Reborn as a Demonic Tree

Chapter 427: Hospitality

Sullivan felt it—everyone did. He was startled awake out of his drunken slumber. His darkened room on the top floor of his brothel reeked of booze, sweat, and sorrow hung in the air. He had returned here a mess after losing his cultivation due to being mind-controlled by Vincent Nightrose.

”Ugh,” he groaned as he rolled over on a heap of clothes on the floor beside his bed. He blinked the stars out of his eyes and squinted at the stained bed.

I must have rolled out of it during my sleep. Ugh, I feel so weak.

His stomach growled loudly, and his throat felt parched.

”Fuck,” he cursed out loud, ”I have to eat and drink so often now—itʼs exhausting.”

It was almost unheard of for a cultivator to be reduced to a mortal and survive. Now plagued by hunger and thirst, which he was unused to, he was a wreck. He also had to sleep for hours, yet no matter how much he slept, he constantly felt exhausted, and if his runny nose was anything to judge, heʼd gotten sick.

Grumbling in pain and self-pity, he pushed himself up and staggered to his feet. He couldnʼt stay wallowing away on the floor. The feeling gripping the air that had awoken him was worsening like a rising tide gathering at his feet and threatening to swallow him.

He stumbled through the dark room, his arms searching before him. He felt blind since losing the spiritual perception he had enjoyed so much as a cultivator. ”Curse the fucking heavens,” he swore as he nearly tripped on random piles of clothes and tipped over furniture he had taken his frustrations out on.

Eventually, he made it to the window. With an annoyed huff, he placed his palms on the windowsill and stared outside with bloodshot eyes. The storm outside obscured much of the world in a blanket of grey clouds and cascading rain, but standing out like a beacon in the distance was him—the overlord of the region and, as he had come to learn, the leader of the Ashfallen Sect.

The treeʼs vast canopy, visible over a mirage that obscured most of the peak, was enraged. Divine energy in the form of golden lightning crackled between its branches, illuminating the sky. ”What is this feeling hanging in the air like the coming of doom. Did something happen?” Sullivan let out a shaky breath.

Tearing his eyes away from the enraged godly being, he looked down at the street and noticed many people either looking through windows if they had them or peeking through half-closed doors.

”So I wasnʼt the only one who felt his wrath,” Sullivan mused as he searched the peopleʼs expressions. Fear, worry, and sadness haunted everyone he saw. Their eyes were darkened, their posture drooped, and a smile couldnʼt be seen.

Sullivan understood their pain.

Darklight City would never be the same after the night of slaughter. Millions had died that night, leaving behind broken families. There were missing elder brothers, cute little sisters, kind old grandparents, annoying neighbors, and hard-working shop owners—everyone had lost someone they knew or loved. The night of slaughter spared nobody from death or a lifetime of grief.

”Itʼs the ordinary people who suffer the most when gods fight,” Sullivan muttered to himself a saying as old as time itself as he looked at Red Vine Peak again. ”The lives of the many are dictated by the powerful few. I wanted to be one of them once, to stand at the peak and be seen as a god.”

He shook his head. Every time he closed his eyes, he was haunted by that all-encompassing eye that had stared into his soul. Humans, whether cultivators or not, didnʼt have a chance to fight against that.

”Thankfully, we donʼt have to,” Sullivan whispered as the heavens seemingly tremble overhead under the treeʼs rage. That godly tree was one of the few who used their power to benefit others. Ignoring the giving away of pills that gave mortals access to cultivation or the city they built to house mortals. For Sullivan, he trusted the overlord because they didnʼt have to save him from Vincentʼs control, but they did.

Sullivan believed that compassion is why the general population still seemed to hold faith in the Ashfallen Sect and the All-Seeing Eye despite the tragedy. It also helped that the people werenʼt kept in the dark like usual and were actually offered an explanation for the incident.

Vincent Nightrose, ruler of the Blood Lotus Sect, had infected people and used them as pawns against the Ashfallen Sect during an assault. Vincent Nightrose was declared defeated, but the infected people could not be saved.

Sullivan knew the last part was a lie—he was living proof. But having been a cultivator once, he knew how much effort saving just himself must have been. It was impressive that the Ashfallen Sect had managed to keep the casualties only to the infected rather than simply blasting the entire city.

How the infected died was not specified to the people, but Sullivan knew. After Stella saved him, the girl went elsewhere, and the godly tree ignored him. So Sullivan decided to escape. During his descent from Red Vine Peak to return home, he witnessed horrors he would never forget. The crazed people rushing up the mountain ran into an army of armored monsters in service to the Ashfallen Sect. Despite being outnumbered thousands to one, these tiny monsters slaughtered the humans with ruthless efficiency and even devoured them whole.

With no hope of making his way through the horde alive with his cultivation stripped, he had asked the monsters to assist him in getting down the mountain. To his surprise, they happily agreed to help.

As they reached the foot of the mountain, the horde of crazed people coming up from Darklight City suddenly crumpled to the forest floor like puppets cut from their strings—dead. Their souls having collapsed from having too much foreign Qi pumped into them.

Sullivan still vividly remembered walking through a sea of corpses to get home. By morning, they had all disappeared as if it had all been a terrible dream. Yet the scars of that night could still be seen and felt through the city.

For example, the bakery opposite his brothel, a favorite for his customers, now stood empty. The pot-bellied owner was nowhere to be seen. Stale bread, hard as stone and speckled with mold, lined the windowsill, and the shopʼs door had been left ajar. It creaked on its hinges, and there was a constant thump as the gale threw it around and banged into the shopʼs wall.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

”I never bothered to try his bread, I regret that now...” Sullivan trailed off as he looked at the house next door. Peeking out from the darkness of the house was a lone mother.

He knew her—had even been told her name. But he hadnʼt bothered to remember it. As a cultivator, he hadnʼt given a shit about a mortalʼs life story—how she had a loving husband who had grown sick or two kids that she needed to feed. Heʼd tuned out her sob story and had only cared about her body and face and whether or not she would bring in customers to his brothel. She had asked for a receptionist job, but he had turned her down and kicked her out. Shouting in her face and demanding that she grovel before him.

As he recalled how terribly he had treated her and saw her hollow expression, a feeling like never before welled up inside him. Perhaps it was the rage and despair radiating from the godly tree and blanketing the land, or maybe it was everything about the last few weeks hitting at once. But strength left his legs, and he collapsed against the wall. The corner of his eye dampened, and a warm tear trickled down his cheek.

”I...” his nails dug into his skin as he gripped his chest. ”Iʼm such a pathetic bastard. Feeling sorry for myself and wallowing in self-pity because Iʼm not special or powerful anymore? Because Iʼve been reduced to a ʼmereʼ mortal.” His voice came out in rasps as his head pounded from dehydration, but he didnʼt give a shit. ”I looked down on mortals, thinking they were weak and lesser as if I was some heavens chosen. But it was I who was weak. Without borrowed power flowing through my veins, haha... ” he wanted to scream, ”I canʼt even take fucking care of myself. I need to wake the fuck up—”

He slapped himself. It was like a resounding thunderclap through the dark room—the pain woke him up a second later. He inhaled sharply as his eyes widened. This is what it felt like to be alive. Screw those years of meditating on the heavens worthless whispers. This feeling, this mortal pain in his cheek, was divine enlightenment. He felt reborn.

For too long, he had been chasing power out of fear. The fear of death. But now that he had been reduced back to a mortal, he finally realized the beauty of knowing it would come to an end.

Death comes for us all eventually. What truly matters is how you live and how you are remembered. A shaky chuckle escaped his bloodied lips as he got to his feet and strode through his room with renewed vigor. His back was straight, his stride long and filled with purpose. He kicked the piles of clothes out of the way until he reached the only piece of furniture that hadnʼt been overturned during his earlier rage.

It was a desk, and on its surface was a lone bowl cradling a bundle of fruits and a truffle. Stella had given them to him when he had lost his cultivation and promised they would help him, but he had been too self-absorbed in self-pity to bother.

He didnʼt eat them. Instead, he picked the bowl up and left his room. The hallway and following staircases were empty, every one of his guests and workers having succumbed to Vincentʼs blood pills. He had thought he had nothing left. His business was gone, as was his cultivation and status.

But as it turned out, there was one last thing.

When he opened the door of his brothel, a blast of cold wind hit him in the face. Courageously stepping out into the fierce wind and rain, he strode through the mud barefoot and approached the womanʼs house.

She looked at him, making his way toward her with an understandable mixture of fear and confusion.

”Master Sullivan, I...” she said as he reached her doorway.

Sullivan dropped to his knees with a wet squelch, causing her eyes to widen.

”Madam,” he paused as he steeled his heart, ”May I know your name?”

”M-My name?” she seemed baffled, ”W-Why...”

”Your name,” he insisted as he looked up and stared into her tear-stricken face, ”You told me once, but I was a self-absorbed fool who didnʼt bother remembering it.”

”My name isnʼt important—”

”It is!” Sullivan shouted to the ground, ”You are important, as is your name. What is it, Madam? Please tell me. Please. Iʼm begging you. Tell me one more time.”

At this point, the woman had taken several steps away from the door. Sullivanʼs head was drooped, his eyes set on the floor. The freezing rain pelted his back, and his shins went numb. As he thought, the woman wouldnʼt tell him again.

”Itʼs Mary.”

A surprised gasp escaped his lips. Sullivan slowly looked up.

”My name is Mary, Master Sullivan.”

”Mary. Mary...” he played with the name, savoring every syllable. ”What a beautiful name you have.” He held out the bowl of fruits and truffles he had been shielding. ”Please take these.”

”What are these?” Mary asked as she carefully took them from his frozen hands.

”The last thing I have,” Sullivan felt a massive weight lift from his shoulder as he stood, ”and an apology for how terribly I treated you.” He turned his back to the confused woman. ”Mary. I will carve that name into my soul and never forget. Though, please forget mine. Iʼm no master. I led a terrible life that isnʼt worth remembering.”

He left Mary behind and ventured into the rain. With the final burden of his past life as a cultivator gone, he walked forward without aim or purpose. He was now a mortal with nothing to his name. If he were to fall dead here, nobody would miss or grieve him. He looked up at the gloomy skies as his body shook from the cold.

Now, I can finally move on. Live out my days as a mortal, however many that may be, and die with nobody remembering me for good or bad.

”Mr Sullivan!”

Surprised, he looked behind him to see a lone woman bundled in robes running toward him through the storm. Is that Mary? He ran over to her, ”What are you doing out here?! Youʼre going to get cold.”

”Ha,” she kneeled over for a moment to catch her breath before looking up at him, ”I could say the same to you.”

”But youʼre a mortal—”

”And so are you now, right?” She gave him a sad smile. ”I saw the eyes of my husband before he passed. The human spirit knows when its time has come, and I see that in you now.” She grabbed his hand—hers were warm. ”Come with me. This city has experienced too much death to lose another. Iʼll make us a cup of tea, and we can have a chat.”

”Is it poisoned?” Sullivan said as a half-joke. After all he had done to her, he wouldnʼt have blamed the woman for drugging and robbing him. Not that he had anything left.

Mary laughed for what looked like the first time in a while, ”Donʼt be ridiculous. Us mortals arenʼt nearly as ruthless as you cultivators... on second thought, I suppose we can be sometimes. But serious, please do come.”

Sullivan shook his head and stood rooted in place, ”I could never accept such hospitality.”

Mary wasnʼt taking no for an answer and tugged on his arm with surprising strength, ”I canʼt finish those fruits on my own.”

”I got those fruits as a gift from the Princess of Ashfallen,” Sullivan explained, ”Eating them will restore my cultivation and turn me back into a monster. Iʼd rather not.”

Mary paused her tugging, and while looking deep into his eyes, she cupped his cheek with her palm and rubbed his face with her thumb. ”Would a monster cry knowing it has hurt another?”

Sullivan blinked at her words.

”You are not a monster, Sullivan, and the power of cultivation isnʼt inherently evil,” she smiled, ”What matters is how you use it.”

Sullivan let Mary drag him through the rain as he processed her words. He wasnʼt sure why, but he felt his gaze once again land on the godly tree lording over the land.

Despite working for the enemy and distributing so many blood pills that he was likely responsible for thousands of broken families, they had made an effort to save him with their godly powers, and now this lone mortal woman he used to look down on and treat like trash had saved him.

The power to kill and destroy was reserved for the strong, but now he realized that the truly strong were those who could save others. It had taken him to lose everything to learn this truth.

If there was someone who didnʼt deserve to live, it was him. Yet, out of the sea of bodies, he alone stood tall.

He broke out into laughter.

”Whatʼs so funny?” Mary asked over her shoulder.

”Life,” Sullivan replied, feeling sentimental. ”Everyone calls it a gift, yet itʼs the one thing we all take for granted until we are shown how valuable it really is.”