Chaotic Art of the Heavenly Devil

Chaotic Art of the Heavenly Devil

Mo Qingcheng trudged back to her room, an aura of reluctance clinging to her like a stubborn shadow. The tussle with Luo He had drained her spirit, leaving her feeling as energetic as a deflated balloon. It was almost comical how fate had shackled her to Luo He's whims, forcing her into actions she despised. With a sigh, she surrendered to the inevitable and redirected her focus to the art of pill concoction.

A magnificent alchemy cauldron hovered mid-air, its base licked by controlled flames that blazed with both intensity and discipline. Unlike forging weapons, where the flames were ferociously high, pill concoction was a dance of precise control. Every ounce of flame had to be harnessed with unerring accuracy. When forging divine weapons, especially the loftier ones, the materials demanded fierce temperatures to bend to the blacksmith's will.

But the pinnacle of weapon-crafting paled in comparison to the art of inscribing Divine Inscriptions. Pill concoction, on the other hand, courted intuition and sensitivity as its muses.

The simplicity of the process was an illusion that masked its formidable complexity. A successful concoction rested largely on one's inherent talent. Some individuals were born with an innate sharpness of perception that set them apart, like Mo Qingcheng and her enigmatic Seven Apertures Mystical Heart.

Creating each pill demanded a vast array of ingredients. Even with precise measurements, perfection remained elusive. Variables multiplied like rabbits - flame's temperature, its control, accuracy in mixing ingredients, the proportions, and the list meandered on. In the direst cases, a life-saving remedy might morph into venom due to a trifling mistake during the brew.

Mo Qingcheng's focus was riveted on the suspended cauldron, its presence a stubborn reminder of her numerous failures. This wasn't her first bout of defeat in the realm of pill concoction.

She had ascended to the fourth tier of alchemy, her skills nominally granting her mastery over fourth-tier pills. Yet, her success rate was akin to a temperamental game of dice, winning out of sheer chance. Unfortunately, this particular endeavor, a third-tier Limit-break Pellet, was an enigma that had eluded her mastery for an agonizing twenty-seven failures.

The name itself bore testimony to its audacity—Limit-break Pellet, an alchemical audacity intended to defy one's own limits.

In the labyrinthine journey of cultivation, each step demanded utmost respect. Nature held dominion over timing, an edict as unyielding as the heavens themselves. Pills, those miraculous vessels of augmentation, could elevate one's physique, bolster constitution, or clear obstructed channels to enhance swiftness. Each brew adhered to its own circadian rhythm. The most formidable among them could even resurrect the gravely injured, breathing life into the dying with but a fragment of existence remaining.

The Limit-break Pellet, a brazen exception to nature's rules, a mischief that tipped the scales of balance. This audacious concoction was the black sheep of alchemy, a shortcut that spat in the face of equilibrium. Its creation demanded the heart's blood of alchemists born with extraordinary constitutions. Success in brewing resulted in a cataclysmic toll on the alchemist's vital qi. The triumph rate for such elixirs, however, was dismal, deterring most from attempting their creation. The heavens-defying effect was overshadowed by the scarcity of daredevils willing to tread this perilous path. Had Mo Qingcheng not stockpiled a cache of qi-replenishing pills, her perseverance would've dwindled by now.

Submerged in the cauldron's embrace, her features blossomed into delight. The herbs swirled and molded, birthing a spherical pellet as perfect as the moon.

"I've got it this time, for sure." Her eyes sparkled with resolve. In an instant, her wrist split, the right palm pressed to her heart, coercing crimson life-force to meld with the cauldron's brew, each droplet thrumming with spiritual energy. Yet, her visage paled, her stance a declaration of stubborn persistence.

Her sacrifice dripped into the cauldron—spiritual blood infused with energy. She snatched a fistful of pills, swallowing them to cling onto consciousness, her jaw clamped with unyielding tenacity.

Failure was no option this time. Not when she knew Zhan Chen's might. Qin Wentian's strength, while commendable, couldn't match Zhan Chen's lofty heights. If Qin Wentian was pouring his soul into this, how could she linger on the periphery? The pill she was brewing at the price of her vitality was an offering to his triumph.

...

Zhan Chen, Qin Wentian, and Ouyang Kuangsheng collectively turned their gaze upon the enigmatic figure draped in darkness, their eyes aflame with suspicion and vigilance.

The stranger's cultivation level was middling, a mere eighth level of Yuanfu. Yet, an air of malevolence clung to him, a perilous aura that set their nerves alight.

"Reveal your identity." Zhan Chen's tone was ice-chiseled, a shard of frost in his voice.

Devilish practices were a rare sight in Grand Xia. Forbidden and feared, their potency was unparalleled, but the risks kept most at bay.

Despite the potential dominion over these potent arts, few dared to embrace the Devil's path.

The Devil Arts, notorious for their tyranny, were like capricious beasts that practitioners dared not dismiss even for a fleeting moment. The power bestowed by these sinister practices was a double-edged sword, capable of consuming its master. Cultivating the Devil Arts was a treacherous road, lined with pitfalls and fraught with failures. The peril was accentuated by the looming threat of qi deviation, a state in which the devilish power turned upon the cultivator's own consciousness. The outcomes varied from bleak to catastrophic: some were reduced to mindless killers, others succumbed to their own bodies disintegrating under the malevolent energy's rampage. It was a gruesome demise.

And even for those who managed to command the Devil Arts, their existence was a perpetual torment, a ceaseless symphony of suffering. Fate was just—before embracing the devil's might, one had to weather their own personal hell to seize it.

This was why the path of Devil Cultivation was reserved for those with unshakable determination and an indomitable spirit. Even if the Devil Arts beckoned with promises of unparalleled power, even if the alluring tendrils of its strength brushed against their resolve, they hesitated.

In Grand Xia, a saying echoed through time: once you tread the devil's path, you'll never regret.

This adage encapsulated the inescapable fate of Devil Cultivators. Their first step down the path cemented their destiny, erasing the luxury of regret. They were bound to the road they'd chosen, to become devils or to face a wretched demise.

For them, strength was earned through agony hundreds of times more tormenting than ordinary cultivators endured, a lifelong burden they bore.

As compensation, their strength would eclipse that of their peers by manifold.

So even though Zhan Chen stood supreme at the ninth level, his gaze still betrayed an inkling of trepidation when cast upon the enigmatic figure.

Devil Cultivators held a certain respect among their peers, for none dared underestimate their combat prowess.

With the black-robed individual's appearance in Ginkou, there was no doubting their intentions—to stake a claim in the Heavenly Fate Rankings. The forthcoming year-end ranking competition loomed with newfound complexity.

"Leave."

The figure's voice rasped like rough stones, its gender indiscernible. The gaze then shifted to Zhan Chen, a cold gleam emanating from the depths of their eyes, a frost that sent shivers down others' spines.

"Since Devil Cultivators are so scarce, let's test the veracity of their reputed strength."

Zhan Chen's form emitted golden radiance, his eyes harboring an intense determination. Despite the opponent's devilish nature, he was a ninth-level Yuanfu cultivator. Moreover, his mastery of the Gold Element Art had metamorphosed his body into a metallic fortress. Why cower when the chance to explore the strength of those who embraced the devil's path presented itself?

The words hung in the air as Zhan Chen advanced, closing the distance to the black-robed figure.

A devilish aura emanated from the enigmatic being, its hooded gaze brimming with frigid menace. The icy tendrils of that malevolence bore down on Zhan Chen, who struggled to maintain his composure in the face of this overwhelming might.

The Devil Arts epitomized the very essence of "tyranny." Unadulterated power and unyielding might were their hallmarks. Yet the black-robed figure exuded an aura that chafed against the essence of Devil Arts, a coldness that defied comprehension. What manner of Devil Art was this?

Zhan Chen's blade cleaved through reality, slicing space asunder with a fervor only a master swordsman could muster.

The black-robed figure's hands quivered, conjuring a tyrannical emblem of devilish energy to counter Zhan Chen's onslaught. The clash obliterated the blade's potency.

Sword fingers choreographed a symphony of steel, and soon, the air was alive with the song of swords. A resplendent golden blade materialized at Zhan Chen's command, its radiance casting an ancient glow. Nine beams of sword light, each a herald of devastation, lunged towards the black-robed enigma.

Zhan Chen sought to measure the Devil-Cultivator's mettle.

The black-robed figure's palms conducted an arcane darkness that swallowed the sky. A colossal imprint of a Heavenly Devilish Palm materialized, pulsating with infernal potency. Its cataclysmic power engulfed the nine beams of sword light.

Like a tempest, the black-robed figure hurtled towards Zhan Chen. How could a practitioner of the devilish path remain a passive recipient of attacks? The figure's approach marked a shift to offense.

Despite his seemingly delicate frame, the black-robed figure's onslaught mirrored a Devil King's rampage from the pits of hell to the world of mortals.

Another palm struck, releasing a torrent of annihilative energy aimed at Zhan Chen. This destructive surge bore the abyss's icy Yin, a force antithetical to life, swathing Zhan Chen in its chilling grip.

"Devil-based innate techniques are truly as monstrous as the tales describe," Ouyang Kuangsheng marveled involuntarily. The figure's strength was undeniable; engaging Zhan Chen, an eighth-level cultivator, with such ferocity was a testament to his prowess.

Qin Wentian nodded in agreement, though a seed of doubt took root. "The timing of his arrival seems tailored to aid us against Zhan Chen. Do you recognize him?"

Ouyang Kuangsheng shook his head. "I'm unacquainted with Devil-Cultivators. What about you?"

Qin Wentian pondered deeply before shaking his head. The path of devils held no familiar faces for him either.

Zhan Chen's eyes transformed into pools of gold, radiating an aura that surged like an unyielding tempest. Qin Wentian and Ouyang Kuangsheng watched as a layer of gilded armor emerged, encasing Zhan Chen in a radiant shield. His hands weaved intricate patterns, summoning torrents of golden light that cascaded from the heavens, blanketing him in a shroud of resplendence. In an instant, a storm of golden swords swirled around him, a fierce force intent on rending the heavens and earth asunder.

Each blade bore his Mandates' resolute will.

Qin Wentian stared, awestruck. Was this the might of the Gold-Element Art?

"RUMBLE!"

A towering black devil cloud coalesced, darkness usurping the light. Spectators watched from afar, hearts pounding with fear.

Who was this, who dared embrace the forbidden arts? His might was a puzzle of staggering proportions.

A sinister spear, fitting for a devil king, materialized in his grasp. The malevolent cloud wrapped around the spear, devil-might resonating with the surrounding space, causing it to shiver. Simultaneously, the black-robed figure donned a devil king's armor, its malefic sheen undeniable.

"Chaotic Art of the Heavenly Devil." A voice cut through the tension. A snow-white-robed maiden hovered above, her presence reminiscent of a snow lotus.

Her gaze was locked onto the black-robed figure, shock etched across her features. "Where did you learn this?"

The black-robed figure turned to the maiden, surprise flashing across his eyes. She recognized the art?

Indeed, what he cultivated was the Chaotic Art of the Heavenly Devil, one of the nine supreme Arts of Ancient Grand Xia. Circumstances had aligned, leading him to this path. He had already attained a modest mastery.

"Yun Mengyi." Qin Wentian shifted his attention. She was familiar with this art? Who was she, then?

"Let's deal with him first." Yun Mengyi's gaze shifted to Zhan Chen, her chill engulfing him. She reached forward, an icy intent enshrouding Zhan Chen, solidifying him in place.

The black-robed figure took a step, facing Zhan Chen as his spear thrust forth. The devil-might fractured the air, the attack hurtling toward Zhan Chen. Its impact, if successful, would leave anyone below the Heavenly Dipper level severely wounded.

Yun Mengyi moved like a breeze, swift as lightning.

For her, a master of the Perfection Boundary in the Mandate of Wind, few in Yuanfu could match her speed.

An impending doom closed in on Zhan Chen. His body surged with radiant golden light. The swords surrounding him vibrated, converging into a protective screen.

"BANG!" The devil's spear and Yun Mengyi's fists converged. A thunderous crack reverberated as the golden swords shattered one by one. Zhan Chen was flung through the air, pain etching his groan, yet the determination in his eyes remained. He hadn't expected to encounter such formidable opponents when he set out to confront Qin Wentian today. Their prowess was truly extraordinary.

The onlookers marveled. Those who recognized Zhan Chen felt their hearts race at his exhibited might.

This clash epitomized the pinnacle of Yuanfu-level combat. It presaged the violent tempest that loomed—the battle for Heavenly Fate Rankings that this year would unleash.