The Price of Survival

He knew those eyes…

To be exact, he had seen eyes similar to these when he was a child.

Recalling those bygone years, he was but a mere child, innocent and carefree.

At that time, he lived in a village as tranquil and peaceful as a hidden paradise, surrounded by verdant mountains, with gentle, flowing green waters.

Each morning, at the first blush of dawn, the initial ray of sunlight would pierce through the thin mist, gently bathing the staggered roof tiles.

His home was the warmest sanctuary in that village.

Days flowed by, calm and blissful, as if time itself was content to linger there.

Yet, fate’s cruel twists always arrived without warning, sudden and unforeseen.

It was an ordinary day like any other.

A group of Demonic Path cultivators descended upon their village like a darkening storm cloud, and, like ravenous wolves, seized him and his parents.

He watched in terror as events unfolded before his eyes, his small body trembling uncontrollably, his heart overflowing with helplessness and dread.

He could only watch, powerless, as his parents were cruelly slaughtered by the Demonic Path cultivators, treated no better than ants.

That horrific scene became an indelible scar etched upon his soul.

His world crumbled around him, as fear and hatred, like rampant weeds, grew wildly within his heart, tightly coiling around his very soul.

Deep within his heart, he silently swore an oath.

Should he ever be rescued, he would become a cultivator dedicated to slaying those of the Demonic Path, to avenge his parents and seek justice for himself and his companions.

His parents’ remains were callously discarded, used as mere ingredients for crafting demonic materials, left to rot indifferently.

As for them, the group of children, boys and girls yet to reach adulthood, they were reduced to crucial components for refining demonic pills.

During those days devoid of light, they were confined within a cramped, dim cage, where the stench of decay and blood hung heavy in the air.

He watched as his companions vanished one by one, taken to an unknown, terrifying place, from which they never returned.

Within his heart, he prayed devoutly countless times.

He yearned for Heaven to hear his innermost pleas and grant him a glimmer of hope, even if it were just the faintest dawn.

Perhaps Heaven did heed his prayers, for the gears of destiny began to turn silently.

It was a night of dark moon and howling winds.

Dark clouds obscured the moonlight, a profound silence enveloped everything, and the entire world was swallowed by darkness.

The dense darkness felt like a heavy quilt, smothering, making it hard to breathe.

The occasional whisper of the wind sounded like the mournful wails of ghosts.

A group of cultivators, clad in strange, dark night attire, appeared like specters.

They moved with utter silence, like phantoms of the night, each step seemingly treading on air, leaving no trace behind.

Their figures flickered in and out of sight within the gloom, merging seamlessly with the darkness.

They unleashed no vibrant, colorful spells, nor did they employ grand, sweeping techniques, and certainly did not call out the names of formations.

Their movements were light and swift, each advance a silent glide through the darkness.

They remained silent throughout, with only the fleeting shadows of bodies they passed and the occasional glint of a blade.

Blades mercilessly sliced through flesh, the spray of blood remarkably sharp against the stillness of the night.

That night remained etched in his memory, never to be forgotten.

From that point onward, he vowed to become powerful, to protect everything he held dear.

Yet, somewhere along the way, without realizing when, in order to survive in this brutal cultivation world, he gradually grew ruthless and cruel.

When he first began cultivating, having acquired his initial cultivation technique, his heart was filled with beautiful aspirations.

He dreamed of roaming the lands with his sword, upholding justice, and eradicating all evil, to restore peace to the world.

As time progressed, he discovered this world was not as simple as he had imagined.

The law of the jungle, where the strong preyed on the weak, was omnipresent.

His talent was unremarkable, and to survive, to become powerful, he could only continuously plunder and harm others.

He journeyed further and further down this dark path, gradually losing himself, forgetting his former vows and initial aspirations.

He thoroughly understood the cultivation world’s ruthless ways, yet he seemed to have forgotten one crucial detail…

They still existed.

The Shadow Sect had never departed.

And now, they… had finally come for him.

Decades ago, he had yearned to become an envoy of justice, but ultimately, he had fallen, becoming an embodiment of evil.

Decades later, he had become the very person he once detested most and was once again judged by the justice he once aspired to.

In that instant, he seemed to abandon all resistance, allowing the Shadow Sect’s dagger to strike at his neck once more.

Never before had he faced death so intimately.

Scenes from his past flashed before his mind’s eye, like a swiftly turning lantern.

To become a Foundation Establishment cultivator, he had endured countless trials.

Those painful memories surged through his heart like a relentless tide.

A realm that the geniuses of the Xuantian Dao Sect could achieve with ease, he was denied entry due to his insufficient spiritual root aptitude, paying a heavy price.

He had cultivated in seclusion within dark caves, enduring the agonizing pain of spiritual energy entering his body.

To contend for precious cultivation resources, he had engaged in life-and-death struggles with others, hovering countless times on the brink of death.

He had been severely wounded by opponents, collapsing into pools of blood, watching the sky above slowly blur, convinced he would die then and there.

Yet, the fierce will to survive had dragged him back from the precipice of death time and again.

What fault was his!

He merely wished to live, to become strong, but in this brutal world, simply surviving proved an arduous task.

“You scoundrel, do not be so arrogant!”

The Den Leader roared in fury.

His Foundation Establishment strength was fully unleashed, spiritual energy violently surging around his body like turbulent ocean waves, crashing against the surrounding air in successive surges, emitting a whooshing sound.

His face was etched with anger and unwillingness.

His eyes, wide as brass bells, glared fiercely at the Shadow Sect assassin, as if flames would erupt from them.

“A mere Qi Condensation cultivator, are you perhaps foolishly attempting to slay me, someone of a higher realm?”