The world returned in flashes of red and black.
Zhu Yan's scream had long since died, yet the echo of it reverberated within his bones. Smoke coiled around his limbs, dissipating like phantom pain. Where the Wrathfire Veins had carved themselves into his flesh, new strength stirred—burning, coiling, ready to uncoil with lethal precision.
But the trial was far from over.
The Demonic Ascension Manual had more to reveal.
He opened his eyes, expecting silence. Instead, a low hum filled the chamber. Not from outside… but from within him. The Wrathfire Veins pulsed rhythmically. Each throb synced with a beat in his chest, his heart now no longer wholly human.
Then it happened.
The scroll reformed—blood slithering in reverse along the path of its once-vanished diagram. New lines emerged beneath the previous, writhing like serpents seared into reality:
「Part II: Branding the Soul」
Zhu Yan's breath hitched.
This wasn't in any records. Even among the forbidden tomes he'd stolen glimpses of in the Waning Moon Sect, nothing spoke of a second inscription.
The parchment writhed, forming not diagrams—but verses.
"When wrath becomes soul, the brand shall mark thy name upon the Vault of Heaven."
His pulse quickened. The Vault of Heaven was no mere metaphor. It was the celestial ledger—a record of existence. Cultivators who defied fate could, through immense sacrifice, sear their names into it and sever the strings of karma.
Was that what this meant?
Zhu Yan steadied himself, fingers trembling as he placed them back onto the scroll. His consciousness blurred. The world shifted. One moment he was in the cavern; the next—he stood suspended in a sea of black.
Above him, stars.
Below him, endless void.
Before him—a vast celestial gate, sealed and chained, engraved with names both ancient and abominable. The Vault of Heaven.
A voice—neither male nor female—slithered into his thoughts:
"Mortal-born. Flame-branded. Who dares carve wrath upon heaven's flesh?"
Zhu Yan answered without hesitation.
"I do."
The gate shuddered.
Chains snapped, not with violence—but surrender. The parchment reappeared before him in this void, and in his hands formed a brush—not of horsehair, but his own blood-wrapped bone.
He understood.
To brand his soul, he must sign it himself.
Zhu Yan bit into his palm, letting his blood spill into the brush. Every stroke he drew upon the parchment screamed. The ink hissed with pain, fury, and a defiance only the damned understood.
With trembling precision, he wrote his name:
ZHU YAN.
The heavens reacted.
A single lightning bolt tore across the skyless realm and struck the name. The scroll exploded into light, not destroying, but transfiguring it.
It carved itself into the gate.
Then silence.
Zhu Yan fell.
Back into the cavern, into his body, into the sweat-soaked robes and the pain of being mortal.
But something had changed.
A brand had burned itself onto his back—etched in the shape of his own name, written in demonic script, barely visible but eternally present. His soul was no longer hidden. The heavens knew him.
And they would never forget.
Zhu Yan stood, his gaze no longer the same. He looked to the path ahead—not just of cultivation, but of war.
The moment he opened the First Gate, the Demonic Ascension Manual had revealed its true intent.
Not to ascend alone.
But to overthrow.
He clenched his fist. The cave trembled. Small stones lifted from the floor, floating around him like sparks around a forge.
He whispered to the darkness:
"Come, then. Send your saints. Send your heavens. I will brand each one with the name you now fear."
Behind him, the scroll had turned to ash.
Ahead of him, the air shimmered. A second path had opened—a sealed chamber long buried beneath sect records. No door. No keys. Only blood could open it.
Zhu Yan pressed his hand against the stone. It pulsed in response.
The wall dissolved.
Within it, a staircase spiraled down.
Deeper into the Manual's trials.
Deeper into the Second Gate.
—And thus, the first war drum of rebellion echoed within his chest.