worms refined...

In the deepest, darkest recess of the ancient temple—far from the light, far from the echo of footsteps and the clash of swords—there was a chamber untouched by time. The air was so heavy that it seemed to push against the skin, as if the very walls were trying to repel all life. No torches burned here, yet an eerie crimson glow pulsated like a slow, monstrous heartbeat.

And at the center of this suffocating silence stood a massive coffin, carved from black obsidian stone. It was not placed gently—it was chained, sealed, and bound by ancient runes that were now cracking, one by one. The stone had veins—veins that pulsed—as if the coffin were not dead, but alive, and dreaming.

From within its surface, dark demonic energy surged like smoke rising from a volcano. The mist was thick and clinging, crawling along the floor like it was searching… hungry. It whispered. Yes—the mist whispered. Not in words, but in voices, fragmented memories, screams, curses—like the souls of those it had devoured were still trapped within its influence.

One of the chains shook violently.

A glowing red sigil at its center blinked, like an eye opening for the first time in centuries.

Suddenly, the coffin cracked. Just a hairline. A red light—the color of fresh blood—shined through. The temperature in the room dropped drastically. Ice formed along the edges of the floor even though the air was filled with fire-like energy. A paradox. A clash of opposing forces.

The very laws of nature twisted in this chamber.

Then—

BOOM.

Another chain snapped, sending shards of rusted metal flying. The demonic mist erupted outward like a wave of hatred. The pressure was so overwhelming that if any normal cultivator had stood near it, their bones would have shattered instantly, their organs turning to pulp.

Within the coffin, something stirred.

Not fully awake.

But aware.

Its mind reached outward, tasting the temple… the blood… the chaos above.

"Who disturbs me?"

The voice wasn't spoken—it was felt. A psychic pressure rippled across the temple. Cultivators in distant chambers suddenly clutched their heads and dropped to their knees, vomiting blood, eyes wide in terror for a fear they couldn't name. Even Li Wei, far away, turned toward the direction of the energy, his face tightening. Something deep inside him—something primal—recognized that force. Ancient. Forgotten. Evil beyond words.

It wasn't just a demonic being.

It was a sealed calamity.

And it was awakening.

Just outside the chamber, a statue cracked. It was an old guardian statue made of jade and silver. From its broken mouth, a line of ancient text spilled:

"When the blood of mortals stains the stone, and the beast-child's mother weeps, the coffin shall crack, and the Devourer shall stir."

The prophecy had begun.

And the coffin—

was no longer sleeping.

The air inside that forgotten chamber was chilling, not from temperature, but from an unseen presence—a weight of death that clung to every breath. The corridor that led into the room narrowed like a gullet, swallowing the group of 10-12 cultivators into its shadowed throat. As the last one entered, a sudden silence fell—not just the absence of sound, but the absence of life.

Dust clung to the air like ash. The room was wide but low-ceilinged, carved directly into the mountain stone, the walls covered in worn murals of demonic rituals long lost to history. Symbols of blood and fire twisted in grotesque loops, most half-erased by time—but some… recently disturbed, as if something had touched them.

The leader of the group, a young woman with sharp silver eyes and a cold, calculating presence, paused. She was the younger daughter of the Mo family head, trained in spiritual awareness and forbidden seals. As her lantern light pierced deeper into the room, the sight that greeted her made even her breath catch.

Skeletons. Dozens of them.

They were not just scattered—they were arranged, almost ritualistically—lying in near-perfect rows, side by side, back to stone, arms flat. But each skeleton bore the same horrifying detail:

A gaping hole in the chest.

Not shattered. Not smashed. Pierced.

As if something had burst out from inside.

The bones around the sternum were curled outward, bent, as if the creature—or whatever it was—had clawed or exploded its way free from within the ribcage. Some skulls were still intact, frozen in grotesque, open-mouthed expressions of agony.

The cultivators behind her began to murmur, fear creeping into their tones.

"There are no weapons marks…"

"No external wounds…"

"It's like… something grew inside them…"

The girl knelt near one of the remains, brushing aside dust. The ground beneath was stained dark, not fresh, but not entirely dry. A blackened, sticky residue surrounded the torso. Her fingers trembled as she touched it—not blood. Not ink. Something else.

A spiritual echo trembled under her touch.

And then—she heard it.

A heartbeat.

Faint.

From beneath the floor.

"Back!" she shouted, her voice sharper than lightning. But it was too late.

The sudden transformation of the temple wall sent a shudder through the air, as if the building itself had awakened. The smooth stone surface began to tremble, shifting with unnatural life. Symbols and seals once dormant now glowed faintly, forming a circular barrier that sealed the only exit. The once open chamber twisted—closing in like a trap sprung after centuries of slumber.

The cultivators inside panicked for a heartbeat, but the fear settled quickly into silence as something began to rise from the ground.

Pillars.

Twelve of them, evenly spaced in a ring around the room. They didn't crash out of the ground with noise or violence—they emerged slowly, smoothly, as if summoned by an invisible force. Each pillar was carved from bone-white stone, covered in ancient symbols that pulsed with red and violet demonic light. On the top of each pillar was a small, translucent container, and inside each was a creature—a worm, but not ordinary.

The worms were as thick as a finger, coiled in themselves, yet moving slowly, as if asleep. Their bodies seemed stitched together from flesh and something else—spiritual threads and corrupted qi. They radiated dark energy, a thirsting aura, as if they had once been alive, died, and were then brought back by some wicked force.

Everyone stared in confusion—until Miss Mo, the leader of the group and the daughter of the Mo-family head, stepped forward. Her hand glowed faintly as she read the inscription on the closest pillar. Her voice echoed in the chamber, soft yet chilling.

"Each pillar holds a Worm of Origin. Whoever refines it, and survives, will earn my Inheritance."

At once, excitement surged through the group. Inheritance meant ancient knowledge, forgotten arts, and unimaginable power. Many cultivators rushed toward the pillars, eyes blazing with greed. Without hesitation, they broke open the containers and swallowed the worms.

Miss Mo didn't move at first. She stared at the carvings on the pillar, her brows furrowed. Something about the words didn't feel right. Not a test… but a filter.

She watched as the cultivators around her began refining the worms—sitting cross-legged, entering meditation, channeling their qi to assimilate the foreign entity inside them. But their faces… their expressions began to twist. Veins surfaced violently across their skin, eyes became bloodshot, bodies trembled under strain. This was no simple refinement.

Each worm wasn't just a source of energy—it was a parasite. A sentient, ancient being bred for one purpose: to feed on the host's soul and either destroy or evolve them.

One cultivator suddenly screamed, clutching his chest. Blood sprayed from his mouth as his torso bloated unnaturally, and then—burst, painting the wall behind him red. A faint, spectral creature—his own spiritual body—was dragged from the corpse, swallowed by the writhing worm that crawled free from his remains, having consumed both body and soul.

Yet some cultivators showed signs of success. Their spiritual energy flared violently, pushing back the worm's corruption. Their bodies adapted. Painfully. Screams echoed. One had skin tearing open to allow new runes to etch themselves directly into his muscles. Another lost all his hair, his eyes turning pitch black. But they survived—changed.

Miss Mo finally made her decision. She took a deep breath, opened the container in front of her, and swallowed the worm. It slid down her throat like fire, coiling inside her core. She fell to her knees as pain surged through her veins like boiling metal. Visions flooded her mind—memories of a fallen cultivator, an ancient demon-lord who had sacrificed a thousand bloodlines to create these parasites and bind his inheritance into the survivors.

Miss Mo gritted her teeth. She could feel the worm trying to take over, trying to rewrite her cultivation. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a drum of war. With trembling fingers, she activated a forbidden sealing formation around her dantian, locking the worm in place.

As the minutes passed, only a few remained alive.

Sweat, blood, and spirit energy burned in the air. The chamber was no longer silent. It pulsed, resonating with the awakening of something ancient. The worms had chosen their vessels. The room would only open again once one of them passed the final trial.

And somewhere deeper in the temple, the coffin's demonic energy grew stronger.

After some time Miss-mo opened her eyes.Miss Mo's eyes wide with horror, her body drenched in cold sweat. She was gasping as if she had drowned and was dragged out of a stormy sea. Her lips trembled, breath ragged, but something was wrong—terribly wrong.

A sharp pain pierced her chest, as if invisible needles had been hammered into her heart. Her vision blurred, blood rose in her throat, and she coughed violently—a thick stream of dark crimson gushing from her mouth and staining her robes. The blood wasn't normal; it steamed as it hit the ground, hissing, bubbling like acid. A deep, alien energy surged inside her, and her veins lit up with a fiery red glow under her skin, visible like glowing cracks in a porcelain doll.

Then the pain magnified—her back arched, muscles convulsing uncontrollably as her fingers clawed into the stone beneath her. Screams tore from her throat, raw and agonizing, echoing across the sealed chamber like the cries of a soul being flayed.

And then it happened.

Something erupted from her chest.

Her sternum burst open, splitting with a disgusting crack, as blood sprayed outward in every direction. A disgusting, slithering shape forced its way through her flesh. The sound was sickening—a mix of crunching bone and wet tearing. The worm, now much larger than before, emerged, not like a child being born, but like a parasite escaping its dying host.

It was no longer pale and passive.

It had changed.

Its body had grown in length, pulsing with red and black demonic lines. Sharp barbs had formed along its sides like jagged bone fins. Its mouth, once like a leech's, now resembled a blooming flower of rotating teeth, constantly opening and closing with a whispering hiss. It hovered mid-air, still connected to Miss Mo's body by a black tendril, as if feeding on her pain.

Her blood continued to spill uncontrollably. She trembled violently, still alive, but barely. Her eyes had turned glassy, but her spirit had not yet broken. The worm turned its head back toward her, as if studying its host—no, its prey. Its maw opened wide, glowing with inner red light, preparing to devour the soul it had fed on for so long.

Then something inside Miss Mo snapped—a spiritual burst from deep within her core.

A seal she had placed within herself during early cultivation—a last resort, an ancient spiritual ward—activated with a low hum. The light from the seal clashed with the worm's energy, throwing sparks of silver and black qi around the room. The worm let out a deafening shriek—not like an animal, but like a dying god—twisting violently in the air as it was dragged back toward the bleeding cavity of her chest.

Miss Mo, half-unconscious, reached up with shaking hands. Her fingers, slick with her own blood, drew a symbol in the air.

Bind.

The symbol flared and chained the worm with spiritual threads, yanking it back into her body with a brutal snap. It slammed back into her core, sealing itself once more—but now, she knew, it wasn't hers to control. It was watching her from within. Waiting.

The room was silent again.

The other cultivators who had survived stared in terror, some frozen in place. A few were dead, some still struggling with their own worms. But they all saw it—Miss Mo had become something else.

Blood soaked her robes, her chest was torn and half-healed, but she was alive. Barely. She sat upright, hair tangled and drenched in blood, her breathing shallow. But behind those tired eyes was now a flicker of something ancient, a shared soul between human and parasite.

Something had been born that day inside her… and it was not entirely human anymore.