Immortal Paladin

[POV: Hei Mao]

The hall of crowning stretched like the ribcage of some colossal beast, its arches formed from pale ivory carved to resemble layered bones, each vein inlaid with gemstones that caught the torchlight and fractured it into cold constellations. Thousands upon thousands of cult members knelt upon the obsidian floor, their foreheads pressed down, breaths held in reverent unison.

At the center of it all sat Hei Mao.

The ivory throne beneath him was sculpted from polished bone and studded with gems of onyx, ruby, and star-sapphire, a monument to eternity and death entwined. He wore a robe of dark and white, the colors flowing together like night swallowing moonlight. His red scarf remained wrapped around his neck, its ends trailing down his shoulder.

Hei Mao’s back was straight. His hands rested calmly on the armrests. Outwardly, he looked every inch the immortal ancestor they believed him to be.

Inwardly, his mind was a storm.

The officiant stepped forward, a tall, gaunt figure clad in ceremonial black feathers and silver sigils etched into their skin. Their voice carried effortlessly across the vast hall.

“By the rites unbroken and the lineage eternal,” the officiant proclaimed, “we welcome the Ancestor who returns to us across time and death alike. The one whose blood remembers the path beyond the grave. Rise not, O Ancestor, but take your rightful place as leader of the Eternal Undeath Cult once more.”

The officiant turned sharply, staff striking the floor.

“Followers,” they cried, “pay your respects.”

At once, the hall erupted.

“Hail the Eternal Night that blankets the world with stars!”

“May he who sits upon the Throne of Eternity reign supreme!”

“Here and in the afterlife, forever!”

The voices overlapped, thunderous and devout, shaking the gemstones in the walls until they sang back faint, crystalline echoes. Hei Mao felt the weight of it press against his chest, not as sound alone, but as raw and unquestioning belief directed entirely at him.

It would have been an understatement to say Hei Mao was nervous, confused, and utterly flabbergasted.

‘How did it come to this?’ he wondered, his gaze steady while his thoughts spiraled.

He should not have existed in this time period at all. He barely knew these people. He had come here to infiltrate and investigate. Nothing more. Yet in his brief time among them, he had spoken too freely, listened too intently, and carried himself too naturally. He had answered questions he shouldn’t have been able to answer. He had reacted to doctrines and rites with a familiarity that could only be explained, in their eyes, by immortality.

And when one of them finally grew suspicious, when accusations were thrown and steel was drawn, the situation had devolved into violence.

Hei Mao had ended it swiftly.

‘Too swiftly,’ he thought grimly.

Absolute domination had crushed doubt instead of feeding it. To them, only an ancestor could have done what he did.

The chanting slowly subsided, replaced by an expectant silence.

The officiant bowed deeply, then lifted his head, eyes burning with reverence.

“Ancestor Hei Mao,” he said, voice trembling with restrained awe, “do you have words to bestow upon your followers, who have awaited your return across generations of undeath?”

Hei Mao inhaled slowly.

During his time among the Eternal Undeath Cult, his impression of them had shifted in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Their doctrine was not one of mindless decay or nihilism. They believed in living well, kindly, and purposefully, so that one might reach the ideal afterlife. Undeath, to them, was not rot, but continuation. A perfected existence unburdened by suffering.

They weren’t monsters.

And that realization sat heavier than the throne itself.

Hei Mao rose from the ivory seat.

The sound of movement rippled through the hall like a held breath finally released. Thousands of eyes lifted to him as he stepped forward, robe whispering against stone. He thought of his master how he had spoken not to command, but to connect. How sincerity carried more weight than authority.

Hei Mao placed a hand over his chest.

“I will speak plainly,” he said, his voice echoing without strain. “Because I do not know how to speak to you any other way.”

A murmur passed through the crowd, not of dissent, but curiosity.

“I hated this place,” Hei Mao continued. “When I first arrived, I believed it to be a source of tragedy. In times of strife, I came to think of it as the root of my misery. Every step I took here felt heavy with resentment.”

He paused, eyes lowering briefly before lifting again.

“That hatred was easy,” he said quietly. “Understanding was not.”

Silence deepened.

“After speaking with you,” Hei Mao went on, “after learning your customs, your beliefs, and the way you live… I realized something that unsettled me far more than any enemy ever has.”

His fingers curled slightly.

“The problem was not this cult.”

His gaze swept the kneeling masses.

“It was me.”

A ripple of shock spread, but Hei Mao did not stop.

“As your leader,” he said, voice firming, “I will not pretend to already understand you. I will learn. I will know the Eternal Undeath Cult not as an idea, but as people. I will embrace you as my own, and perhaps one day… I will become truly a part of you.”

He straightened, the weight of the throne no longer pressing, but settling.

“My arrival here was born of circumstance,” Hei Mao concluded, “and perhaps fate. And as someone who shares the same blood in his veins as those who came before me, I will strive not to shame the ideals of my predecessor without first taking the time to know them.”

The hall remained silent for a heartbeat longer.

Then, devotion surged like a rising tide.

Word spread through the clan like a quiet, inevitable tide.

Among the inner and outer members alike, the same story circulated in hushed reverence: Hei Mao had returned from the Greater Universe. He had ascended, reached the realm no immortal had ever come back from… and yet he had returned home and chosen to settle here once more.

Within the Eternal Undeath Cult, this alone was enough to solidify belief.

It was common knowledge that every immortal who ascended to the Greater Universe vanished forever. They left behind vows and promises, declarations that they would elevate the cult, guide it from above, or return bearing supreme enlightenment. None ever did. Over time, the consensus settled into something bearable that the immortal ancestors of old had reached such profound enlightenment that they were no longer able to descend into this lesser realm.

There was, of course, another theory.

That the ancestors had perished in the Greater Universe, dying ignoble, meaningless deaths before ever leaving their mark.

But such thoughts were never entertained aloud. To acknowledge them would fracture the very foundation of the cult’s faith. So they were buried, unspoken and denied, like corpses sealed beneath unbreakable stone.

The ceremony drew to a close with measured solemnity. Ritual chants faded into silence, and incense smoke thinned beneath the vaulted ceiling.

The officiant approached Hei Mao once more. This time, his posture was less ceremonial and more formal, his expression composed.

“Ancestor,” he said, inclining his head. “I am Hei Chang. The final part of the crowning ceremony awaits. You must visit the Candle Dragon Palace.”

Hei Mao turned back toward the kneeling sea of cult members. His voice carried calmly across the hall.

“You may rise,” he said. “And spread word of my return to the rest of the world.”

At once, the masses obeyed. Bodies lifted, robes rustled, and awe-struck gazes lingered upon him before the crowd slowly began to disperse, devotion renewed and purpose ignited.

Hei Mao descended from the ivory throne and followed Hei Chang through the long bone-carved corridors. As they walked, he slipped his hand into his sleeve and withdrew a worn journal, its cover darkened with age and qi residue.

He opened it quietly.

It belonged to one of the former cult leaders.

Lines of cramped handwriting detailed the bizarre origin of the Eternal Undeath Cult from fragmented recollections, half-myths, and accounts that skirted the edge of madness. Hei Mao’s eyes sharpened as he skimmed page after page.

‘This… aligns too well,’ he thought.

It directly touched upon what he had been investigating lately.

Hei Mao had noticed distortions in reality ever since arriving in this world, subtle at first, then increasingly blatant. Cause and effect did not always respond to one another. Events occurred without proper origin, while consequences sometimes arrived unanchored to any action.

It led him to a disturbing conclusion.

This world might not even be real.

Or rather, it might be a constructed imitation, possibly the result of a vast formation. Senior Sister Gu Jie had hinted at this, warning him of a place where causality itself had been severed. She had asked him to investigate quietly.

For reasons she never explained, she insisted their master must not know.

Hei Mao’s search had first led him to the Creation Myth of the Hollowed World, something his master had once mentioned in passing. One version of the myth traced its origin back to Jue Bu claiming that one layer of the Underworld had been repurposed as raw material to form this world.

Yet there was a glaring inconsistency.

Jue Bu did not exist here.

Hei Mao was certain of it. He had roamed the world extensively, exploited the vast resources of the Eternal Undeath Cult, and even employed specialized techniques to trace Jue Bu’s resting place or possible reincarnation.

There was nothing.

Hei Mao had never failed to locate an existence before. Someone like Jue Bu should have been impossible to erase so completely.

That absence unsettled him more than any hostile force ever had.

The towering silhouette of the Candle Dragon Palace soon emerged ahead. Its structure twisted upward like a coiled beast, scales of crimson stone reflecting an inner glow that pulsed faintly, as though the palace itself breathed.

Hei Mao closed the journal and returned it to his pocket dimension.

Hei Chang stopped at the entrance and turned.

“Ancestor,” he said respectfully, “the final rite requires you to meet the wise elder of our cult. She is one of the three immortals who still remain.”

Hei Mao nodded, his gaze fixed on the palace doors.

“I understand.”

Hei Chang stepped back, lowering his head.

“I will be waiting outside.”

Hei Mao stepped into the Candle Dragon Palace.

The doors closed behind him without a sound, sealing him within a vast chamber drowned in dim crimson light. Rows upon rows of candles stretched outward in concentric arcs, their flames steady and unmoving, as if frozen in reverence. Each wick burned with a distinct hue, some pale, some vibrant, and some faintly trembling.

Hei Mao understood at once that each candle represented a cultivator of the Eternal Undeath Cult.

Those that burned were the living. Those extinguished had already crossed into undeath.

At the very center of the palace stood an altar of dark stone, its surface smooth, ancient, and unmistakably familiar. Upon it rested a single candle, unlit, sealed beneath a translucent cover etched with formation lines so intricate they made Hei Mao’s eyes ache.

His steps slowed.

A frown creased his brow.

‘Why does this feel… like home?’ he wondered, unease coiling in his chest.

A shadow shifted.

From between the forest of candlelight emerged an old woman. Her back was straight despite her age, her expression utterly emotionless. One of her eyes was a calm, bottomless blue. The other gleamed gold, sharp and unblinking.

She fell to one knee.

“This one greets the Supreme Void,” she said flatly.

Hei Mao stiffened.

“Supreme… Void?” he repeated, confusion flickering through his gaze. The familiarity he felt toward her intensified, turning almost painful. He studied her face, tracing lines carved by time and something far heavier.

A name surfaced unbidden.

“…Yuan Shun?” he asked, doubt threading his voice.

The old woman’s composure shattered.

Tears streamed down her face as she pressed her forehead to the floor. “To think… to think the Supreme Being would remember my name,” she sobbed. “This lowly one is blessed beyond measure.”

Hei Mao’s heart began to pound violently.

‘Impossible,’ his mind screamed.

He knew that name.

This was the same Yuan Shun who had sent him, his master, and the others into that fabricated past, this very world. And yet, she was different. Older. Heavier. As if history itself clung to her bones.

Questions flooded his thoughts.

If this was the real Yuan Shun… then who or what was the Yuan Shun they had interacted with in the Temple?

The old woman lifted her head slightly. “Is there a problem, Supreme Void?”

The world lurched.

In the next instant, her head was gone.

Blood sprayed in a violent arc.

Hei Mao staggered back as warm liquid splashed across his face. He raised a hand, fingers slick and red, eyes widening as the headless body swayed before collapsing onto the stone floor.

From behind the falling corpse, a younger woman stepped forward.

Her appearance mirrored the old woman’s features, but refined, restored, and brimming with malicious vitality. Her eyes gleamed with intelligence and amusement.

“Really,” the younger Yuan Shun sighed, clicking her tongue. “I was certain I’d already killed that fake me.”

Hei Mao wiped the blood from his cheek slowly, his gaze never leaving her.

Yuan Shun smiled. “I never thought this fake would be so sly. Using shadow techniques to erase her presence entirely… and hiding her essence among the candles of life.” Her eyes flicked around the chamber. “Clever, I’ll give her that.”

Hei Mao’s voice hardened. “What are you doing here?”

She laughed softly. “Isn’t it obvious?” Her smile widened. “To stop you from hindering my plans.”

The palace seemed to peel back before Hei Mao’s senses.

With Abyss Sight fully open and Divine Sense unfurled, the truth slammed into him with brutal clarity. This Yuan Shun was not flesh and blood in the traditional sense.

She was a memory, a living imprint sustained by something far greater.

This recorded world of the past was a formation.

And Yuan Shun was its core.

It had persisted for so long, layered upon deception and belief, that none of them had seen through it. ‘We’ve been played,’ Hei Mao realized coldly.

He exhaled, then tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So,” he said lightly, “does your grand plan involve corrupting my master first?”

Yuan Shun’s smile vanished as rage twisted her features as she spat, “He was my master first.”

Hei Mao’s brows lifted in genuine surprise.

“Oh?” he murmured, intrigue flickering in his eyes. He leaned forward slightly, tone turning teasing. “Then you’re even more delusional than I thought.”

Her fury erupted.

Formations ignited across the palace floor, lines of light roaring to life as the candles flared violently. The doors burst open as members of the Eternal Undeath Cult rushed in, their eyes stained black with abyssal corruption, movements stiff and obedient.

Yuan Shun spread her arms wide, laughter echoing through the palace.

“It’s time,” she declared, voice shaking with obsession, “for me to take my place back at my master’s side.”

Hei Mao’s immortal treasure responded before his thoughts fully caught up.

The bloody scarf wrapped around his head ignited with crimson light, unraveling into countless razor-thin strands that spread outward like a living web. The air screamed as shadow projectile spells hurled by the brainwashed cult members were sliced apart mid-flight. Spells collapsed, severed cleanly, dissipating into black mist before they could reach him.

“Damn it all—!” Hei Mao cursed, teeth clenched. “I treated you people nicely!”

His scarf snapped and recoiled, then lashed again.

“How dare you attack your new cult leader?!”

The crimson strings tore through flesh and bone alike. Bodies fell apart in neat, horrifying segments, blood splattering the candlelit floor. Each strike felt like a needle driven straight into his chest.

‘Again… again…’ his heart ached with every kill.

Hei Mao wasn’t so heartless.

He had spent decades in this place. He had eaten with them, spoken with them, laughed with them. He had listened to their fears of death and their hopes for undeath, accepted their faith, their gratitude, their warmth. What began as infiltration, an assignment given by his senior sister, had slowly turned into something real.

They had grown into him.

And now, he was cutting them down.

Hei Mao activated Zealot’s Stride.

His body blurred as a saber whistled past where his neck had been. He pivoted mid-step, narrowly avoiding a sword aimed for his heart, then twisted again as a spear lunged upward from below.

His scarf answered.

Divine Smite surged through the crimson threads, turning them incandescent as they struck. The three attackers died instantly, bodies collapsing without even time to scream.

Yet they kept coming.

Those of utterly lower cultivation threw themselves forward without hesitation, children clutching talismans they couldn’t even activate, elderly cultivators whose qi barely flickered. They charged him in suicidal devotion, eyes empty and blackened by abyssal corruption.

“No, stop!” Hei Mao shouted, leaping backward.

He soared into the sky with Zealot’s Stride, scanning desperately for Yuan Shun.

Then her voice slithered into his ear.

“Hesitating?” she whispered, amused. “How cute. These fakes mean so much to you?”

His pupils shrank.

Before he could react, pain exploded at his back.

Hei Mao lurched forward as two daggers stabbed toward his spine. His scarf instantly coiled around his body, forming a layered armor of blood-red threads. The blades scraped uselessly against it, sparks flying.

Hei Mao twisted around.

Hei Chang stood there, face contorted, veins blackened, eyes swallowed by abyss. His ceremonial robes split apart, revealing a twisted physique pulsing with dark power.

“So it’s you…” Hei Mao hissed. “You’ve been colluding behind my back!”

Hei Chang grinned ferally. “Ancestor? You?” he mocked. “I, the Dark Fiend, shall show you what a true born Hei is capable of.”

Hei Mao’s expression darkened.

Hei Chang was one of the three immortals of the Eternal Undeath Cult, and he’d been moonlighting as someone lesser in order to befriend him just to betray him later.

Hei Mao vanished with Shadow Step and reappeared beneath one of the surrounding buildings, immediately possessing his cat familiar hidden nearby. His vision shifted, low and feral, as he fled through the shadows using a seamless combination of Shadow Step and Flash Step.

For a brief moment, the darkness embraced him.

Then it was torn apart.

A thunderous burst of arrows ripped through the structure above him, obliterating stone and formation arrays alike. The building collapsed in a storm of debris.

Hei Mao burst free, rolling across the ground as arrows embedded themselves around him with terrifying precision.

He looked up.

Yan Jiahao hovered in the distance, bow drawn, expression cold and ancient. The old man’s presence distorted the air itself.

“The Phantasmal Archer…” Hei Mao muttered.

The remaining cult members surged forward like mindless undead, heedless of death.

Hei Mao released his familiar.

The cat roared as it expanded rapidly, growing to the size of a building, fur bristling with shadow and qi. It slammed itself between Hei Mao and the incoming tide, claws and fists moving in brutal, refined martial forms.

Hei Mao landed on its shoulder. ‘No more running,’ he thought. ‘If it’s a fight you want, then a fight you shall have.’

He inhaled deeply.

Qi churned violently within his dantian as he began preparing his Immortal Art. Abyss Sight opened fully. Shadow Song hummed through his meridians. His master’s teachings surfaced in perfect clarity.

Qi clashed with mana.

They resisted each other, and then merged.

Pain lanced through his body as they were refined, compressed, transformed into something higher.

Quintessence.

Hei Mao dodged another violent shadow flurry from Hei Chang, cloak snapping in the air as dark blades grazed past him. Below, his familiar roared and punched apart cultists by the dozen, shadow and flesh scattering alike.

Yan Jiahao released his bowstring.

A hundred pillars of shadow arrows screamed toward him, each one flickering with afterimages so dense that even Hei Mao’s eyes spun trying to track them.

Hei Mao steadied himself.

His voice cut through the chaos, calm and absolute.

“Immortal Art—”

The world seemed to hold its breath.

“Nether Gate Summoning Chant.”

In Hei Mao’s vision, the world peeled open.

A red torii gate manifested within his eyes, towering and absolute, its lacquered pillars drenched in shadow and bloodlight. Beneath it, unseen fingers strummed a seven-stringed plucked zither. The sound did not travel through air. Instead, it vibrated directly through causality, through fate itself. Each note bent the world slightly out of alignment.

Yan Jiahao’s hundred arrows became a thousand. A thousand fractured into afterimages so dense that even immortals would be shredded trying to follow them.

Hei Mao stepped once.

The ground folded beneath his foot as Zealot’s Stride activated, and the arrows passed through where he had been, not missing him so much as failing to ever intersect with his existence. Space corrected itself a heartbeat later, confused and resentful.

Hei Mao exhaled.

“Divine Word: Rest.”

The word descended like a decree.

Cultists mid-charge collapsed where they stood. Weapons slipped from limp fingers. Even abyss-corrupted eyes softened as consciousness fled them. Bodies slumped against pillars, fell face-first onto blood-slick stone, or simply folded into sleep where they stood.

Silence bloomed.

Only two presences resisted the command.

Yan Jiahao remained hovering in the distance, bow trembling slightly in his grip. Hei Chang staggered but did not fall, daggers humming angrily as abyssal energy surged to compensate.

Hei Mao felt the zither’s tempo changing.

Faster.

Sharper.

Hei Chang vanished, removed from perception. Hei Mao’s familiar snarled, massive shadow-form twisting as Hei Chang reappeared inside its guard.

Two daggers flashed once.

There was no prolonged struggle. No heroic resistance.

The blades pierced precisely through the core of the familiar’s condensed shadow-heart, abyssal techniques drilling through layered defenses in a single, perfect strike. The gigantic form froze, and then shattered into dispersing shadow mist.

Hei Mao felt a painful and emotional loss as his breath hitched for the briefest fraction of a second.

The zither screamed.

Hei Mao’s bloody scarf reacted instantly, unraveling and reforming around him. Crimson threads layered over arms, legs, torso, and chest, hardening, overlapping, sealing into articulated plates.

“Divine Word,” Hei Mao said, eyes burning beneath the torii’s gaze. “Life.”

The scarf answered.

It pulsed, drank in qi, mana, and shadow simultaneously. The armor darkened from red to near-black, veins of living crimson crawling across its surface like musculature. It tightened, synchronized, and breathed.

It was no longer armor.

It was skin.

Hei Mao vanished in a burst of Zealot’s Stride, rushing Yan Jiahao head-on.

The Phantasmal Archer’s pupils shrank. He fled instantly, space folding beneath his feet as he retreated at impossible speed. Even as he fled, he drew and released. A pillar of condensed energy erupted from his bow, a beam so dense it bored through formations, buildings, and the air itself.

Hei Mao raised a hand.

“Divine Word: Raise.”

His shadow tore itself free.

It rose from the ground behind him, stretching, thickening, distorting, and then stood. A feral shadow cat formed, jaws split with endless teeth, eyes burning with abyssal starlight. Hei Mao poured his Immortal Art into it without hesitation.

The beam struck.

The shadow beast intercepted it, jaws closing around the attack as if biting down on lightning. The impact shook the palace grounds, but the beam vanished into darkness, devoured whole.

Hei Mao did not look back.

“Divine Word,” he said again, quieter this time. “Life.”

Shadow gathered.

From the being of his resurrected familiar, a new shape compressed violently. It was smaller, denser, and refined. Limbs elongated. A humanoid form emerged, feminine in silhouette yet unmistakably monstrous, muscles coiled with condensed shadow. Catlike eyes snapped open, feral and loyal.

She landed beside him without a word.

Hei Chang struck again, aimed for Hei Mao’s spine.

Hei Mao ignored him, leaning on utter speed to leave Hei Chang to dust.

He surged forward, rushing Yan Jiahao with reckless intent, while his familiar matched him stride for stride. Behind them, shadow projectiles erupted, sometimes from Hei Mao, sometimes from the familiar, forcing Hei Chang to abandon pursuit again and again as blades of darkness screamed back toward him.

The zither’s rhythm became frantic.

Yan Jiahao fired relentlessly.

Arrow after arrow, illusion layered upon illusion.

Hei Mao responded with Castling.

One moment he was on the left and the next, his familiar stood there instead. Then they swapped again mid-stride, positions blurring, confusing even an immortal’s battle sense. Arrows pierced shadows, struck false targets, and detonated harmlessly behind them.

They closed the distance.

“Now,” Hei Mao said.

His familiar reached out and placed a hand against his back.

“Divine Possession.”

She dissolved.

Shadow poured into Hei Mao’s body, merging seamlessly. His armor smoothed, flowing into a robe-like form as his muscles compressed and layered with inhuman density. Black patterns spread across his skin. Cat-like ears rose behind his head, and a long, sinuous tail unfurled, cracking the air as it moved.

Power surged, complete.

Hei Mao vanished as Zealot’s Stride and Flash Step detonated together.

He reappeared in front of Yan Jiahao.

Claws formed from condensed shadow and quintessence swept once.

“Shadow Smite.”

Yan Jiahao’s head left his shoulders before realization could dawn. His body continued flying forward for several meters before collapsing midair, immortality shattering like glass.

Hei Mao was already gone as Shadow Step carried him behind Hei Chang.

The zither cut off mid-note.

Hei Chang turned, eyes widening, and Hei Mao’s claws passed through his neck in a single, silent arc. Two heads struck the ground almost simultaneously. Both immortals fell. They did not rise again. Perfect Immortals, stripped to their base forms, possessed only a single layer of immortality. Hei Mao’s Immortal Art crushed that layer outright, leaving nothing behind to regenerate from.

Silence flooded the battlefield.

Hei Mao stood still, breath slow, power humming beneath his skin. The torii gate in his eyes slowly faded. The zither’s frantic strumming softened… then stopped entirely.

He looked down at the fallen heads.

“I’m sorry,” Hei Mao said quietly.

His voice carried neither triumph nor mockery.

“In another lifetime,” he murmured, “we probably would’ve been friends.”

No one answered.

The zither died away, and the world held its breath.