.
"…Looks like I'll die a virgin this time too."
The words were light.
But the emptiness behind them was real.
He looked at his hand.
"…Third time."
A faint smile slowly formed.
"…This will be the third time, right?"
The night remained silent.
"…Fine."
He exhaled.
"Let's see… what kind of path I choose this time."
With that—
he reached into his robe.
A small bottle appeared in his hand.
Inside it, dark blood swirled unnaturally.
In the other—
a black dagger.
A strange aura lingered around it, heavy and unsettling.
Without hesitation, he opened the bottle—
and drank it.
A sharp pain spread through his body.
His veins pulsed.
The air around him began to distort.
He raised the dagger.
Then—
began to chant.
---
"Blood as the guide… soul as the price…"
"Time that flows… heed my call…"
"Return what was lost… reverse what has been…"
"Break the chains of fate… shatter the wheel of years…"
"Ten years… take them… devour them…"
"And grant me… one more beginning…"
---
The wind howled.
The moonlight flickered.
A dark force wrapped around him.
His body trembled—but his expression remained calm.
"…This is the last time."
His grip tightened.
"…No more chances after this."
The dagger moved—
without hesitation.
He stabbed his own heart with the dagger.
He felt the pain spread through his chest.
Sharp.
Familiar.
"…This pain… never gets old…"
His thoughts blurred as his consciousness began to fade.
And then—
he fell.
A man who once stood at the peak of the martial world… unmatched… a defier of fate—
fell among those he had slaughtered.
As if—
he held nothing at all.
Everything went dark.