Chapter 15: The Hunger Deepens

The forest thickened as Zhang Yan ventured deeper, the gnarled branches above intertwining to blot out the moonlight. A thick, unnatural mist curled at his feet, carrying with it the stagnant scent of rot and decay. It was the scent of death, the perfume of the Demon Sect's trials.

His heartbeat was steady, but his Demon Seed was restless.

The first shadow had been a mere taste—an initiation. Now, he needed more. The Devouring Nine Shadows technique was insidious in its nature, demanding continuous growth. A single absorbed shadow strengthened his foundation, but true mastery required slaughter.

Zhang Yan crouched low, listening. The forest wasn't silent; it breathed with the whispers of unseen creatures, the rustle of hidden dangers. And then—

A faint clash of steel on steel.

His eyes narrowed, instincts flaring to life. A battle. That meant fresh corpses. Without hesitation, he moved toward the sound, weaving through the trees like a specter.

In a small clearing, two disciples clashed beneath the glow of pale moonlight. One wielded twin sabers, his movements sharp and unrelenting. The other fought with a jagged spear, his footwork precise, but faltering under the relentless assault.

Zhang Yan recognized them—Outer Circle disciples. Not as strong as the awakened, but above the common rabble.

The one with the twin sabers pressed forward, his attacks ruthless. His blade carved through flesh. The spear-wielder staggered, a deep gash running down his chest.

Zhang Yan watched in silence, his breath calm, his pulse unfazed. The battle would end soon.

And he would claim what remained.

The spearman faltered, his knees buckling as blood poured from his wounds. The saber-wielder stepped forward, savoring his victory, raising his blade for the final strike.

Zhang Yan moved.

His shadow blurred, his body a whisper in the darkness. By the time the saber-wielder sensed him, it was too late.

Zhang Yan's dagger slid between the man's ribs, slipping past muscle and bone like water. A gasp of shock and pain—then silence.

He withdrew the blade, stepping back as the disciple crumpled, lifeless.

The spearman, still clinging to life, stared at him in horror. "You—"

Zhang Yan gave no answer. He simply stepped forward, plunging his dagger into the man's throat.

Warm blood splashed against his fingers. The body twitched, then stilled.

The clearing was silent once more, save for the rustling leaves.

Zhang Yan crouched beside the fallen, placing his palm against the corpse of the saber-wielder. His Demon Seed pulsed, hungrily drinking in the dissipating remnants of qi. The process was faster this time, the shadow unraveling easily beneath his touch.

It sank into him, merging with his own energy, strengthening him. His veins thrummed with power. The spear-wielder's corpse was next, his lingering essence offering less resistance.

Zhang Yan exhaled, his breath misting in the night air. He could feel the difference already—the refinement of his qi, the way his body adapted, evolving with every shadow devoured.

But it wasn't enough.

It would never be enough.

He stood, his eyes cold, his gaze sweeping the darkened forest. There were more out there—more weaklings clinging to survival, more prey masquerading as predators.

Tonight, he would feed.

The Devouring Nine Shadows demanded it.

And Zhang Yan was nothing if not hungry.