Chapter Nine: Between Life and Death

Silence filled the cave as Ashen sat cross-legged in the center of a blood-stained circle, surrounded by the carcasses of three enormous lizards, their blood carefully drained. The silence was heavy, like the calm before a storm.

He closed his eyes and extended his trembling fingers toward the stone bowl holding the blood of the three beasts. Carefully and reverently, he dipped his fingertips into the blood and began drawing symbols on his skin.

The blood was thick and sticky, pulsing with heat. The symbols he drew weren't decorative—they were ancient refining runes, passed down through the technique he'd discovered engraved on the cave walls. With each stroke, his skin tingled, and the heat rose, as if the blood was recognizing something buried deep within him.

When the markings on his chest, arms, and abdomen were complete, he exhaled a deep breath and closed his eyes again.

He began channeling his blood energy. It flowed like fire from his heart to his organs, touching the symbols. And as soon as he did, it ignited.

A dark red flame erupted, as if it were stained with the blood of thousands. The symbols burned, not on the surface, but inside, as if the blood was piercing his flesh.

Ashen screamed.

It wasn't an ordinary scream, but the scream of something being torn apart from within, as if his bones were being reshaped with blood that wasn't his own. He felt the symbols moving through his skin, fusing with his bones, burning and reshaping them.

Every second felt like an entire lifetime. His body felt as if it were being roasted alive, the blood within his bones burning.

When it was over, he collapsed to the ground, gasping. But amidst the pain, he felt a new strength... a different energy within him.

He looked at his right arm. His skin had blackened, as if iron had fused with it. He grabbed a small dagger and tried to stab it. The blade slipped.

He smiled despite the pain.

Flesh from iron skin.

The first ability he gained from refining his primordial body. A regenerative layer as hard as black iron. It resisted blades and provided essential protection against energy attacks. His skin was no longer just flesh; it was a weapon.

He rested briefly, his eyes half-closed, but his thoughts were turbulent. He was just getting started

He took out the remaining vial of blood. This time, he didn't draw from it. He raised it to his lips and drank it.

All of it.

A thick, violent surge of blood gushed into his stomach—then into his mind.

He screamed again. This time, the pain wasn't in his body, but in his soul.

A ferocious force invaded his mind. Images of howling beasts tearing him apart from within. Rage. Chaos. His mind was about to collapse.

His bloodline reacted. One part tried to calm the storm. Another resisted. Ashen was caught in the middle, struggling to hold on to his thoughts and his life.

Time passed like an unquenchable fire.

Then there was silence.

He took a deep breath. His heart pounded as if he had just escaped death.

He had reached the second sub-rank of the Blood Cultivator Stage.

His body trembled, but this time from power, not from pain.

He felt it coursing through his veins. He tested his strength. His punch was enough to crush a medium-sized boulder. A rough estimate—about 2,900 kilograms of force.

He sighed. It was a long way, but he was still alive.

The bloodline sealed in his body began to settle. The pressure in his chest eased slightly. But he knew he wouldn't completely calm down until he reached the top of the first rank of the Primordial Body.

He gathered his tools, stood slowly, and left the cave.

The wilderness stretched before him, endless and cold.

He walked for hours, searching for a path, a sign, anything. But he found only wind, ash, and silence.

Then he saw it.

A creature.

It walked on all fours, but its back was arched. Its face was a twisted blend of human and beast. Its eyes burned with fever. The air around it smelled of old blood and poor cultivation.

Ashen took a step back.

The creature roared, its deep voice far removed from human, then lunged forward.

The fight began.

His strikes were swift and brutal—but dangerously powerful. The beast felt no pain. It didn't flinch. It didn't stop. It was a monster ravaged by reckless cultivation, transformed into an instrument of killing.

Ashen fought back.

He used everything he had—his techniques, his iron flesh, his pure strength.

But the beast was faster. Stronger.

It had no mind. No defense.

Ashen began to wear him down. He parried. He dodged. He waited for the right moment. Blood splattered. His flesh cracked. But his eyes remained sharp.

The fight continued. Brutal. Close. Every moment was closer to its last.

And then finally...

The beast fell.

With a bloodied hand, Ashen used all his strength and blood energy for one last strike. He ripped open the creature's throat and brought it down.

But he could barely stand.

He stumbled back. His body was broken. His right arm was bleeding. His chest was pierced. But his heart was still beating.

He was alive.

He knelt down, breathing deeply. Then he collected the monster's blood in a vial, knowing that every drop could help or destroy him.

Then he began to crawl, searching for shelter, a quiet place in this nightmare to begin healing again.