Reborn in the Abyss: The Warrior's Vengeance

The cold winds of the Forbidden Wastes died down as Murong Chen and Lu Fan stepped away from the ruins of the Crypt of Ashes, their silhouettes trailing long shadows across the scorched plains. The Ashen Blade at Chen's side now pulsed with a deeper, more ancient power—the Eternal Flame had fused with it, altering the very essence of the weapon. Runes along the blade's length shimmered with fiery hues, their glow casting a crimson light on the path ahead.

They had conquered the Trial of Ashes. But victory had come at a cost.

Chen's body ached with every step. The trial had not only tested his strength but scorched his soul, branding it with searing truth. He had glimpsed the deepest recesses of his pain, the betrayal that still festered, and the righteous fire that refused to die.

Lu Fan eyed him, wary but silent. He had always been the quieter of the two, preferring action over words. Yet now, his gaze held unspoken questions.

"You faced something in there," Lu Fan finally said, his voice low as they reached the base of a hill that overlooked the Wastes. "Something that left its mark."

Chen didn't respond immediately. The wind tugged at his robes, and his eyes remained fixed on the horizon where Zhao Wei's empire lay like a festering wound upon the land.

"The Flame showed me what I already knew," Chen murmured. "That power alone will not grant me victory. I must wield it with clarity… with resolve. And when the time comes, I must not falter."

Lu Fan nodded, accepting the words without pressing further. Together, they mounted their horses—two war-worn beasts tethered near the outskirts of the Wastes—and turned toward the east.

Toward vengeance.

**

Days passed in restless travel. The landscape shifted from barren ash fields to rocky hills dotted with twisted trees, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Along the way, whispers of Murong Chen's survival spread through border villages like wildfire.

"The Ghost Blade rides again."

"Murong Chen, the Last Disciple of the Crimson Sect, lives."

"Zhao Wei's doom draws near."

Chen and Lu Fan avoided the main roads, sticking to forest paths and mountain trails, but it didn't take long before word reached unfriendly ears.

By the time they entered the outskirts of Jiufeng County, a once-prosperous region now under Zhao Wei's iron grip, they found themselves at the center of unwanted attention.

A patrol of Wei's soldiers—thirty men clad in blackened armor, bearing the sigil of the Jade Serpent—waited along the narrow mountain pass, their spears gleaming in the morning sun.

Chen reined in his horse, eyes narrowing. "They've been tracking us."

Lu Fan unsheathed his twin sabers, lips curling into a grin. "They've made a mistake."

The soldiers raised their weapons, blocking the path. At their center, a tall officer rode forward, his armor polished and adorned with silver accents. He bore the haughty expression of someone who had never been denied.

"Murong Chen," he called, voice echoing through the valley. "Zhao Wei sends his regards—and his mercy. Lay down your blade and kneel, and your death shall be swift."

Chen dismounted slowly, the Ashen Blade in his hand igniting with fire that danced along its length. The officer's confidence faltered for a brief moment, but he held firm.

"You stand before a storm," Chen said, his voice calm. "And you dare ask it to kneel?"

Lu Fan dismounted beside him, cracking his neck. "Thirty of them. I call ten."

Chen gave a faint smile. "Then I'll take twenty."

The first arrow flew—and the world exploded into motion.

Chen surged forward, the Ashen Blade cutting a fiery arc through the air. It met steel with a hiss, cleaving through the first soldier's armor like paper. The flame didn't just burn—it devoured, leaving only ash in its wake.

Lu Fan moved like a shadow, his sabers dancing in a deadly rhythm, each strike precise, ruthless. He weaved between foes, leaving bodies in his wake.

The officer shouted commands, but fear crept into his voice. He hadn't expected resistance—certainly not this.

Chen advanced, his strikes unrelenting. The Eternal Flame surged through him, lending strength to every movement, guiding his blade with deadly intent. The soldiers faltered, stepping back—but it was too late.

Within minutes, the path was littered with the dead, smoke rising from the scorched earth.

Chen stood over the officer, now on his knees, bloodied and broken.

"You… you were supposed to be dead…" the man gasped.

"I was," Chen said coldly, raising his blade. "Now tell Zhao Wei—the dead are coming for him."

The blade fell, and the officer's head hit the ground.

**

They left no survivors. Zhao Wei would learn not from the lips of cowards but from the ashes of his men.

As night fell, Chen and Lu Fan camped near the banks of the Blackwater River, its waters glistening under the pale moonlight. Chen stared into the flames of their campfire, his mind heavy with the weight of what was to come.

Lu Fan tossed him a roasted skewer of meat, then sat opposite him, sharpening his blades.

"We can't keep this pace forever," Lu Fan said. "Zhao Wei's spies will hunt us with more than just soldiers."

"I know."

"And when you face him?" Lu Fan paused, meeting Chen's gaze. "Will revenge be enough?"

Chen's hand tightened around the Ashen Blade. "It has to be."

Silence stretched between them.

Then Lu Fan grunted. "You've changed, Chen. The fire in you… it's different now. Before, it burned for survival. Now, it burns for something more."

Chen didn't respond, but in his heart, he knew Lu Fan was right. The Eternal Flame hadn't just strengthened his body—it had ignited his purpose. The path ahead was one of blood and ruin, but he would walk it without hesitation.

For the fallen. For the betrayed. For the clan that once called him brother.

**

Far across the land, in the towering halls of Azure Serpent Palace, Zhao Wei reclined upon his throne, draped in robes of emerald silk. At his side knelt messengers, trembling.

"You say he lives?" Zhao Wei's voice was soft, deadly.

"Yes, my lord. Murong Chen—he wields a blade of flame. The patrol… they never returned."

Zhao Wei's eyes narrowed, a slow smile curving his lips.

"Good," he murmured. "Let him come. Let the last ember burn bright—before I crush it beneath my heel."

Outside, lightning split the sky.

War was coming.