...?

  He wasn’t the master.

  At least, he was definitely not the same man who had strutted up the mountain peaks with the disciples trailing dutifully behind him like ducklings following a mother to a pond.

  That man had been stern, yes, but he had possessed a human rhythm to his breath and a spark of recognizable discipline in his eyes.

  This thing sitting upon the padded stage was a hollowed-out shell, a vessel that had been filled with something ancient, starving, and fundamentally wrong.

  The scent of fear-sweat began to fill the air, a salty, pungent musk that rose from the pores of dozens of terrified youths.

  It loomed over the interior of the sect like a physical shroud, dampening the golden light of the jewels that decorated the walls.

  Every few seconds, an occasional chill breeze would whistle through the window slits, but it brought no relief; instead, it felt unnerving, a reminder of how high they were and how far they had to fall.

  Everyone, including Zhao Tang, took a slow, calculated step back.

  The collective realization hit the room like a physical blow: this wasn't a trial. Or a prank designed to test their resolve.

  It was an ending.

  Panic imbued itself into the very marrow of those present.

  The "Law of Blissful Ignorance" they had sensed earlier was being torn apart.

  Tang, unable to maintain the facade of a calm cultivator-in-training, felt his survival instincts screaming.

  He stood up from his crawl, moving amidst the horrified, frozen gazes of his peers.

  While they remained rooted by a mix of shock and hope for a miracle, Tang jolted toward the main door. He didn't care for virtue; he cared for a second breath in this second life.

  Master Khetsu did not move to intercept him.

  He remained gracefully sat upon that podium of skin and fabric, staring blankly at the grimness of the night through the tinted glass of the windows.

  His gaze was focused on something far beyond the mountain, a sign or a signal that only a monster could recognize.

  Tang clutched his robe to his face, his chest tightening as if an invisible hand were squeezing his lungs.

  The sweating intensified, turning his inner garments into a cold, clinging second skin.

  He looked at the other pupils.

  They were composed in the way a corpse is composed, still, but brittle.

  They were silently searching for an escape route, their eyes darting to the rafters and the side halls.

  Demonic possessions were common in the modern folk tales Xiao Tang had grown up with, and the ones that Zhao Tang had read, but those demons had limited time.

  They were like fire, burning brightly and burning out.

  But this? The possession of a spiritual cultivator of Khetsu's rank was unheard of in the annals of history Tang had skimmed.

  This was not a spirit entering a body; it was a body revealing its true, rotten core.

  Suddenly, the hue of the haze, that brownish-grey fog that carried the foul smell, expanded tremendously.

  It hesitated not to drift, rather it exploded outward.

  The expansion stung Tang’s perception, a chemical burn against his retinas that forced him to blink rapidly.

  And in those split-second intervals of darkness and light, he witnessed thin frames of unparalleled horror.

  The faces of the disciples were blurred amidst the haze, losing their humanity as the fog swallowed them.

  Only the candles of the sect, which still burned with a defiant brightness, paved the way for his sight.

  He saw shadows carved out of the grey, shapers of nightmare.

  The room watched in a paralyzed silence as Khetsu began to tear at himself.

  Common word would be undress but he had shredded his clothing instead.

  The master tore the entirety of his robed attire, the silk groaning as it was reduced to ribbons and ripped fabric, and scattered along the floor like autumn leaves in a graveyard.

  But it wasn't just fabric that hit the stones.

  The floor was gifted with a crimson, viscous fluid as the master’s own arm was severed, by his own violent internal pressure.

  Though it was a tidy cut, as if a blade had slit it clean.

  In a multi-spring of screams, the sect plunged into raw, primitive chaos.

  The sounds were discordant, a symphony of breaking voices.

  The master laughed, but the sound was no longer human.

  It was a transformation under the glow of his cerise blood, the only thing that still identified his human heritage before the beast fully took the reins.

  His laugh grew louder, emasculating into poached grunts that vibrated in the floorboards.

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  The fog cleared just enough for Tang to see the final product.

  The nose elongated, stretching and warping until it became a foul, stinky snout akin to a filthy swine, pocked with several dark, hairy moles.

  The ears enlarged, sprouting fur patches and taking on a leaf-like, heavy shape. From the ragged stump of his severed arm, a swarm of locusts emerged.

  Without flying away; they clasped together, their chitinous bodies grinding in a sickening chorus to form the foundation of an entirely new organic limb, one that ended in a heavy, cloven hoof that reeked of morphed excrement.

  My fate is sealed.

  My fate is sealed…

  My fate is sealed!

  That was the only thought that remained clear in Tang’s mind.

  He realized he had no fear for death, his previous life had been such a failure that the end felt like a long-overdue bill.

  He only had regrets for the absurdity of the "how." He had come into this life through sheer coincidence, only for the universe’s sense of humor to kill him again.

  First, he was stupid enough to drown under a tiny waterfall, and now... he was to be dinner for a pig demon.

  Was it even a demon? He had never heard of demons smelling like a farmer’s midden before they manifested.

  Whatever the case, cursing his fate was a waste of his final breaths.

  He watched the swine-tutor, waiting for his turn to be eaten alive.

  He clutched tightly onto the door handle, desperately turning and twisting, kicking at the wood until his toes throbbed.

  It wouldn't budge.

  He notched, thrashed, and threw his shoulder against the door, but it was like trying to move the mountain itself.

  His heart rocked in his chest, pounding louder than the seconds ticking away toward his demise.

  The robe he had used for protection rested easy on the floor now, forgotten.

  Around him, the other disciples were a scurry of panicked motion.

  Some bolted for the rear exits, others fell to their knees in prayer, begging a divinity that seemed to have abandoned the peak.

  The windowpanes shattered.

  A swarm of pupils, either pushed by the crush of the crowd or jumping in a fit of suicidal terror, fell out into the night.

  They landed outside the sect’s Dao protective barrier, and for a moment, Tang envied them for the quick end.

  The master, the beast, stood still on the broken remains of the podium, his weight now immense.

  His eyes were closed, his snout twitching.

  He was calculating.

  He was choosing who was "fresh" enough to devour first.

  Tseng turned his head towards Tang, his emerald eyes wide with terror.

  He shouted something, a command to follow them, to jump, to traverse the mount.

  “!”

  But before Tang could even extend a hand in response, the night outside erupted in a new kind of hell.

  In the matter of an instant, the screams of those who had jumped turned into deafening wails of agony.

  Tang shifted his focus toward the midnight horror filled outside.

  From the withering, gloomy skies, a quad of Peng descended.

  These were not the majestic birds of legend, but instead, scavengers of humongous size, their wingspans blocking out the mighty stars.

  They were creatures capable of lifting elephants, and the mountainous peaks of Tibet were their starving grounds.

  Usually, these heights were devoid of life, but tonight, the sect was a buffet.

  In the plain light of the moon, the Peng saw an opportunity they would not let go.

  Or rather, they were called out to by an invitation instead?

  The students that scrambled outside, their wails were surely loud enough to reach the villages in the valleys below.

  However, the supposedly protective Dao barrier would prevent even the mightiest of wails from escaping out.

  Zhao Tang had experienced the Dao Barrier before when the monks had first come to his village in search of a new noble pupil.

  It was soundproof and casted over the village hall, at the center of which, the holy fire had once been erected.

  -Now Xiao Fang, in Zhao Tang’s body, stumbled upon that memory in the last fits of understanding in this new, but soon to end life.

  Blood splattered and coated the cobblestones of the summit as the birds began their feast.

  A spiritual haven, a place meant for nirvana, had been turned into a feeding ground for giant avians.

  Just like that, countless lives were snuffed out.

  Eaten alive by things that didn't care about their Qi or their potential.

  Tang fell to his knees against the hilt of the door, utterly defeated.

  He surrendered.

  He let his forehead rest against the cold wood, waiting for the hoof or the beak to find him.

  And then, as if the universe was tired of the joke, the door decided to leave his side.

  A low, heavy creak followed.

  The main entry, which had resisted his every kick and thrash, swung open.

  Tang tumbled backward onto the cold, dusty floor.

  He looked up, expecting a Peng, but instead saw a man.

  The man had a long, greyed-out beard and wore robes identical to the disciples.

  He entered casually, his attitude unfazed by the carnage or the stench.

  He ignored Tang’s sprawling posture, sliding into the room with an ease that suggested he was entering a tea house rather than a slaughterhouse.

  He stepped forward and stood before the foul, filthy beast.

  They were eye to eye, a study in contrasts.

  The man’s head was faced upward while the beast's snout faced downward.

  The swine stood three heads taller, a towering monument to gluttony that had once been Master Khetsu.

  Is the Evernest Sect just a mask?

  A way to hide the beastly custodians who were too lazy to hunt for themselves.

  Tang wondered to himself subconsciously, steeling himself for what was to come.

  But again, his memories of the future, where the sect still stood, denied that theory.

  There was a deeper logic here, something more sinister than simple predation.

  “Pious Khetsu,” the long-bearded man spoke.

  His voice was soft, devoid of emotion, fear, or even disappointment.

  His eyes were dull, blankly examining the demon.

  The beast’s exhaled a steamy breath, hot and stinking of rot, that landed against the man’s temple.

  The creature's breathing shallowed. Its eyes widened, registering the man’s identity.

  “Master…”

  The beast’s voice was a wet, raspy growl.

  The towering form of the swine began to dwindle, its muscles losing their turgid strength as it kneeled in front of the man.

  At that exact moment, the timeline seemed to warp.

  Dawn broke with a violent suddenness, the dusk vanishing as if it had never been.

  The sun rose over the peaks, and the winds felt at ease for the first time since they had arrived.

  Tang witnessed this exchange while pressing his back against the wall.

  He was paralyzed.

  He knew he should run, but his legs refused to comply.

  His hearing, however, had peaked; he could hear every syllable of their conversation as if they were whispering directly into his ear.

  “Master,” the beast addressed the man. “You left me with no guidance!”

  Look!

  Look at me!

  “Look at what I became! I’m not the one responsible for this, You’re the one, sole reason for what has become of me, I—”

  The man didn't argue. He didn't spare a moment for explanation.

  “Shen.”

  He simply spoke a word.

  Crimson, viscous, and thick.

  The blood splattered onto Tang, smeared all over his face, his new robes, his arms, and his feet.

  For the first time since he had woken up in this world, Tang felt at peace.

  It was a strange, primal feeling, being covered in the liquid of life, even if it wasn't his own.

  It was cerise, a bright, healthy red that seemed to belong in a heart or a cranium, not on the floor.

  In front of his eyes, a dazzling light had pierced the sides of the swine before bursting from within.

  Sound had ceased; it appeared to have ruptured drums of the earbuds.

  The beast was purged from existence, rather than subdued.

  To believe he was once human seemed impossible, yet his red blood was evidence.

  The man responsible for the gruesome sight, the one Khetsu had called "Master", stood unbothered.

  He didn't wipe the spray from his beard.

  The bright rays of the sun shone against his blood-soaked front, the hue of the red turning into a brilliant, solid gold-crimson under the glare of the morning light.

  His expression remained lifeless, devoid of any feeling.

  Tang watched him and felt a chill.

  Power came with knowledge, and in this world, knowledge seemed to come with a profound, soul-deep depression.

  Tang wiped a streak of blood from his lip.

  Today was a great first day for his second life.

  He was alive, covered in the blood of his first to-be-teacher, and standing in the shadow of a man who could kill a demon with a single word.

  The Tao, it seemed, was going to be a very bloody path.

  End of Chapter three: The man who killed a demon.