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."