Chapter 36 – The Immortal Hunt

The twilight plains stretched endlessly before Rin, a desolate stretch of land where the sky bled in muted shades of violet and gold. The horizon, fractured by jagged hills and towering monoliths, was an open wound in the world—an expanse where life and death seemed to blur, suspended in the eternal limbo between the dying light and the encroaching darkness.

Rin stood at the edge of the plains, his eyes narrowed against the wind that swept through the emptiness, carrying with it the scent of decay. His heart pulsed with the rhythm of his Death Core, a constant reminder of his path—a path where every step was one of destruction, of endings. Yet, in this place, it felt different. The air was thick with an oppressive weight, a presence that had been stalking him ever since he crossed into the twilight.

He could feel them before he saw them—the Black Immortals. They were approaching, their arrival as inevitable as the coming night.

The Twelve Cloaked Ones.

Immortals bound to the realm by an ancient curse, their purpose clear: to erase any "meaningful" death that threatened to disrupt the natural order. Their task was simple, yet cruel. To preserve the cycle of life and death, they had been tasked with eliminating those who might rise against the heavens—those like Rin, the Endborne anomaly, the one who defied the very nature of mortality.

Rin's fingers tightened around Ny'xuan, the sentient dagger forged from death, feeling the familiar hum of energy coursing through its bone structure. The weapon, an extension of his will, throbbed with a hunger to feed on the lives of the immortals who sought to destroy him. He had already encountered the cold cruelty of these beings, but this would be different. They were not here to fight with strength or brute force—they were here to tear apart his soul.

And he would not allow them to succeed.

The first of the Cloaked Ones appeared on the horizon, riding atop a black steed with eyes that gleamed like molten silver. The figure was cloaked in shadow, its face obscured by a dark veil, but Rin could feel the weight of its gaze—cold, unfeeling, and ancient. Behind it, the other eleven emerged, each astride a similarly dark mount, their cloaks billowing like storm clouds. Their presence was a singular, terrifying force, and Rin's skin crawled with the undeniable sense that the hunt had begun.

The lead Cloaked One raised a hand, and the others followed suit. A ripple of energy passed through the air, thickening it with a palpable tension. It was as if the entire world was holding its breath.

"You are the Endborne," the lead figure spoke, its voice a low, echoing growl, like the wind howling through the cracks of an ancient tomb. "You who defy death itself. We are bound to erase the anomaly you represent."

Rin's lips curled into a cold smile. "Then try. I am not afraid of your illusions."

The Cloaked Ones dismounted in unison, their cloaks swirling around them like living shadows. Their eyes gleamed with cold light as they raised their hands in ritualistic unison, their energy pulsing with an ancient, binding power. Rin felt the pull of it—the weight of their curse pressing down on him, threatening to unravel his very sense of self.

Then, in an instant, the world around him shifted.

The plains vanished.

In their place, a crushing wave of memories came crashing down upon Rin, one after another, an unrelenting flood of images and sensations. He saw the faces of those he had failed to save—the women and children, the families torn apart, the countless lives that had slipped through his fingers. Each face was a phantom, each cry a dagger to his heart. Their pain, their sorrow, their anguish—all of it tore into him, as if the very fabric of his soul was being torn apart by their suffering.

This was the curse of the Cloaked Ones—their power to trap a being in an endless loop of death, to force them to relive every failed moment, every death that they could not prevent. It was not just a vision; it was a torment that would break even the strongest of wills.

Rin's breath caught in his throat, the weight of the memories suffocating him. His chest tightened as the images of those he had failed to save surged through him, relentless, consuming. But in that moment of crushing despair, something inside him shifted. He was no longer the same. He had long since shed the illusions of the past, the guilt that had once haunted him like a shadow.

He was no longer Rin Xie, the failed cultivator, the one who had carried the weight of the world's deaths on his shoulders.

He was the Cultivator of the End.

With a single, forceful breath, Rin called upon the power he had forged through the pain, through the countless deaths he had embraced. He reached into the depths of his Death Core, into the very essence of his being, and drew upon the technique he had refined—Purified Regret.

The wave of memories halted, the illusions freezing in place as Rin's voice rang out, clear and cold.

"Regret is not my prison."

The air rippled, the very fabric of the illusions warping and cracking under the weight of his words. He felt the crushing sorrow that had once defined him begin to burn away, leaving nothing but clarity in its wake. His pain, once a tether that held him back, became a blade—a tool of clarity, of purpose.

He reached into the sea of grief that had once overwhelmed him, pulling the memory of each failed death into a new form. It no longer consumed him; it became part of his will, part of his power. He could see the faces of those he had failed, not as shadows of guilt, but as shapes of death—each one a step on the path he walked. He could now mourn them without being consumed, without being broken.

"Purified Regret," Rin whispered, his voice steady, the words shaping the air around him. "No longer a prison, but a sword."

The memories, once oppressive and suffocating, now twisted into something sharp—something pure. Each face was etched into the void, an image of death that would not break him, but empower him. He was no longer trapped in their torment; he had turned it into strength.

And then, with a thought, he invoked his next technique—Void Eulogy.

A deep, resonating silence fell over the plains, the illusions fracturing into nothingness. The world around him shattered like glass, leaving only emptiness in its wake. And in that emptiness, Rin stood unshaken. He had not succumbed to their trickery; he had transformed it into a tool of his own making.

He was no longer a victim of the deaths he could not prevent. He was their master.

The Cloaked Ones faltered, their illusions dissolving, their power faltering as Rin's Death Core flared to life. They had tried to break him with grief, but all they had done was awaken something within him that was far more dangerous than they could comprehend.

Rin's eyes burned with an inner fire, his will hardened like steel. He stepped forward, Ny'xuan humming at his side, ready to cut through the very fabric of the world.

"You thought to paralyze me with grief," he said, his voice low, cold. "But I have learned to wield it as a weapon."

The Twelve Cloaked Ones circled him, their eyes glowing with the intensity of their ancient curse. They had underestimated him. They had thought that death would be his undoing.

But Rin was no longer afraid of death. He had embraced it, shaped it, and now it was his servant.

With a single motion, Rin lunged forward, Ny'xuan slashing through the air, its blade of death cutting through the very fabric of the illusions the Cloaked Ones had created. The first immortal fell, its cloak dissipating into the wind, a wisp of smoke in the air.

The others attacked, their hands raised to summon their illusions once more, but Rin was faster now. With every movement, every strike, he carved through their defenses, using his mastery over death to break their illusions, to turn their tricks against them.

One by one, the Cloaked Ones fell, their forms dissolving into the wind, their power evaporating like mist before the rising sun.

Rin stood alone in the shattered silence, his heart steady, his mind clear. The hunt was over.

But the path ahead remained long. And the heavens had not yet abandoned their pursuit.

To be continued…