Immortal Paladin

A book was carried into the hall.

Thick, ancient, bound in leather blackened with age. Its cover bore no title, only foreign inscriptions carved deep into its flesh, pulsing with a wicked glow. Elders dressed in ceremonial robes bore it upon a crimson cloth, moving with deliberate reverence, their faces solemn.

The room grew colder as it approached.

I felt it—an aura unlike any I had ever known, a presence that scraped against the edges of my senses like a whisper too close to the ear. Not qi. Not something as simple as that. This was deeper. Older. A force beyond mortal comprehension, woven into the very fibers of the book itself.

The outer disciples trembled. Even the inner disciples stiffened, their expressions unreadable. Only we—the seeded disciples—stood motionless. We had been trained not to falter.

Step by step, the book was paraded forward.

Step by step, it was brought to the throne.

The Heavenly Demon did not move as it was placed before him. He did not so much as blink as the crimson cloth was drawn away, revealing the full, terrible sight of it.

Instead, he raised a single hand.

”Dong Yun.”

Her name rang through the hall.

I felt her shift beside me.

I turned.

She smiled.

A small thing, barely noticeable. The same smile she always wore when she found me in the mornings, when she asked questions she already knew the answers to, when she clung to foolish dreams of a world beyond these walls.

I had thought her naive. I had believed her blind.

But now I understood.

She wasn’t naive because she was ignorant.

She was naive because she chose to be.

She stepped forward.

Every movement was light, graceful, deliberate. She approached the throne and knelt before the Heavenly Demon, pressing her forehead to the cold stone floor. Her Wintry Cloud Breath curled around her in wisps of mist, fading even as it formed.

She did not beg.

She did not cry.

She did not hesitate.

The Heavenly Demon lowered his hand.

Black mist coiled from his fingertips. It was silent—no crackle of qi, no fanfare, no incantation. Only an unraveling, a pulling, a grasping of something unseen.

And then—

Dong Yun gasped.

Her back arched, her hands twitching against the floor.

A light, pale and fragile, was drawn from her chest.

Her soul.

It writhed in the air, clinging to her, reaching for something—anything—before the Heavenly Demon’s hand closed around it.

He brought it to his lips.

And he devoured it.

The light vanished.

Dong Yun’s husk collapsed to the floor.

Her body did not convulse. There was no final shudder, no lingering breath. She simply dropped—limbs slack, eyes open yet empty, mouth parted as if she had been about to say something but had forgotten how.

No blood. No wounds. No evidence that a life had been taken—only the unmistakable hollowness of a form without a soul.

I could still hear her voice in my mind. ”Gu Jie, did you eat yet? I swear, you forget sometimes.”

A hand that used to tug at my sleeve every morning now lay still, fingers curled inward, as if she had been holding onto something and lost her grip.

I flinched.

Only for a moment.

Then I forced myself still, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted iron.

My fellow seeded disciples did not move. They did not react. Not even the ones who had trained beside her, fought beside her. Laughed beside her.

I closed my eyes.

A hand fell on my shoulder.

”Open them.”

The voice was quiet. A whisper of authority wrapped in silk.

I opened my eyes reluctantly.

The elder beside me smiled. ”It is an honor,” he said, his fingers pressing lightly into my shoulder. ”To become the Heavenly Demon’s strength.”

Dong Yun’s lifeless form lay before us.

And we watched as she faded into nothing.

The Heavenly Demon reached for the book.

His fingers, long and withered, brushed against its ancient cover. The inscriptions pulsed, a deep, malevolent glow that flickered in and out of existence like the heartbeat of something alive.

The hall was silent.

The outer disciples dared not breathe. The inner disciples stood as still as statues. Even among us—the seeded disciples—there was no movement, no sound. Only the weight of an unspoken truth pressing against our chests.

We knew what was coming.

The Heavenly Demon grasped the edges of the cover and pulled.

Nothing happened.

His expression did not change. He tried again, pressing his palm against the leather, his fingers clawing at its surface. Again, the book resisted.

A ripple spread through the air.

Not wind. Not sound.

A pressure. A suffocating, impossible weight that coiled around the throne, sinking into the bones of the room itself. The torches dimmed. The floor creaked. The very air itself seemed to tremble.

I clenched my fists.

Something wasn’t right.

The Heavenly Demon inhaled deeply. Qi surged around him, black and roiling, coiling like a thousand unseen hands. A deep hum echoed from his very being as he called forth his soul.

Pitch-black light burned in his eyes.

”Open.”

The command resonated through the hall.

The book did not yield.

For the first time, I saw it—

The hesitation.

The barest flicker of something in his gaze. Something fragile.

And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

A sharp breath. A pause. A moment stretched too thin.

Then—

”What does an Immortal Soul even mean!?”

His scream tore through the silence.

Raw. Wild. Unhinged.

He slammed the book onto the armrest of his throne, his hand curling into a claw as the air shattered around him. The ground cracked. A soundless shockwave rippled outward, warping everything in its path.

And then—

A hand raised.

Fingers curled inward.

The nearest guards froze.

For a moment, they were there—solid, real, standing as they always had.

Then—

Their souls left them.

Ripped from their bodies.

Pale, luminous wisps—their very existence—dragged into the air and pulled into the gaping void of the Heavenly Demon’s maw.

He devoured them.

Their lifeless bodies crumpled to the ground.

I could hear the outer disciples suppressing gasps, hear the sharp intake of breath from those who had thought themselves strong enough to endure the sight.

But I had no room to think of them.

Because his gaze turned.

And it landed—

On me.

A coldness like nothing I had ever known sank into my bones.

I did not move.

I did not breathe.

I did not beg.

Begging would do nothing.

Instead, I reached inward.

My Sixth Sense Misfortune stirred.

And then I tapped into Delayed Destiny of the Demonic Path.

I let it flow. Divert. Push the weight of fate away from me.

The girl beside me—nothing happened to her.

But the disciple beside her—

A strangled gasp.

He was lifted into the air.

His eyes widened. His mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound escaped.

His soul was torn from him.

It twisted in the air, stretching, fighting—only for the Heavenly Demon’s teeth to sink into it.

He consumed it whole.

The body fell.

A thud.

Silence.

I was still standing.

I did not know how long I remained like that—frozen—but I knew what I felt.

I was scared.

I had been trained to withstand pain, to endure suffering, to push forward in the face of death.

But this—

This was something else.

I had prayed in my heart that it would not be me. That someone else would bear the weight. That fate—however cruel—would spare me this time.

And somehow…

It had.

But for how long?

I wasn’t devoured.

The realization came slowly, sluggishly, as if my mind refused to accept it. I could still feel the weight of the elder’s hand on my shoulder, the whisper of his breath against my ear. My heart slammed against my ribs, desperate, disbelieving.

I was alive.

Sanity returned to me in increments, cold and merciless. My gaze flickered to the hall before me. Half of the seeded disciples were gone. Dead. The ones who had once stood beside me, who had trained in the same blood-soaked fields, who had looked up at the same dark sky with the same quiet resignation.

Now they were nothing more than empty husks.

And yet, I remained untouched.

A slow, sickening breath passed through my lips. I couldn’t bring myself to be relieved. Not when I knew—I knew—that my survival was not by chance.

The elder beside me leaned in close, his lips curling with something akin to amusement, malicious glee brimming in his voice.

”You are only alive because the Heavenly Demon has other plans for you,” he murmured, his grip tightening just slightly, as if savoring the moment. ”But in the end… you will still be devoured.”

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

The Heavenly Demon sat upon his throne, motionless, brooding. His golden and dark robes billowed slightly as residual Qi trembled in the air. The cursed book still lay before him—closed, unyielding, defying his grasp. He had tried. I had seen it. He had called forth his soul, his Qi surging in waves strong enough to crush the weak outright. And yet…

He failed.

For the first time, he had reached for something and found himself denied.

A single crack formed in the silence.

Then another.

A groan. A tremor. A shudder that ran deep into my bones.

The hall shook.

Dust and debris rained down from the ceiling as the stone walls of the Heavenly Demonic Mountain cracked open. The boulders above split apart, jagged rocks tumbling down in great slabs. Something—someone—descended from above, cutting through the debris like a blade through silk.

Then two more followed.

Three figures stood amidst the chaos.

Their presence alone felt like a different world entirely. Their Qi was righteous, vast and boundless, sweeping through the hall like the crashing tide of an unstoppable force. They did not belong to this darkness. They were light cutting through the abyss.

I scrambled backward, heart pounding, trying to find cover behind the shattered remains of a broken pillar.

One of them took a step forward, his robes fluttering in the wind. His sword gleamed even in the dim torchlight, pristine and untarnished by the filth of this wretched place.

Heavenly Sword.

The legend of his blade stretched across the continent. A man who had slain demons and devils alike, whose swordsmanship was said to be untouchable. His face was calm, unreadable, but his mere presence carried the weight of judgment itself.

To his right, another figure cracked his knuckles, his expression fierce and untamed. His aura coiled around him like a living serpent, vast as the ocean, crushing in its might. His very breath seemed to shake the ground beneath him, the sheer force of his Qi making the air thrum.

Divine Flood Dragon.

A powerhouse known for his boundless strength, his ability to summon floods and storms with but a wave of his hand. A man of action, unrelenting and wild.

And the third…

His head was shaved, his robes immaculate despite the descent. His golden prayer beads glowed faintly, pulsing with a rhythm akin to a heartbeat. His expression was one of serenity, but his presence alone felt like it could shatter the very foundation of this place.

Virtuous King of the Buddhist Path.

The monk whose compassion knew no bounds—nor did his wrath. A cultivator who walked the fine line between mercy and destruction, whose chants alone could purify the vilest of evils.

They stood together, unwavering, looking up at the Heavenly Demon seated upon his throne.

Their voices rang clear through the shattered hall.

”The allied righteous forces have come for your head, Heavenly Demon.”

I couldn’t understand what was happening.

One moment, the Heavenly Demon sat atop his throne, dark and terrible, and the next—the world collapsed into chaos.

Water surged through the grand hall, an unnatural flood that crashed against the pillars and swept away those too slow to react. The air trembled with the force of sword energy, sharp and merciless, slashing through everything in its path. The once-imposing chamber of the Heavenly Demonic Mountain had become a battlefield.

The elders roared, gathering their power in unison, their dark Qi coiling like a thousand writhing serpents. They would not bow so easily.

But their resistance lasted mere seconds.

A single arc of radiant energy descended from the sky, cleaving through bodies like they were nothing more than paper. The elders—men and women who had guided the sect for decades, who had imparted their teachings upon us, who had stood as giants in our eyes—were erased.

The flood thickened. The righteous cultivators did not stop pouring in.

My breath hitched. My feet felt frozen.

If I stayed in one place, I would die.

My instincts screamed at me to move.

And so I did.

Not toward the obvious safest place, no—that wasn’t how I survived.

I moved where the least misfortune was.

My body weaved through the chaos, my movements guided by something deeper than thought. A place where a stray sword might have decapitated me? I took a step left instead. A body surged toward me, pushed by the raging currents? I turned just in time for it to crash into someone else.

I knew this was unnatural. I knew I was playing with forces I could barely comprehend. But I had no choice.

I drew upon Delayed Destiny of the Demonic Path, pushing my fate forward, accumulating debt.

I will pay the price later. Just not today.

I took in every fraction of borrowed luck I could. Every misstep avoided, every near-death encounter brushed past me like I was water slipping through fingers. My luck was not my own, but I took it anyway.

Because I would not die here.

The Heavenly Demon still sat upon his throne, his black eyes locked onto the invaders. His fury was palpable, a storm barely restrained.

But I saw something else, too.

His hands trembled.

I didn’t know how I got there.

One moment, I was navigating through chaos—dodging strikes of sword energy, avoiding crushing waves, slipping past corpses. The next, I was on the ground, my breath ragged, my limbs trembling.

And beside me, within arm’s reach, lay the book.

The same wicked tome that had been paraded before the Heavenly Demon. The same book that resisted his grasp.

The very air around it twisted, thick with an energy that did not belong. The inscriptions along its cover pulsed, shifting like something alive.

I should have recoiled. I should have run.

But I didn’t.

Because at that moment—at that precise moment—my Sixth Sense Misfortune surged within me.

My entire body screamed at me to reach for it.

It wasn’t instinct. It wasn’t logic. It was the only truth I had ever known: Follow misfortune’s guidance, and I will not die.

So I scrambled forward, hands trembling as I clutched the book to my chest.

The moment my fingers brushed against the cover, something inside me clicked.

The shifting, foreign inscriptions no longer seemed incomprehensible. They were words. Actual, readable words. 

The Repentant Path of the Warlock Legacy.

My breath hitched.

And then, before I could react, the book dissolved.

A thousand motes of light broke apart from its cover, spiraling upward in twisting arcs of violet and gold. They surged toward me, wrapping around my limbs, sinking into my skin.

I gasped, trying to move—trying to do something—but my body refused to listen. The motes of light entered me, seeping into my flesh, my bones, my very soul.

I didn’t know what was happening.

I only knew one thing.

I was changing.

And then I was no longer Gu Jie.

At the same time, I realized I was Gu Jie.