Devourer of Sins

The wind changed that morning.

Not in the way of storms or seasons, but in something subtler—a ripple beneath the skin of the world, quiet enough to make the birds fall silent. The farmers didn't speak of it, but their eyes lingered too long on the tree line. The dogs stayed still. Even the children, usually reckless with energy, remained indoors.

He felt it before the sun fully rose. Sitting at the breakfast table with his son and daughter quietly eating porridge, he paused mid-spoonful. The air shifted. His fingers twitched. His eyes narrowed.

They were here.

Not demons.

Not shadows.

Cultivators.

Old ones.

The kind who wore their qi like a second skin and smiled like foxes in a henhouse.

By noon, three strangers entered the village.

Their robes were simple, unmarked. No ornate embroidery. No obvious weapons. No aggressive aura. But he knew better.

The man in the center smiled with his mouth, but not his eyes. His hands bore the faint shimmer of sword-calluses. His cultivation was sealed—barely. Just enough to pass as a mid-tier traveler. Beneath that surface?

Monstrous.

The woman to his left was worse.

She gave off nothing at all. Not a flicker. Not a breath of spirit.

A void in the world.

And voids didn't form naturally.

The third was younger. Early twenties, clean-shaven, bright-eyed. He walked with open curiosity and wore an innocent grin.

But his step…

His step was trained.

This one was bait.

They made their presence known. Knocking on doors. Asking harmless questions.

"Any disturbances lately?"

"Any strange visitors?"

"Unusual talent among the children, perhaps?"

Always polite. Always smiling.

But they weren't here to investigate.

They were here to confirm.

And to collect.

He watched them from the shadows, sipping tea on the bakery's rooftop, cloaked in stillness so absolute the birds didn't notice him. Neither did the strangers.

Except once.

The young man paused. Looked toward him.

Frowned.

Then kept walking.

Interesting.

By dusk, they arrived at his home.

He let them knock. Let them ask. Even welcomed them inside.

The older man's smile twitched when he saw the humble interior—the plain walls, the scent of fresh rice, the complete absence of spiritual artifacts.

He introduced himself as Master Li from the Southern Crest Sect.

A lie.

The woman said nothing.

The young man bowed to the children and offered them sweets.

They didn't take them.

He noted that with a flicker of amusement.

"We've received reports of unusual qi signatures," Li said, tone pleasant. "Just a routine matter. We'd like the children to perform a basic test. Nothing invasive."

His daughter's fists tightened beneath the table.

His son lowered his gaze.

He placed his cup down with slow precision.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible."

Li's smile didn't fade, but his gaze sharpened.

"Oh?"

"They're not cultivators. Never trained. They won't respond."

Li leaned forward slightly.

"Still, you seem… practiced. Perhaps you could demonstrate instead?"

His wife placed a hand gently over his.

He looked at her. Then back at Li.

And smiled.

"I'm afraid I'm retired."

A beat passed.

The air grew dense.

Not hostile—yet. But filled with potential.

Then Li relaxed.

"A shame. We'll be staying in the village for a few days. I trust that won't be a problem."

"Not at all," he replied evenly. "Enjoy your stay."

They stood to leave.

But just before the door shut, the young man turned.

Met his eyes.

And said, "You've changed your face. But not your scent."

Then he was gone.

He sat there for a long time after.

Saying nothing.

His wife didn't press. The children had gone to bed, though he knew they weren't asleep.

Eventually, he rose and stepped into the backyard.

He waited.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

Then a shadow detached from the trees.

"I was wondering when you'd come out," said a voice he hadn't heard in three hundred years.

He turned.

Jian Yun stood before him.

An old ally.

A betrayer.

He looked older—not aged, but weathered. His robes were clean, his left arm bound in silver spiritual cloth.

A cursed limb.

"I never thought I'd find you playing house," Jian said. "Didn't even kill them. The Kamazaki I knew would've gutted them at the gate."

He said nothing.

Jian chuckled. "You're not here for pleasantries."

"No," Jian admitted. "I'm here to warn you."

"How noble."

"They're from the Eternal Sky Pavilion. Not Southern Crest. They're not investigating. They're hunting."

"I figured."

"But they're not after you. Not exactly."

His gaze turned cold.

"…The children."

"They suspect. Maybe one, maybe both. And you know what they do to hybrid bloodlines."

He knew.

Jian tossed a jade slip. It hovered in the air.

"Coordinates. Sanctuary. If you want to leave, now's the time."

He didn't take it.

Jian frowned. "You think you can fight them all? Keep hiding?"

"I'm not hiding," he said quietly.

"Then what?"

"I'm warning them."

"…Warning?"

He looked to the sky. Past the clouds. Beyond the upper realm.

"They think I'm still sleeping."

Jian swallowed.

"I thought you were."

"You were wrong."

That night, he climbed the old watchtower on the ridge.

Alone.

He stared at the stars, then deeper.

And spoke.

Not aloud.

With his soul.

The sound echoed through the realms—thunder wrapped in flame, carried by the bones of the world.

It passed through sacred halls and ruined temples.

Reached every cultivator who'd once feared his name.

Every demon who bore his scars.

Every so-called hero who failed to end him.

"To the Eternal Sky Pavilion: You dare set eyes upon my blood? Come, then. But if a single hair on their heads is harmed— I will burn your heavens to cinders."

In the Pavilion's inner sanctum, Sect Leader Yun snapped out of meditation, drenched in sweat.

He wasn't the only one.

All of Heaven's eyes turned that day.

Not toward war.

Not toward conquest.

But toward something they had long prayed was dead.

The Glutton of the Abyss…

Was awake.