Chapter 67 – Return to the Mortal Realm

Rin's return to the Mortal Realm was not a grand homecoming but a quiet, oppressive presence in the air. The void had relinquished its grip on him, and the power of the Null Spirit—both liberating and alien—now thrummed within him, a relentless force that he had learned to wield. Yet, even with the power of death itself coursing through his veins, the world he had left behind was not the one he returned to. The Mortal Realm had become something else entirely, a broken husk of what it once was, and Rin felt the weight of its transformation as he descended through the remains of the sky, his feet touching the ruined earth below.

The sky was a sickly hue of red, as if the blood of the fallen had permanently stained the heavens. The air was thick with an unsettling stillness, the kind that clung to the land as if it, too, had been abandoned by the gods. The scent of decay was heavy, and the once vibrant landscapes were now withered and warped. Forests had been turned to ash, rivers to stagnant pools, and the cities that had once thrived lay in ruins, their skeletal remains scattered across the earth like forgotten monuments to a world lost to time.

As Rin stood at the edge of what had once been the sacred grounds of the Immortal Sect, a faint, bitter smile crossed his lips. This was no longer the world he had known. It was something darker, something twisted by the war that had torn the heavens and the earth apart. And it was a world that had no place for the weak. Power had become the only law, and death was no longer feared—it was embraced. To die had become the ultimate freedom, a release from a world that had betrayed every living being.

His senses sharpened as he moved forward, stepping lightly across the cracked earth, his presence unnoticed by the few remnants of humanity that still clung to life in this fractured world. The survivors were few, scattered, and broken, their once-proud civilizations now little more than crumbling echoes of their former selves. What had once been sacred shrines were now desecrated battlegrounds, and what had been sanctuaries were now blood-stained ruins, their walls lined with the remains of those who had perished in the aftermath of the celestial war.

But it was the survivors that caught Rin's attention—the ones who had risen from the ashes of war, the ones who had learned to embrace the darkness, to feed off the suffering of others. They were the true rulers of this shattered land now, the ruthless few who had seized power, using whatever means necessary to survive.

As Rin made his way toward the sect grounds, memories of his past life flickered at the edges of his consciousness. Faces of those he had once called kin, the students of his sect, the mentors who had shaped his path—they were all gone now, twisted into something grotesque by the same death-cursed techniques that Rin himself had once dabbled in. The path of immortality, the path of death—it had claimed them all, turning them into mindless, bloodthirsty killers.

The gate to the sect grounds was ajar, its iron hinges creaking in the wind. The once-immaculate walls, adorned with golden symbols and the proud banners of the sect, had been defiled. They were now stained with the black, sticky remnants of blood, the walls pocked with the scars of countless battles. Rin's eyes narrowed as he entered, his presence felt by those within.

At the center of the compound stood a group of his former sect members—once proud cultivators, now transformed into monstrous versions of themselves. Their eyes gleamed with madness, and their bodies were marred with dark, cursed tattoos, symbols of the techniques they had used to twist themselves into weapons of death. The very air around them seemed to vibrate with the oppressive weight of their power, a power that no longer resembled the disciplined energy of cultivation, but something darker, more primal, more… consuming.

One of them turned to face him—a man Rin had once considered a brother. The cultivator's face was a twisted mask of madness, his skin pale and stretched tight over his bones. He had once been strong, confident—a leader in the sect. Now, he was little more than a vessel for death, his body a conduit for the corrupted techniques that had claimed him. His hands crackled with the energy of death, and his voice rasped as he spoke.

"Rin Xie," the former brother hissed, his voice dripping with disdain. "So you've returned. The prodigal son, come home to die." He laughed, but the sound was hollow, devoid of any true joy. "You are too late. The Mortal Realm belongs to those who can wield death, to those who have embraced the power of the void. And now, you will join us, or you will fall, just like the rest."

Rin's expression remained cold, his eyes like two burning embers. The power of the Null Spirit thrummed within him, urging him to act, to strike down these mindless creatures who had once been his kin. They were no longer worthy of the title "cultivators." They were nothing more than parasites feeding off the corpse of the Mortal Realm, remnants of a dying world that no longer had a place for them.

"You are nothing but echoes of the past," Rin said, his voice low but filled with an icy certainty. "You are dead already, in every way that matters. I will not mourn your fall. I will not pity you."

With a flick of his wrist, Rin unleashed the power of his Death Core, sending a pulse of dark energy into the ground beneath him. The ground trembled as if responding to his call, and the air crackled with the raw force of his power. The once-immaculate grounds of the sect began to decay, the very earth withering beneath the weight of Rin's presence. The survivors, twisted as they were, faltered for a moment, uncertainty flashing in their eyes.

But the former brother was quick to recover. With a savage growl, he lunged at Rin, his body rippling with the energy of his cursed techniques. "You are nothing, Rin Xie! You always were!"

Rin's eyes gleamed with a cold fury, and in an instant, he was upon the man, his hand cutting through the air with deadly precision. The once-proud cultivator's body crumpled beneath the force of Rin's strike, the bones in his chest shattering like dry twigs. The power of the Null Spirit surged through him, and the man's lifeblood was drained away in an instant, leaving only an empty, hollow shell behind.

But Rin was not done. The remaining members of his former sect closed in on him, their movements jerky and frantic, their techniques fueled by desperation and madness. Rin's gaze swept over them all, his expression unwavering as he summoned the full might of his Death Core.

With a single, focused motion, Rin released a wave of energy so pure and unyielding that it tore through the air like a spear, slicing through the twisted sect members with ease. Their screams filled the air, but Rin felt no satisfaction in their agony. They were already dead in every meaningful sense. He was merely setting them free.

When the last of them fell, the silence that followed was deafening. The once-proud sect grounds were now a graveyard, its history wiped clean by the hand of death. Rin stood amidst the ruins, his gaze distant as he surveyed the destruction he had wrought. The Mortal Realm was a shattered reflection of its former self, a place where the only law was power—and death. It was a place where he no longer belonged, a place where his old self could never return.

The echoes of his past, the memories of those he had once called allies, now felt like distant whispers, fading into the darkness. His old life, his old identity—these things were gone, lost to the path he had chosen. The price of ultimate power had been high, but Rin had paid it willingly.

And as he stood amidst the broken remnants of his past, Rin Xie felt a cold clarity settle over him. He was no longer bound by the constraints of the mortal world. He had ascended beyond it. He was ready.

Ready for the confrontation with the immortals. Ready to face the heavens themselves.

To be continued…