Chapter 42 – The Curse of the Heavens
The air within the ruin was heavy, each step Jin took echoing like a drumbeat in the silence. Faint runes lit up on the stone walls, reacting subtly to his presence. He moved deeper into the crumbling hallway until he came upon a small chamber. At the center stood a raised pedestal, a red and black manual resting upon it, as though untouched by time.
Jin approached with caution. The aura of the book was different—thick, ominous. It didn't radiate elemental power, but something more primal. As he extended his hand and picked it up, a wave of chilling energy surged through him, and for a split second, he felt as if countless eyes were watching.
The manual was titled "Bloodshard Phantom Art".
His brow furrowed as he flipped through the brittle pages. The technique allowed one to shape their killing intent into any weapon they could imagine. Once formed, it gained a tangible presence and could corrode anything it grazed. Though not as potent as the darkness element, its effect was nearly equal to the poison techniques he'd seen in the old man's library.
However, the requirement was terrifying.
One hundred kills.
To even begin cultivating the technique, his killing intent needed to be thick and overwhelming—an aura birthed only through relentless slaughter. Not just battles, not just fights. Killings. Real deaths, real blood.
Jin stared at the book, silent.
He had already killed two people moments ago, but that was self-defense—a necessity. Could he truly walk this path? He wasn't naïve. He knew that in this dimension, countless lives would be lost. It was a trial forged in death. And now he had one more mission: to grow strong enough to use this cursed technique.
Just as he closed the manual and slid it into his ring, something caught his eye. A faint glow from the stone pillar behind the pedestal.
Approaching it, he brushed away the dust, revealing another book—this one embedded deep into the pillar as if sealed away on purpose.
With effort, he pried it free.
It was old, wrapped in faded leather and marked with a strange symbol—a dagger plunged through a lotus flower. The title read: "Tears of Crimson: The Monk Who Danced in Blood."
Curious, Jin opened it.
It wasn't a manual or a cultivation technique. It was a journal.
"In the time before silence fell upon this temple, we were seekers of harmony. But one among us, a monk named Kairo, found himself lost amidst the shadows of our world."
Jin read on.
Kairo had been a devout monk, one who renounced conflict. But during a raid by barbaric clans, he was forced to watch his entire temple burn. Dozens of brothers slain, defenseless and praying.
Kairo snapped.
What followed was a descent into madness and clarity. Kairo did not seek revenge—he sought understanding. He wandered battlefields, watched armies slaughter each other, studied assassins in the underworld. He immersed himself in death until the heavens acknowledged him.
And when they did, they cursed him.
His killing intent was born not from anger, but from witnessing endless death. And it manifested like an element—a blood-like mist that trailed him wherever he walked. His aura twisted space. Even animals fled from him.
Many sought to kill him, labeling him cursed. Others tried to worship him. But he remained alone. He documented his findings:
Killing intent is a pseudo-element, not born from nature, but from the culmination of will and blood.
It could not be taught, only earned.
It enhances killing efficiency, dulls the fear of death, and over time, gains a mind of its own, if not tamed
The journal detailed various techniques Kairo developed—swords formed from will, steps hidden in blood mist, and even illusions conjured through overwhelming presence.
Kairo's final entries were haunting:
"To wield killing intent is to offer a part of your soul to violence. It is not power without price. The stronger it grows, the more it demands. I fear I have gone too far. I no longer dream of peace. Only silence. Perhaps that is my final harmony."
Jin closed the book and let out a long breath. He could still feel the man's sorrow lingering between the lines.
He understood now. This wasn't some legendary power to flaunt. It was a burden. One the world misunderstood. A path carved through corpses.
Yet... it was also a path of power.
He stood quietly, processing everything. He didn't want to become like Kairo—lost in death. But he had his own reasons to grow strong.
He could use this power, but on his own terms.
He slid the journal into his ring and turned to leave. His mind was clear. He would embrace the mission this dimension had forced upon him. But he wouldn't become a butcher. He would kill only those who provoked him, those who deserved it.
And in the process, he would cultivate his killing intent to the first stage and forge his own blade of crimson will.
As he stepped out of the ruin, the winds of the realm howled around him. The tournament was just beginning. The bloodshed, inevitable.
Jin narrowed his eyes, a faint smile on his lips.
"Then let the cursed path begin."