The Unbroken Vow and the Final Reckoning

Mo Tingbei’s master was a revered elder who had once pulled him from a pile of corpses in a blood-soaked, fiery hellscape. He had wiped the gore from the boy’s face and guided him back to the world of the living. A man whose life had been defined by broad detachment, yet who ultimately poured all his tenderness into his sect and disciples.

He, too, had fallen during a furious uprising to suppress the fiendish beast, Yazi.

At that time, the fiendish beast had assailed the restrictive spell.

Mo Tingbei’s master, having only just entered the Purple Mansion with an unstable foundation, nonetheless led from the front. He marshaled his disciples to defend the formation’s core, fighting valiantly and shedding blood from dawn until dusk.

Yet, the fiendish beast proved too formidable. Ultimately, the master sacrificed his soul, utterly destroying his cultivation to activate the core of the restrictive spell, thereby forcing the beast deep into the chasm.

In his dying moments, the master clutched Mo Tingbei’s hand tightly. His gaze was already diffused, yet his voice remained as hard as iron, even cruelly stern.

“You are forbidden to avenge me!”

“Susu is too willful, Jinyue too detached. You are the sole hope for revitalizing the sect; you must never act on a moment’s impulse, throwing your life away in vain!”

“And also, take good care of Susu.”

“This is your master’s… final request.”

He didn’t even have time to see his beloved daughter, Ling Susu, one last time. He dissolved into shimmering motes of light right before Mo Tingbei’s eyes, vanishing completely.

Not even a single bone, nor a shred of his clothing remained. Mo Tingbei was unable to even erect a cenotaph to honor his memory.

That final injunction, uttered with his dying breath, each word imbued with profound masterly grace and a heavy deathbed entrustment, became both the coldest of shackles and the most scorching of brands, clamping down relentlessly upon Mo Tingbei’s soul.

Even now, whenever he closed his eyes, he could still recall the sensation of that moment.

The world, in that instant, had lost all its sounds and colors.

From that day forward, he had secretly sworn an oath: to burn his body and temper his heart, determined to exact vengeance!

He had personally witnessed his revered elder, who was both father and master, being utterly annihilated to suppress this fiend. The hatred in his heart was potent enough to incinerate the heavens and boil the seas, yet this final, absolute command had forcefully suppressed it back into his very being, where it burned day and night, a piercing agony.

This restraint was etched into his very bones, far more deeply than any hatred. Even when he had ascended to the pinnacle achievable by ordinary cultivators, he could only maintain a perilous balance with Yazi, unable to engage in an all-out battle.

His fear was that he would perish alongside the beast, rendering his master’s dying wish hollow.

It was precisely for this reason that, years ago, he had chosen to embark on the perilous path of ‘Red Dust Enlightenment.’

Even if he ultimately fell midway along this path, like those who came before him, he could still achieve a final sublimation, eliminating the greatest threat to his sect.

Now, the shackles remained, the brand still seared.

What his master had not anticipated, however, was that a disciple would eventually reach the end of their life’s journey.

When death was no longer a price to be avoided, but a destination within reach, the “heavy responsibility” imposed upon him lost its binding power.

The long-suppressed will belonging solely to Mo Tingbei, that fire of vengeance born from the blood and flames of hell, which had never truly extinguished, finally broke free from all constraints.

He no longer needed to “act on a moment’s impulse.”

From the moment he embarked on that ‘Red Dust’ path to enlightenment, paved with bones and isolated through eternities, Mo Tingbei had understood: whether he achieved sainthood or fell midway, this grievance, intertwined for ten millennia and steeped in blood and fire, would inevitably propel him towards his fated end. Everything would be concluded by his own hand.

He had lied to Jiang Jinyue. The so-called chess game where only the “rook” could advance had never existed.

All the reasons he had fabricated before their parting were nothing more than excuses.

All he desired was to personally bring an end to everything.

Personally, with the fiendish beast’s blood, to consecrate that bone-gnawing, heart-burning, eternal blood feud.

Mo Tingbei stood silently in the void, his gaze lowered. It was as if he were piercing through the monstrous, savage shell before him—filled with brutality and defilement—to behold the True Dragon Scion who, ten millennia ago, had resolutely sealed away the demon and guarded the Nine Nether.

There was little elation in his eyes at the impending conclusion of a millennia-long vendetta. Instead, a heavy thread of pity emerged—not for the fiendish beast before him, but for that sacred being long consumed by demonic energy, obliterated by the currents of time.

He made no attempt to conceal this emotion, his eyelids half-closed, as if performing a silent memorial, honoring the noble soul that had once shone with boundless brilliance, only to ultimately descend into endless darkness.

Similarly, he mourned the blood and suffering of the entire sect, commemorating the countless ancestors who had fearlessly stepped forward, sacrificing their flesh, souls, and indeed everything, to suppress this fiendish beast.

The Seventh Sect Master’s resolute sacrifice of his Dao foundation, the Thirteenth Sword Son’s proud breaking of his sword in the netherworld, the Twenty-Fifth Mountain-Guarding Elder’s tragic transformation into a monument to seal the mountain…

Countless figures, preserved only in tattered ancient scrolls, surfaced in the lake of his heart, then receded into silence. Their sacrifices, the sect’s ten-millennia-long agony, would all finally be brought to an end by his own hands, at this very moment.

Naturally, this also included his master’s diffused yet still stern eyes. That cold injunction continued to sear his soul like a brand to this day.

“You vermin! How dare you insult me!”

Yazi’s furious roar echoed through the valley, transforming into the most venomous curses, violently slamming into the depths of Mo Tingbei’s soul and shaking his Sea of Consciousness—this was one of the blessings granted to the True Dragon’s lineage, a roar capable of directly assailing the soul.

However, Daoist charm flowed around Mo Tingbei. The dragon’s roar, potent enough to shatter the souls of ordinary Purple Mansion cultivators, plunged into his Sea of Consciousness like a clay ox entering the sea, failing to even stir a ripple.

He did not even frown. Instead, with a clear and calm cadence, he began to chant the Rebirth Mantra, completely oblivious to his surroundings.

Each syllable he uttered carried a gentle power, soothing malevolence and purifying defilement.

This action, starkly contrasting the scene of destruction before him, was imbued with an almost cruel indifference.

This absolute contempt drove Yazi to a frenzy far greater than any physical attack!

Yazi’s ten-millennia accumulation of venomous resentment and fury erupted completely. Demonic flames around his body surged skyward like a boiling sea of blood, distorted dragon prestige mingling with the vile defilement from the deepest reaches of the Nine Nether, elevating his power to a terrifying peak unseen in ten millennia.

The earth groaned, tearing open into bottomless ravines, and space violently quaked, as if unable to bear this ultimate, ferocious might.

He intended to unleash this ten-millennia-old hatred and suffering, without reservation, completely, in this very moment!

Yet, facing this ferocious might capable of altering the very heavens and earth, Mo Tingbei merely lifted his gaze slowly.

His eyes were as serene as the unchanging deep cosmos, reflecting not the slightest ripple.

“Noisy.”

Two words softly uttered, neither a reprimand nor an expression of anger.

Yet, the moment these two words escaped his lips—

In this valley, long corrupted by Nine Nether demonic energy, which had become a realm without sun or moon, the dense, unyielding chaotic demonic energy, potent enough to swallow all light, was abruptly seized as if by an invisible colossal hand!

An absolute, undeniable will, transcending all laws of this place, forcefully suppressed, bound, and purged!

In an instant, the sky brightened abruptly!

The valley, shrouded in gloom for countless ages, briefly rediscovered the light of clarity, as if it had never been tainted by demonic energy.

Yazi’s boiling demonic flames suddenly faltered.

Within his colossal, blood-red, moon-like eyes, the surging desire for slaughter was, for the first time, interrupted by an incredulous shock.

His overwhelming venomous resentment and power, accumulated for ten millennia and unleashed, had been casually rebuffed by the other party’s mere two words; even this demonic domain, which he had thoroughly assimilated, was forcibly “purified” for an instant!

He was not a mindless puppet.

Nine Nether demonic energy, intrinsically formed from the solidified wickedness of human hearts, naturally carried the malevolent intelligence represented by the evil thoughts of living beings.

Countless ages of entanglement with the Three-Unity Sword Sect had granted Yazi an understanding of the current era that was certainly no less than any contemporary individual.

A low growl, squeezed from deep within his throat, mixed with confusion, furious rage, and a hint of almost imperceptible dread, replaced his previous world-shattering roar.

His massive, mountain-like body thrashed restlessly, his sharp claws gouging deep into the rock, and the dark-red chains of malevolent energy swayed wildly, yet he could no longer expand his demonic might as freely as before.

This was certainly beyond the capabilities of an ordinary Purple Mansion cultivator, yet it was also not an entity beyond the established boundaries.

“Who exactly are you?!”

For the first time, Yazi shed his pride, having always considered himself a supreme being, and questioned what he had previously perceived as mere vermin with a scrutinizing demeanor.