Reborn in the Abyss: The Warrior's Vengeance

The cold wind swept through the Verdant Hills, rustling the leaves with a mournful sigh, as if the very heavens wept for what had been lost—and what was yet to come. Murong Chen stood alone beneath the twisted boughs of an ancient tree, eyes fixed on the blood-red horizon. The scroll clenched in his hand had torn the foundation of his soul asunder.

His father—Murong Taishan, the former patriarch of the Crimson Sect—had betrayed him. Not for survival. Not for love. For power.

A storm raged within his chest, equal parts sorrow and fury. Yet Murong Chen's face remained impassive, sculpted from stone, his gaze distant.

Behind him, Lu Fan and Meng Yao approached in silence. Neither dared speak, for they had seen the look in his eyes—the same look he bore when he carved his vengeance into the flesh of the Zhao Clan's butchers.

"Are you certain?" Lu Fan asked at last, voice low.

Chen did not turn. "Yes. We return to the Crimson Sect."

Meng Yao's brow furrowed. "They believe you dead, cast out. The Sect has fallen under the sway of Zhao Wei's influence. Murong Taishan still holds power in name, but…" She hesitated. "There are whispers. Of a shadow council behind the Sect's movements. Manipulating from the dark."

Chen's lips curled into a bitter smile. "Then we burn away the shadows."

**

Three days later, they stood upon a ridge overlooking the Crimson Mountains—jagged peaks like the teeth of an ancient beast, scarlet stone veined with black ore. Nestled within the mountains' heart lay the Crimson Sect's ancestral home—Bloodfire Valley, once a sanctuary of martial excellence, now a lair of rot.

Chen's memories surged.

The valley had once sung with the clang of blades, the chants of warriors, the teachings of honor and legacy. Now, as he beheld it, a thick haze of smoke and despair blanketed the grounds. The banners of the Sect—once bright crimson embroidered with gold—were dulled and frayed, hanging like the rags of beggars.

Lu Fan muttered, "It's worse than I imagined."

Chen nodded. "Decay starts at the root."

They descended under the cloak of dusk, weaving through old paths only a disciple of the Sect would know. No sentries patrolled the outer walls—either a sign of arrogance or degradation. Perhaps both.

As they passed beneath the Arch of Ascendants, Chen paused. He ran his fingers along the stone—etched with the names of warriors who had earned glory. His name had once been carved here, beneath his father's. It was gone now—scraped away, a scar of shame.

He felt nothing.

They moved deeper into the valley, bypassing the Outer Sanctum where junior disciples once trained. The yards were empty, the forges cold. In their place were shanties—haphazard shelters for mercenaries and thugs, their eyes hollow, their laughter cruel.

"They've turned the Sect into a brothel for power," Lu Fan spat.

Chen's eyes narrowed. "Not for long."

They reached the Hall of Ancestors, its grand stone doors looming, engraved with scenes of the Sect's founding—heroic, eternal. Inside, voices echoed.

"...the mine yields less than expected," one said. "The villagers are dying too quickly."

"We need more labor," another grunted. "The Lord demands tribute."

Chen stepped through the doors like a wraith, his cloak billowing. The hall fell silent.

Half a dozen men sat around a table, robed in black and red, their faces aging and proud. At the head sat Murong Taishan, his once-regal visage now gaunt, eyes sunken, hair streaked with white.

The old patriarch looked up—and froze.

"M-Murong Chen…?"

Chen's voice was ice. "I see the rot has spread deeper than I feared."

One of the elders rose, snarling, "You dare trespass, exile? Guards!"

But Chen moved like lightning. The Ashen Blade sang, severing the man's arm in a blaze of fire. Screams filled the hall.

Murong Taishan stood slowly, trembling. "My son… I thought you… Zhao Wei said—"

"That I was dead?" Chen stepped closer, blade at his side. "You wished it so."

The elder's knees buckled. "You don't understand. I had no choice. The rebellion—the clans—they threatened to destroy us. Zhao Wei offered power. Stability."

Chen's eyes burned. "And you offered me."

Taishan's mouth opened and closed, words failing him.

Chen sheathed his blade, not out of mercy, but disgust.

"You betrayed blood for power. You are no longer my father. You are nothing."

The hall erupted into chaos. Some elders fled, others attacked. Chen fought like a demon unleashed, the Ashen Blade cleaving through their ranks. Lu Fan and Meng Yao joined the fray, the room alight with steel and fire.

When it was done, the Hall of Ancestors was a tomb.

Only Murong Taishan remained, kneeling in blood, weeping silently.

Chen turned away.

"The Crimson Sect will rise again," he said. "But not in your image."

**

Outside, the valley trembled as word spread.

Murong Chen had returned.

Disciples knelt, some in fear, others in awe. Many had grown under tales of his legend, believing him lost.

Now, they saw the truth—their true leader reborn from fire and betrayal.

Chen climbed the Summit of Flames, where the Sect's true legacy lay—the Pyre of Vows, an eternal flame that burned only for those worthy.

He unsheathed the Ashen Blade, thrusting it into the flame. The blade ignited, the runes glowing with power, and from the fire rose a symbol—the Mark of the Phoenix, the Sect's ancient crest, lost for decades.

Gasps echoed. Knees fell to earth.

Murong Chen's voice rang out.

"The Crimson Sect has strayed. Corrupted by greed and fear. No more."

He drew the blade high, fire dancing across its edge.

"We rise from ashes. We rise for justice. We rise for vengeance!"

A roar answered him—a new beginning, forged in flame and blood.

Zhao Wei would fall.

And Murong Chen would be the hand that cast him down.