“Mother—”

“Shhh!” A worried woman hurriedly covered the child’s mouth. Her grip tightened until the whites of her knuckles showed.

This scene was replayed all over Purple Cloud City.

Dusk painted the endless sky a gradient rose-tint, a signal of nightfall to come. The smoky rose selfishly dyed the whole city to its shade leaving not a corner untouched—barren grounds, intricately tiled roofs, the aged city walls.

Unnatural gusts of scorching hot wind continuously hovered over the city, unceasingly chipping away the city’s self-defense barrier. Yet the core of the heat source lain not here but at the Eternal Cloud Sect; the top righteous sect.

No one dared to step into that forbidden place. The vast Sect was but a shadow of its former glory. Fields after fields of infectious infernal flames relentlessly scorched the Sect to the ground.

The waves of heat helped the ashes of corpses and buildings intermix. No matter how formerly honorable, at death — reduced to the same level as the structures they live in.

Back in Purple Cloud City, several men dressed in white gathered at the highest point of a tower, their expressions grim.

A sudden intrusion through the city barrier caught their attention; a graceful elderly leaped off his sword and joined the group at the tower.

In formal greeting, they clasped their hands to acknowledge the elder, and the latter in return nodded back.

He asked, “Any news?”

One of the men in white said, “Elder, the only way to extinguish the infernal flames is water from the Yellow Springs, but the damned demons from the Underworld will not lend it to us unless...”

The elder remained unperturbed, “Unless?”

The man hesitated, but in the end responded, “Unless we hand over the Water of Life.”

Water of Life, the miracle to cure all illnesses of a man as long as they still held one last breath. Even old age.

Still keeping his composure, the elder turned and stared into the distance.

The black flames engulfed the peak of the mountain Eternal Cloud Sect was founded on since thousands of years ago.

Vigorously burning to no end, as if high enough to touch the sky, just like the fire of the man who birthed it.

The dead now eternally resting on that mountain would’ve never expected the culprit who brought all this chaos was their former disciple. Moreover, a name much familiar to them.

Yet no one mentioned him by name. The world only knew him by his nickname, the “Benevolent Demon.”

Anyone persuaded by the name to deem him harmless would be a fool.

The elder had met him in his youth, and again during the Trials. He was one who was doused in the teachings of a righteous sect; one who only knew to save with his hands and to strike down unjust with his sword.

For three hundred years, he did just that, but the elder knew he neither felt joy at a life saved, nor sorrow at a life taken.

When the elder last saw him at the Trials, that was the moment that man refused to give up the Water of Life. The worst of men’s greed were all in attendance that day, including the elder himself.

When the whole world betrayed him, he still refused to give up the Water of Life.

The consequence of so was falling to the rank of Demons, and was ironically titled the “Benevolent Demon” as if a mockery of his whole being.

Still, the man was more emotionally alive as a demon than as the perfect disciple of a righteous sect. After all, the demon arts grew stronger the more its practitioner "felt."

Now, this Demon had returned to the beginning — he is getting back what had belonged to him.

In the deepest part of the abyss existed a palace. A young man in a tattered black robe leaned back on a chair, his posture lax.

His wounded presence was a mismatch to the beauty of the elegantly adorned room. Half of his face was peeling in blood; the other half perfect as if chiseled by a top tier craftsman.

Thus far, he only played with a crystal bottle on hand. If the elder from previously had seen the bottle, he would have kneeled and upped his palms to form a safety net. The content of the bottle was a priceless treasure the whole cultivation world yearned for, just a few drops to cure all illnesses. The bloodshed since the first of its appearance was enough to dye its exterior black.

The young man opened his mouth, “What a pity. Only a mouthful left. Not even enough to wash my hands.” Though he said so, the last thing shown on his face was pity.

He tossed the bottle into his dimensional time palace and closed his eyes; one of which was only still held in place by the exposed muscles and bones supporting the flesh.

From the abyss, a cloudy darkness crept upon the palace, seeping in from all crevices, then amassing again only to drift drunkenly to the only living being in the room.

The strange cloudy matter began to devour the being, and only made stranger because the latter did not resist.

In the span of a minute, only the remains of the tattered robe on the chair had reminded of its owner’s previous existence.

An unsatisfied voice came from the cloud of darkness, “Pity.”

No one knew pity for what.

The darkness dispersed and silence overcame the palace once again.