Chapter 110 – Tears for the Dead That Never Wept
The world was changing, as it always had in the wake of Rin Xie's footsteps, but now it felt different. It felt heavier. The winds, the skies, even the ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble in response to his existence. The Earth itself recoiled at his presence. The once-pristine air, now tainted by his Death Core, carried an unnatural weight—a suffocating, oppressive aura that bled the color from everything it touched. It was as though his mere being had become an omen, a herald of the end of all things.
Rin had learned to ignore the whispers of dying grass, the occasional flickers of shadow in the corner of his eye. But now, it was unmistakable. Storms followed him. Black rain, thick and viscous as ink, fell wherever he wandered, a shroud of death descending from the heavens with every step he took. The skies churned, turning into roiling masses of clouds that threatened to suffocate the light. There was no sun where Rin went, only the endless storm, a reflection of the darkness that had taken root inside him.
The scent of decay lingered in the air, and the world seemed to bend and warp around him. The trees, their leaves wilting before his gaze, shuddered as he passed, and the distant echoes of the dead resonated in his ears—strange, hollow voices calling to him from the winds, whispering of past sins and future calamities.
As he walked through the land, the dying grass would shift in the wind, its whispers forming his name, "Rin... Rin... Rin..." A slow, rhythmic chant, as if the earth itself was mourning him—mourning what he had become. The sky wept in black tears, and the soil beneath him grew tainted with every step.
There were others who noticed the changes, of course. Cultivators—foolish ones, hungry for power, deluded by their own arrogance. They saw an opportunity in his passing, believing they could exploit it. There were always those who believed they could control death, or that death could be used as a tool. They could never have been more wrong.
The rogue sect had laid their trap well. It was set in a clearing, a dead place, hollowed by their previous sacrifices. Children—mangled corpses from their rituals—were scattered in the dirt, remnants of what had once been human. The sect had devised a cunning plan, intending to bind Rin in a seal of blood and spirit, offering up their most sacred treasure—the souls of children—as bait. They thought that Rin would come for their power, that his rage would lead him into their grasp.
But they underestimated him.
Rin's eyes fell upon the altar where the children were bound, their faces marked with the faintest trace of life. But it was too late. Death had already been etched into their souls. Their bodies were vessels, empty shells awaiting to be consumed by the forces of the sect's twisted rituals. When they saw him, they didn't run or scream. There was nothing in their eyes. Just the hollow gaze of souls already broken.
The leader of the rogue sect, a man cloaked in illusions, stood with a raised hand, prepared to call upon the seals. He muttered incantations beneath his breath, his fingers weaving through the air like a spider's legs weaving a deadly web. Rin watched, indifferent, as the man's spirit power surged around him. The storm above seemed to respond, crackling with malevolent energy. Lightning flashed, and the very air grew thick with death.