Chapter-19

As for the demonic corpse Disaster, the author describe it as the one of the greatest tragedy he had ever witness.

He describes that even as his ink brushed the parchment, his hands trembled, recalling the screams, the scent of blood, the madness in the eyes of once-innocent people. He only included it in the handbook because truth—no matter how cruel—was still truth. It had to be known.

The Demonic Corpse Disaster occurred two or perhaps three kingdoms away from Longyao—distant, yet not so far that its shadow couldn't stretch across the continent.

And yet, even then, he had considered going.

If not for the desperate pleas of his beloved, he would have.

But love stayed his hand. That, and the fear gnawing in the hearts of even the bravest of his comrades.

Because that place…

That kingdom had become a meat grinder.

The infection spread silently at first. A single case, hushed rumors. Then dozens. Hundreds.

The afflicted didn't die—

They twitched.

They twisted.

And then, they rose.

Reanimated with blackened veins and crimson eyes with fur around their body

Demonic Corpses had no will of their own. The moment the infection rooted in the body, it consumed the soul. What was left was something cold, calculating—and worst of all, commanded.

And the greatest horror?

The infected retained their memories. They spoke.

They wept as they murdered their families.

The plague turned brother against brother, mentor against disciple. One man would strike down a monster, only to find it was his wife. A general would lead a charge, only to fall to the blade of his own soldiers. It was no war—it was a collapse of order.

Cities became feeding pits. Villages were burned not by enemies, but by their own desperate elders trying to stop the spread. The sky above was perpetually red, stained by smoke, ash, and the screams of a kingdom devouring itself.

The author wrote of the friends he lost.

Of companions who vanished into the night, returning days later with hollow grins and blood-drenched blades.

Of holding a blade to a weeping man who begged to be killed—before the corpse inside him took over.

But the end didn't come from man.

No sword, no flame, no medicine could stop what the infection had become. Martial sects were destroyed, libraries lost, temples drowned in corpses. The sheer violence… the carnage… had grown so great that something noticed.

A god!!! The last and most horrifying existence under his classification of 'The strange and unknown'

A 'Disaster'!!!!

It fell from the heavens—not with fury, but with apathy. A sphere of bleeding light tore through the skies like a second sun, its descent so vast it eclipsed day and night. Those who looked up were struck blind.

When it touched the earth, everything changed.

The author described it not as a being, but as —a law of nature made flesh.

A great mass of three concentric rings of flesh, spinning slowly like wheels upon wheels.

Each ring was embedded with countless, lidless eyes—weeping blood, blinking in alien rhythm, seeing through past, present, and soul.

In the center hovered a massive fetus, curled like a sleeping god, pulsing with an inner crimson light.

And from each ring, sprouted two wings—six in total.

They did not flap, but hung motionless, humming with divine pressure.

The being said nothing.

It simply looked.

And everything died.

The Demonic Corpses crumbled to dust.

The infected screamed as their bodies split open.

Even those who were untainted—those who resisted, those who hid—they too vanished, wiped clean by the gaze of something that didn't distinguish between good or evil.

It was not judgment.

It was not mercy.

It was eradication.

By the time the god vanished back into the void, the entire kingdom had become a death zone—a land of ash and silence. Nothing lived. Not even birds flew across it. Maps quietly began to erase its borders. No name. No trace. Just blankness.

The author survived only by accident. He had been trapped beneath a mysterious immortal formation, struggling to find a way to get out, fortunately the formation had unconsciously hidden him away from the divine perception.

Even so,He could see the scene of the god wiping out every things in the entire kingdom and When he finally got out, days later, the sky was still—and nothing else remained.

He left without looking back.

....

Lin Haoran, having finished the final page, sat in silence, lost in contemplation.

If the Demonic Corpse Disaster that happened this time had truly gone unchecked, as the book described… would a god have descended to stop it?

**Wait—**hadn't a god descended that day as well?

A chill ran down his spine. He remembered the enormous, divine figure that had walked the heavens during that day—the pressure, the silence, the feeling of the world holding its breath. Could there be a connection between the being the gods and the demonic corpse disaster ?

It seemed too vast to grasp, too surreal to name.

But who could say for certain?

The night had grown deep. The moon rose gently above the tree line, casting silver light over the tombstone of his master. Lin Haoran stood, walked over, and bowed low one final time.

His heart still ached, but the pain no longer felt like a chain. His master had passed—but his teachings lived on. And in them, there was still hope.

Turning toward the small shed nearby, he walked slowly, his mind still filled with questions. But amid the noise, one voice remained clear—his master's final words:

"Take what you can, and leave the rest behind."

There was no sense in chasing answers he couldn't reach. The world would carry its burdens, and he would carry his.

And so, as he lay down beneath the wooden roof, eyes on the starlit sky beyond the cracks, he whispered to himself:

"Tomorrow… it's going to be a new day."