The blood moon hung low over the Five Evil Beast Sect, casting a crimson veil over the jagged peaks that bordered their hidden mountain stronghold. Its eerie glow bathed the land in a malignant radiance, as if the heavens themselves had taken notice of the Sect's ancient and cursed practices. The distant howl of a wolf echoed through the night, but it was the stillness of the Sect's inner sanctum that truly spoke volumes. Even the wind seemed to avoid this place, unwilling to disturb the grim proceedings of the Sect's secluded halls.
Inside the cold stone chamber, a child was born.
Mo Gufeng's first cry was more of a gasp—raw, primal, as though the very air recoiled at his existence. His body, slick with blood, was thrust into the world under a cursed omen. Around him, the atmosphere warped with the intensity of his arrival. The heavy stone walls seemed to hum with power, the flickering torches casting elongated shadows that writhed like dark serpents. It was as if the earth itself recoiled at the unnaturalness of this child's birth.
Mo Tianxie stood at the center of the room, his towering form cloaked in deep crimson robes, his presence akin to an ancient god. His cold, steely gaze fixed upon the newborn with calculating precision, as if measuring the worth of the child in that one fleeting moment. His expression was unreadable, his lips drawn into a thin, humorless line—if one could even call it a smile.
"You are born under the blood moon," Mo Tianxie murmured, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. His gaze never wavered as he held the child aloft. The words held no warmth, no parental affection, only the cold promise of what was to come. "Fate has made you a weapon. If you are weak, we will break your spine. If you are strong, we will mold you into one of the greatest."
The words hung in the air, as chilling as the icy winds that howled outside. They carried the weight of destiny itself, a path carved not by love or hope but by the unyielding hands of ambition. Around him, the elders of the Five Evil Beast Sect stood in silence, their eyes gleaming like the sharpened edges of daggers. Each of them, long practiced in the ways of the demon path, knew that this child would either become the Sect's greatest asset—or its most cursed failure.
The baby, barely able to lift his head, looked up at his father. His eyes, impossibly clear for one so young, glinted with something far too sharp for a newborn—a flicker of awareness, as though he already understood the weight of his father's words.
"Father," the child's gaze seemed to speak. "I will not fail you."
Mo Tianxie's lips curled into a thin, almost imperceptible smile. But there was no pride in his gaze—only cold, calculating satisfaction. He knew this child's journey would not be easy. But that was the way of the Five Evil Beast Sect—strength above all else. Weakness was not tolerated. There was no room for kindness or softness. In this world, power was the only currency that mattered.
2 Years Later…
The mountain air was thin, biting, and suffused with an unnerving silence. High above the rest of the world, atop the unforgiving peaks of the Five Evil Beast Sect's stronghold, Mo Gufeng stood alone on the training grounds. The air around him seemed to crackle with an unspoken tension, and the faint, echoing calls of distant creatures only emphasized the isolation he felt. His small, bare feet dug into the cold stone beneath him, legs trembling with the effort to remain standing. At the age of two, he was barely able to walk properly, yet here he was, facing the first trial of his life.
Behind him, his father, Mo Tianxie, stood like a towering shadow, his crimson robes whipping around him in the bitter wind. His eyes were cold, unwavering, as he observed the child with a gaze that felt like the weight of an entire mountain pressing down on Gufeng's tiny shoulders.
The training ground stretched out before him, an expanse of cracked stone and jagged rock. The air felt sharp, like the edge of a blade. At the center of the training grounds stood a stone puppet—a humanoid construct that was as tall as a grown man, its thick, heavy limbs built to withstand the force of the most seasoned martial artists. Its hands were clenched into fists, each one as large as a boulder, and its body was covered in thick, chiseled stone that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. It was an unyielding tool, a brutal test of strength and skill, and it had no mercy.
Gufeng, barely old enough to walk, was to face this monster.
"Do not rely on tricks," Mo Tianxie's voice echoed from behind him, sharp and imperious. "Feel your body. Build it, shape it, or die."
Gufeng's heart pounded in his chest, but he refused to let fear take root. His father's words were not just commands; they were the only truth he had ever known. In this world, weakness was an insult. There was no room for hesitation. No room for fear. Only strength.
The stone puppet stirred, its massive arms swinging down with a speed that belied its size, aiming directly for Gufeng's small, fragile head. The force behind the strike was enough to crush a grown man.
But Gufeng didn't flinch.
His tiny body moved with precision, the movements of his legs and arms sharp, almost too fluid for his size. He had practiced the basic techniques from the moment he could stand. A slight shift of his hips, a flex of his knees, and he dodged the massive fist by the smallest of margins. The puppet's hand crashed into the stone with a deafening crack, sending a shockwave of dust into the air.
For a moment, there was silence.
The child had survived the first blow, but his father's gaze remained cold and unchanging.
"Again," Mo Tianxie commanded, his voice devoid of any warmth.
The stone puppet did not hesitate. It moved again, faster this time, its heavy fist flying toward Gufeng's side.
Gufeng's heart raced. He was small—too small. His body still lacked the strength and power that would allow him to strike back. But his mind was sharp. His instincts screamed, and without thinking, he dropped to the ground, his body flowing into the tendon flex stance—a basic maneuver that allowed even the most inexperienced martial artist to avoid an attack by using the tendons in their legs to spring away.
He rolled sideways, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow. The puppet's fist slammed into the stone with such force that it cracked the ground beneath it. Gufeng's breath came in shallow gasps, but he did not allow himself to rest. He had to keep moving. He had to keep surviving.
Hours passed. Gufeng's small body was battered and bruised. His face was streaked with blood, his limbs shaking from exhaustion. Yet, his eyes never wavered. His father's commands rang in his ears like a cruel drumbeat:
"Do not fail."
"Do not hesitate."
"Pain is only weakness."
Each command was a lash, driving him onward, pushing him further into the unforgiving stone ground. Each time the puppet's fists came down, each time he barely dodged the crushing blows, Gufeng's muscles screamed in protest, but he refused to stop.
His father stood motionless, his eyes locked on his son, his gaze like the blade of a sword, unyielding and emotionless. There was no praise, no encouragement. Only the silence of expectation.
Later that Night...
Mo Gufeng lay on his bed, his small body covered in bruises, cuts, and a thin sheen of sweat. His breath came in ragged gasps, and every movement sent waves of pain through his battered limbs. Yet, despite the agony, his mind remained sharp.
The pain was unbearable. It was more than just physical—it was mental. Every fiber of his being screamed for rest, for relief, but there was no reprieve. He had not yet reached the first level of martial training: skin training. He was still too young, too weak. But there was something else within him, something deeper, that refused to let him break. He could feel it—a flickering, gnawing force that pulsed within his veins. Power.
As he lay there, his thoughts turned inward. His father's words echoed in his mind: "Feel your body. Build it, shape it, or die."
Survive. Grow stronger. Become something greater than this. I will not fail.
The child could almost hear another voice in the back of his mind—soft, faint, but unmistakably different from his father's. It was the voice of his mother, the head of the Moonlight Sect. She had often told him of the ancient ways of their neutral sect, which allowed them to see fragments of the future—small glimpses of destiny that were often hidden from the common man. The Moonlight Sect's teachings were cryptic, mysterious. But they always made him feel like there was more to life than just strength.
But those teachings were kept secret, locked away from those who walked the path of the demon sect.
Even at the age of two, Mo Gufeng had been torn between two worlds: his father's cold, brutal expectations and his mother's secretive, foresighted wisdom. It was a burden he would learn to bear in time.
The night stretched on, and the blood moon hung high in the sky, casting its crimson glow over the mountain stronghold. Gufeng closed his eyes and let the silence wash over him.
He would survive this. He would grow stronger. And one day, he would surpass even his father's cold, cruel vision of what he was destined to become.