“The Thousand-Year Frostblood Lotus springs from the Blood-Soul Frostpool buried beneath the Eternal Ice Plains at the pole of level ten. It drinks a thousand years of frozen venom and subterranean lifeblood, flowering for only three days each century…”
“The Jadeheart Marrow dripped once in ten millennia from the molten crystal veins at the pit of level eleven’s infernal Lava Abyss, tempered by the purest earthfire and soil spirits; it anchors body and soul alike… And…”
“The Nine-Orifice Divine Soul Herb sprouted only inside spectral caverns or dreambound labyrinths of level twelve. each blade opening nine tiny vents that breathe raw soul force, an unrivaled tonic for the spirit.”
Any one of those treasures could launch wars. To seek all three was to wade into a storm of blood.
Vermilion was a stranger on level ten, his power merely middling here. Alone, would be swallowed before ever glimpsed the first bloom.
Jared met the demon lord’s expectant gaze. “You want me to hunt these ingredients…”
“Exactly…” Vermilion bent forward, urgency carving new lines into his ageless face. “I know it is a task fit for legends. I have no other path. Selene is running out of time. Help me, and I swear on my heart-demon, through fire, steel, or void, I will serve at your side. Every resource l possess will be yours if it means winning a single breath of tomorrow!”
The mighty lord who once commanded storms of war started to kneel in humble supplication.
Jared grabbed by the shoulders before his knees could touch stone, lifting with quiet strength. “There’s no need for that…”
Jared felt a quiet reverence stir in his chest whenever recalled the bond between the Vermilion Demon Lord and Selene Moonridge, a love so fierce it dared to bridge the chasm between light and darkness, between righteous creed and forbidden path.
More than once, the Demon Lord had stepped from the shadows to shield Jared when blades closed in, and hope ran thin.
By any measure, gratitude, honor, or the simple debt of one soul to another, Jared knew must answer the call now placed before him, whatever the cost.
“My friend, spare me the formalities,” Jared said, voice low yet unwavering as turned toward the crimson-armored figure. “The bond between us is worth more than flesh or bone. If shattering my own body is the price, so be it… I will help you.”
He paused, drawing a thoughtful breath. “That said, my knowledge of level ten is far from complete, especially when it comes to the ancient, world-born treasures we need.”
A spark lit behind his eyes. “But there is someone, perhaps, who can guide us along the trail.”
The Demon Lord leaned forward, tension sharpened by hope. “Who might that be?”
“Linden Cloudridge, Sect Master of the Mystic Sky Sword Sect,” Jared replied.
“The Sword Sect’s roots run deeper than any other order on level ten. They have chronicled every valley, every relic, every whispered secret. That includes the Eternal Ice Plains where the Thousand-Year Frostblood Lotus is said to bloom.”
The Demon Lord’s hard features eased into an eager smile, then tightened again with a flicker of unease. “That is great news, yet I remain a demonic cultivator. If I stride unannounced into their sacred mountain, they may answer with steel.”
Jared waved the concern away. “No harm will come. Mr. Cloudridge is no narrow-minded zealot, and I recently helped his sect escape annihilation. My name still carries weight at his gate. Let us leave at once, speed is everything.”
Although wounds still throbbed beneath Jared’s robes, his realm had stabilized, his blood harmonized.
A swirl of silver light unfurled from his sleeve, wrapping the Demon Lord beside him. In the next heartbeat, they shot into the sky, a streaking mote of brilliance, racing toward the serrated peaks of the Myriad Sword Mountains where the Mystic Sky Sword Sect awaited.
***
Days later, the sect’s stronghold emerged beneath them, terraces scarred by recent war yet throbbing with new life.
Broken parapets had been braced with fresh stone, and the great defensive array shimmered once more, faint but growing stronger, like a heart relearning its rhythm after a near-fatal blow.
Jared and the Vermilion Demon Lord descended toward the main gate.
Sentinels stiffened instantly, hands flying to hilts, until they recognized the man who had stood between their order and ruin. Awe replaced alarm, every guard bowed low, then hurried off to announce his return.
Moments later, Linden himself crossed the threshold. Bandages peeked from beneath his robes, and his complexion remained pale, yet delight warmed his eyes. “Sir Chance, to see you unharmed, it lifts a burden from my soul.”
“Your safety gladdens us all,” added, offering a respectful nod. His gaze slid to the silent figure at Jared’s side, dark aura coiling like dusk. “And this fellow traveler…”
“Mr. Cloudridge, allow me to present Vermilion,” Jared said, choosing the simplest of the Demon Lord’s many titles. “An old ally from level nine. We come seeking knowledge, not conflict, and I would ask it of you personally.”
Though Linden’s instincts pricked at the aura of a demonic cultivator, Jared’s word was bond enough. He inclined his head. “An honor, Vermilion… Whatever Sir Chance requests, I shall share without reservation.”
The three stepped into the grand hall, each settling upon carved wooden seats that faced one another beneath soaring rafters.
Jared spoke plainly of the pill, of the Thousand-Year Frostblood Lotus buried in the Eternal Iceplains, setting a device upon the table, its surface etched with the full alchemical recipe.
Linden’s expression turned somber. He lifted the device, eyes flicking over the stark description of the Thousand-Year Frostblood Lotus, a crease forming between his brows as the weight of the task settled upon him.
His voice uncoiled across the council chamber like a blade drawn in slow ceremony. “The Thousand-Year Frostblood Lotus, yes, Mystic Sky Sword Sect records confirm its existence…”
He stroked his silver beard, every movement measured, eyes half-lidded in recollection. “Scripture states the flower can be found only in the very heart of the Eternal Ice Plains, rooted deep within the Blood-Soul Frostpool.”
Linden paused, allowing the image to settle, a wasteland locked in everlasting winter, gales sharp enough to flay bone. “The plains are one of the level ten’s infamous dead zones… For ordinary Heavenly Immortal cultivators, setting foot there is to wager nine lives against one…”
His tone darkened. “The pool itself is worse, water cold enough to numb the soul, laced with a toxin that corrodes spirit and mind alike. Some say a beast older than language sleeps beneath those crimson depths.”
He turned to Vermilion, his expression grave. “My friend, reaching the Thousand-Year Frostbiood Lotus borders on folly. The bloom opens once every hundred years and fades almost immediately… Miss the moment, and the journey ends empty-handed…”
Linden’s brow tightened. “Three centuries ago, a Heavenly Immortal Realm Level Eight cultivator ventured there. He stumbled back half-dead, no lotus, his foundation shattered.”
