Chapter 173: What in the Nine Abyss Have I Done

Chapter 173: What in the Nine Abyss Have I Done Lordi exhaled softly, his expression one of deep reverence as he bowed his head slightly toward the hovering Sword of Red Run. His voice was smooth, infused with just the right blend of deference and concern—the tone of a loyal disciple humbly seeking wisdom from a superior. "Esteemed Sword Born," he began, his words measured and respectful, "this humble one cannot help but feel that a single night is... insufficient to expose the Ju-On’s deception. Consider how long this vile ghost spirit has plagued you and Senior Brother Krogh Hanz—its cunning must be profound, its illusions near flawless. To unravel such a carefully woven lie in mere hours would be a task even for the heaven and abyss themselves." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing with an almost apologetic tilt of his head. "Might this one beg your indulgence? Grant us but a few more days to study the Ancestral Shrine and the Ancient Stone Well, to observe, to listen... to find the smallest crack in the Ju-On’s disguise. Only then can we serve you with the certainty you deserve." His tone was flawless—earnest, devoted, every syllable crafted to appeal to the sword’s lingering pride. But beneath the veneer of humility, his mind was a whirlwind of cold calculation. The real Krogh Hanz? The fake? The question was meaningless to him. Let the sword obsess over its master’s identity; Lordi had no intention of wasting his time chasing ghosts. His true goal lay behind the Ancestral Shrine’s bead curtain—the Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment Technique, a legendary ascension method wellknown across the entire cultivation land. If the rumors were true, it was a star-like treasure beyond price, a gold key to unlocking realms of power most cultivators could only dream of. But the AllFullOS System’s recording function was unpredictable. What if it took hours—days, even—to fully imprint the technique’s intricate patterns into his mind? What if he was forced to flee before the process completed? The thought was unbearable. This was no mere opportunity; it was a once-in-a-lifetime windfall, a chance to seize knowledge that could elevate him above the petty struggles of lesser cultivators. He couldn’t afford to fail. So he stood there, the picture of pious devotion, while inside, his thoughts were razor-sharp. Let the sword think us obedient. Let it believe we serve its whims. All I need is time. And time, he would have. One way or another. Donovan’s gaze sharpened as he caught Lordi’s unspoken cue. The towering cultivator gave a slow, deliberate nod. When he spoke, his voice was sincere, each word weighted with the gravitas of a man who understood the stakes. "Exactly. Rushing the time would be a fatal mistake. The true Senior Brother Krogh Hanz would never risk such recklessness—not when the consequences could unravel everything." A weighted silence fell between them. Donovan let the moment stretch—just long enough for the sword’s restless energy to simmer—before speaking again. This time, his words came slower, each syllable deliberately shaped. "Were his honorable self standing among us now, he would echo Junior Brother Payne’s wisdom. Caution would be his counsel." The Sword of Red Run vibrated with barely-contained violence, its twin blades twitching like a starving beast catching scent of blood. "Three nights," it hissed, the words slithering out between grinding steel. "This one counts the first. Tick-tock, meat." Lordi’s lips parted— CRACK! A whip of crimson energy lashed out, carving a smoking trench at his feet. The ground screamed where the sword aura touched, soil bubbling into blackened slag. "Next word you speak that isn’t an answer," the blades sang in unison, their edges kissing both men’s throats, "I start peeling early." The air reeked of scorched earth and promised slaughter. "No answer by the third sunsets. Then..." A wet, metallic chuckle as the swords withdrew— "...we play a new game called ’Guess Which Parts I Slice First’." Donovan and Lordi exchanged a glance, their bargaining thwarted. Neither dared press further. The sword’s will was absolute, its patience thin as a razor’s edge. With barely a shared glance, they dipped their heads in unison, voices tight with forced deference. "Aye, Sword Born!" Around them, the night surrendered to dawn. Moonlight bled away, replaced by a sickly, pallid glow that crept across Twin Peak Hill like a slow-spreading stain. The lake’s surface, once black as ink, now mirrored the ashen sky—its waters shimmering with an unnatural sheen. Shadows stretched long and twisted around the trio, their forms etched sharply against the fading dark. The Sword of Red Run pulsed crimson once, a final, wordless threat, before plunging into the Driftdream Loch’s depths. The water convulsed. Ripples spread, and in their wake, lily pads unfurled with grotesque speed—thick green leaves and waxy white blossoms choking the surface in seconds. A living seal. A silent burial. Only the sword formation in the central pavilion remained fierce and spooky, its steel glow undimmed. Isolated. Hungry. —— The trio wasted no time. With the Sword of Red Run’s departure, the air itself seemed to exhale—but none of them mistook it for safety. Shoulders laden with stolen treasures, pockets heavy with plundered pills and scrolls, they moved swiftly, putting distance between themselves and the cursed lake. The weight of their haul was more than physical; every step carried the unspoken fear that the blade might reconsider its mercy. They vanished into the mountain woods, where gnarled, ancient trees stood sentinel, their twisted branches clawing at the paling sky. The forest here was old—seemed older than the Hanz Clan. Donovan halted his pace and turned. His smile was thin, edged with frost—the kind that promised a slow bleed rather than a quick cut. Lordi didn’t need words to know what came next. The Crimson Whisker Vine. The final ingredient. The one thing standing between Donovan and the Foundation Establishment Pill. But Lordi had already braced for this. Before the demand could leave Donovan’s lips, he flicked his wrist. A Dao Furnace materialized from his storage pouch, its bronze surface alive with faintly pulsing runes. Dawn’s pallid light slithered across the engravings, making them gleam like serpent scales. Donovan’s eyes narrowed. Lordi met his gaze, voice steady. "Senior Brother Valdez." A deliberate pause. "Before we discuss distribution... let me prove my worth." He gestured to the furnace, his tone calm but threaded with unshakable certainty. "You’ve seen my combat skills. Now witness my alchemy. Every step under your supervision—just as promised." Exhaustion gnawed at him—his spirit energy nearly drained from the night’s trials, his muscles trembling with residual fatigue. But that was the point. "System," Lordi Payne commanded inwardly, "I want to practice. Selected Alchemy Skill: Bone Tempering Pill." —— Lordi moved with unnatural perfection. His hands danced across the alchemical ingredients, the silver flash of his knife separating stems from Cold Iron Grass’s roots with precision. Not a single drop of essence was wasted. His timing was rhythmic, unhurried—each motion flowing into the next like a dance known only to this master. The Dao Flame obeyed his slightest gesture, its azure heat rising and falling at his silent command as though fire itself recognized the young man as its master. Donovan and Emma stood frozen in awe, their earlier skepticism crumbling like ash in the wind. This wasn’t mere competence—this was artistry bordering on the divine. The youth’s fingers traced alchemy patterns in the air, guiding energies in a pace they couldn’t understand, his entire being radiating an almost eerie serenity. When the final seal was placed and Lordi withdrew the tray from the furnace’s heart, the world seemed to hold its breath. Three pills rested on the jade surface. Three impossibilities. Donovan’s throat constricted. Emma’s hands flew to her mouth. Their pupils contracted to pinpricks, lungs refusing to function as primal recognition flooded their systems—these weren’t mere pills. These were legends given physical form. The Bone Tempering Pills shimmered with an inner light, their translucent bodies holding swirling galaxies of milky white purity. Where premium level versions appeared dull and grayish, these shone like captured moonlight. Delicate azure rings coiled across their surfaces, intricate as celestial orbits, sealing unimaginable potency within. Donovan’s hand trembled as he lifted one toward the dawn light. The elixir was weightless yet dense with power, its glass-like surface flawless. Most shocking of all—it bore no scent. No bitter herbal tang, no cloying medicinal perfume. Only... nothingness. As if the very concept of impurity had been scoured from existence. "Abyss mama..." Donovan whispered, the words ash in his mouth. This wasn’t just alchemy. This was deity magic from the age of gods. Donovan’s fingers twitched at his sides as he watched Lordi prepare for another alchemy demonstration round. The junior brother’s movements were effortless—each measured gesture, each precise adjustment of the furnace speaking of a mastery that went far beyond simple training. A cold weight settled in Donovan’s gut, twisting deeper with every passing second. Fuck. Fuck me sideways with a hundred rusty blades—what in the nine abyss have I done? His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He’d underestimated this unassuming strange face yong man. Worse—he’d insulted him. Threatened him. Nearly killed him. The memory of their clashes played behind his eyes like a taunting spirit mirror: his own arrogance, his dismissive sneers, the way he’d thought nothing of crushing this so-called "nobody" beneath his heel. And now? Now that "nobody" was weaving alchemy like it was second nature, his skills sharper than any Dao Artifact Donovan had ever wielded. A bitter taste flooded his mouth. Genius alchemists existed in the Holy Sect, yes—but they were distant legends, lofty figures who wouldn’t spare a glance at an Outer Sect disciple, not even one nicknamed "Mister First Dominator." They floated in their own celestial orbits, far beyond the reach of men like him. Yet here, in this grimy backwater Outer Sect task, fate had dangled a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity right in front of him. A prodigy. A true alchemist master, not some half-skilled hack grinding out mediocre entry level pills. The kind of talent that could elevate a cultivator beyond their wildest ambitions—if only they had his favor. And what had Donovan done? Pissed on it. Like a godsdamned fool. He could’ve befriended Lordi. Could’ve forged an alliance, offered protection, anything to tie that brilliance to his own future. Instead, he’d chosen the path of a shortsighted brute—attacking, belittling, threatening the one person who might’ve been his golden ticket to the Foundation Realm and beyond. His skin crawled. Every pore burned with the acid of his own stupidity. The memory of his past actions played over and over—each blow he’d landed, each sneer he’d thrown Lordi’s way—and with every recollection, the humiliation dug deeper. I had him right there. Right fucking there. And I tried to kill him instead. It wasn’t just regret. It was agony. The kind that made his ribs feel too tight, his breath too shallow. The kind that made him want to scream or smash his fist into a tree until his knuckles split open—anything to drown out the voice in his head chanting: You ruined it. You fucking ruined everything.