Chronicles of the Blood Demon

—It's a shame we can't take it with us. Can you imagine what kind of treasures might be inside?—one of Xu Tianrong's men murmured, his gaze fixed on the ring resting in Long Qiang's cold hand.

—Yes, a real shame—replied another, with a bitter smile—But that bastard implanted a protective star. A cautious man until the end, huh, leader?

Xu Tianrong didn't respond. His back remained stiff, facing away from them. Where an electrifying emotion had once shone, now there was only an overwhelming void. It wasn't the first time he'd felt it.

The euphoria that came with each victory faded quickly, leaving behind that familiar, crushing abyss: a cold echo of all the lives he'd taken, of the suffering he'd witnessed.

—At least we could take the ring. It's still a great treasure—another insisted, his tone barely restrained—Surely someone would pay a fortune for something that belonged to a hero.

—Yes, maybe there's a way to release the seal...

Before he could finish, Xu Tianrong turned sharply, his piercing gaze falling on the man. His voice cut through the air like the edge of a sword:

—Don't even think about it!—he growled, with a coldness that froze the blood of everyone—Leave everything here. None of this man's belongings must cross into the lands of "Yǒng Tiān Shān Mài." If even one of those objects crosses that border… that person will know. And we will all pay with our lives.

The air grew dense, as if an invisible shadow enveloped them. The implicit threat in Xu Tianrong's words was deadlier than any weapon. At the sound of it, a chill ran down the spines of his men. No one would dare challenge him. Provoking "that person" was something no sane man would do.

—Leave everything and let's go—Xu Tianrong ordered, his voice sharp and firm—If I find out someone disobeyed… I'll kill them myself. Understood?

—Yes, leader!—they answered in unison, terrified.

Without another word, Xu Tianrong vanished like a shadow, leaving the village enveloped in ashes and silence.

There was a time when laughter filled the air and life flowed serenely through the streets of the village. Families, neighbors, and friends—all united under the same sky—enjoyed peaceful days, as if nothing could shatter that harmony. But that tranquility was broken in a single night, undone by a tragedy no one could have imagined.

Hours before the massacre, the village had been preparing for one of its most sacred days: the Jade Firefly Festival. Each year, a swarm of these luminous insects descended on the lake, tinting the darkness with a green glow that seemed straight out of a dream. Although it was a recurring event, its magic never lost its impact.

To the villagers, it was a gift from nature, an ephemeral dance that connected humans and fireflies in a symphony of hope and joy.

The village was dressed in colors; laughter echoed everywhere, and children ran barefoot through the preparations, their hearts light. Everything was ready for the celebration.

However, instead of music, that night only screams were heard. Instead of festive lights, flames consumed the homes. Where there had once been life, now only death reigned.

At the top of the mountain, the rain fell silently, extinguishing the last embers. It was as if the sky were crying for the fallen, each drop a lament for those who were no longer there. The water washed away the blood, but it could not erase the pain.

Nature's tears caressed the lifeless bodies, bringing a somber peace, while the moon, shy between the clouds, illuminated the devastated landscape. Under its pale glow, the village seemed lonelier than ever, plunged into a deathly silence.

From the south, a faint mist began to slip over the village. It was nothing more than the jade firefly swarm, faithful to their annual appointment, floating among the ruins. Their lights flickered delicately, but this time, they brought no joy.

As they crossed the deserted streets, their green flashes seemed to dim, as if they sensed the absence of those who had once greeted them with wonder and laughter.

Though small and fragile, the jade fireflies were not mere insects. Thanks to their connection with natural energy, they possessed an intelligence that allowed them to perceive human emotions. As they danced among the ruins, their hearts vibrated with an inexplicable pain, as though they understood the tragedy that surrounded them.

Their tiny lights touched the remnants of the houses, the motionless bodies, as if in their ethereal flight, they wanted to offer a comfort they could not give.

That dance, which in previous years had been a celebration of life, had turned into a silent elegy.

A tribute to those who had once welcomed them as friends, not as strange creatures.

Instead of heading to the lake as was tradition, the fireflies ascended into the sky. There, forming a circle around the village, they traced figures in the air, as if their movements were whispers dedicated to the souls that had been extinguished.

Their lights, once vibrant, now flickered weakly, reflecting a grief that words could not express. And though no one watched their dance, the fireflies continued, as if they knew it was their duty to pay tribute to those who were no longer there.

In the end, the jade fireflies ascended even higher, disappearing into the firmament. Their tiny lights merged with the stars, slowly fading in a dance that exuded sorrow and memories. A silent tribute, a farewell full of melancholy… a spectacle that, unfortunately, no one would be there to witness.

Every year, their dance concluded with a ritual known to the villagers: they descended the mountain, leaving a trail of sparkling flashes, while the villagers bid them farewell with smiles and words of gratitude. But this time, the descent was different. There were no applause, no promises of a new meeting.

Only the cold wind and the silence of death accompanied their departure.

Before beginning their journey back, the fireflies paused, gazing at what remained of the village. Slowly, they began to descend, though their lights, symbols of joy in other times, now seemed dimmer.

They flew with a heaviness that reflected the tragedy that had tainted the air. It was as if they wanted to stop, as if they were waiting for someone to appear to guide them, to dance once more by their side.

As they moved forward, their faint flashes illuminated the motionless bodies and the ruins the massacre had left in its wake. The fireflies, who had once brought life and light to that place, were now witnesses to its extinction.

Their tiny hearts, capable of perceiving human emotion, seemed to shrink in sorrow. Each movement seemed like a farewell, a recognition that this time, their departure would be final.

When they reached the river that descended from the mountain, the mist that covered it dispersed, revealing something unexpected: a faint flame, nearly extinguished. Beside the stream, a young man lay, a sword pierced through his back.

His body was shattered, on the brink of death, but a spark of life still flickered inside him, faint and fragile like the very fireflies surrounding him.

Bai Xuebing, the last survivor of his home, barely breathed. His heart beat in a weak, nearly imperceptible rhythm, like a distant echo amidst the devastation. His face was empty, devoid of expression, and his mind seemed lost in an abyss of unconsciousness, disconnected from everything he had once known.

The jade fireflies, feeling something special as they surrounded the young man, who had once shared laughter and dances with them under the starry sky, could not ignore the last vestige of that friendship. The memory of those moments ignited a small flame in their essence.

With unparalleled delicacy, the fireflies began to surround Bai Xuebing's body. One by one, they poured their energy into him, enveloping him in their soft, nostalgic glow. Their lights, now tinged with melancholy, flickered like a reflection of their sorrow. The fatal wounds began to close slowly, his torn skin repaired with an ethereal glow, and the spark of life inside him grew stronger.

It was a miracle, a gesture born from the compassion of these tiny creatures. Not only were they healing Bai Xuebing, but they were doing so in honor of those who could no longer be there. Each flash of light was a silent tribute, a promise that the memory of the village would not be forgotten.

Time seemed to stop as life returned to the young man. A gentle breeze brushed his face, and with each renewed beat of his heart, the world began to take shape once more.

Bai Xuebing slowly opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was a firefly delicately perched on his hand. Its jade light shone faintly, but in that moment, it seemed to hold the entire starry sky.

—I'm still... alive... 

Around him, the other fireflies floated in silence, their lights pulsing with a melancholic glow. They shared a collective sigh of relief: they had managed to save him, but only him. The surrounding devastation hung heavy in the air, and that small triumph offered little more than a fleeting comfort. 

The firefly on his hand began to move, tracing a circle around him. Each movement was careful, as if inspecting his body, evaluating the healed wounds and confirming that the spark of life inside him was stable. 

Satisfied, it rose toward the sky, joining the flight of the others. Together, the fireflies drifted away from the place they once called home, carrying with them a fleeting flash of peace and leaving behind an unfathomable emptiness. 

Bai Xuebing watched as the small lights disappeared into the morning mist, fading along with the darkness of the night. His body, though healed, still carried the weight of a damage that couldn't be fixed. The mortal wound that had pierced him was now just a memory, the sword that had nearly killed him was gone, but something inside him remained broken. 

His hesitant gaze turned back, and in an instant, the pain struck him with relentless force. The sun peeked timidly over the horizon, casting its golden light upon the scene of the massacre. The bodies of his brothers, or what was left of them, lay motionless on the blood-soaked ground. The grass, once green and vibrant, was now stained red, mingling with the scars of the tragedy that had shattered his world. 

His heart began to race, each beat stronger, more agonizing. His eyes widened, unable to tear themselves away from that infernal vision. The air thickened in his throat; his breath, labored and shallow, suffocated him. Finally, a heart-wrenching roar burst from deep within him. 

The scream echoed through the mountain, a cry of despair that seemed to tear the sky apart. His voice, broken and furious, was released with such intensity that it made his body tremble and forced him to spit blood. Bai Xuebing collapsed to his knees, shattered, consumed by an impotence that burned his soul as the dawn lit the corpses of his family with cruel indifference. 

With trembling hands, he crawled toward the lifeless bodies of his brothers. He embraced them desperately, clinging to them as though he could hold onto what had already been taken away. His tears fell onto their cold, lifeless flesh, soaking his clothes as his mind refused to accept the truth. 

—Please, wake up!— he screamed, his voice broken by sobs, his words choked by desperate gasps. —This isn't real... It has to be a dream! When I wake up, everything will be okay. My father will be hunting in the forest... my brothers will be here, sleeping... and the village...— his voice cracked completely—...the village will be full of life. 

He clung to the lifeless bodies, hoping that the warmth of his desperation could revive them, that his will could break the chains of death. But the cold was unyielding, and reality, indifferent. 

All that remained was silence, a silence that seemed to mock his hope. 

The blood on his hands was undeniable. Red and viscous, it slipped through his fingers as the sun, indifferent to his suffering, poured its light over a landscape of death. Bai Xuebing released the bodies, his hands still trembling. His brothers lay with frozen faces, expressions of terror and suffering etched upon them. The weight of the emptiness took hold of him. 

Something inside Bai Xuebing finally broke. Tears flowed in torrents as his body was wracked with spasms of anguish. He screamed again, a roar that echoed through the mountain, filling the air with his fury and sorrow. 

The earth seemed to respond. The branches of the trees cracked, the birds flew away in fear, and the wind blew with a lament that seemed to understand his pain. Bai Xuebing looked up to the sky, his face covered in tears and blood. 

—Why...? Why am I still alive...?— he whispered, his voice ragged, each word heavy with rage and despair. 

But there was no answer, only the echo of his own voice, reverberating in the abyss of his solitude. 

He screamed until his voice faded, and his tears ceased to flow. He was empty, a hollow shell, unable to offer anything more to the weight of his pain. With a dull gaze, he slowly rose from the ground.

Without saying a word, he gathered the remains of his brother, fragments scattered after the explosion. Every piece of flesh, every trace of what once was, he gathered near the intact body of his other brother. There was no urgency in his movements, only a cold, mechanical routine.

With the remains wrapped in his own clothing, he carried them on his back, forming a grotesque bundle. On the other side, his brother's entire body rested on his shoulder. Without a sigh, without a flicker of emotion, Bai Xuebing began to walk.

His ascent up the mountain was relentless, his body moving as if fatigue had been erased by the devastation consuming him. When he reached the summit, he stopped in front of the battlefield his father had left behind. A huge crater cut through the mountain, surrounded by broken bodies; some were barely bloodstains blending with the earth.

—What happened here?— he murmured, his voice barely an echo in the cold wind.

His eyes, still vacant, wandered over the remains. He recognized the tunics of the corpses: the same ones worn by the killers of his family. The heron flying aloft, embroidered on each garment, seemed to mock him, a curse impossible to ignore.

He walked slowly among the shattered bodies, his gaze sliding carefully until it stopped at a point. A white tunic, soaked in blood, lay under the weight of a sword buried in the chest.

Bai Xuebing approached, his breath held. I recognize it.

—Father...— he whispered, and his lips trembled as his knees buckled before the lifeless body.

He fell next to the bodies of his brothers, his hands reaching out desperately to touch it, to feel one last trace of warmth. But all he found was coldness.

The air seemed to stop; even the wind, once constant, chose to be silent.

With a slow and solemn movement, Bai Xuebing withdrew the sword that pierced his father's heart and let it fall to the side. Then, without strength, he collapsed onto the bloodstained chest, whispering broken words that vanished into the void.

—Forgive me... I couldn't protect them.

His voice, barely a murmur, was lost in the silence, cast into the void with no hope of response. Bai Xuebing curled up next to his father's cold body, like a child seeking refuge in arms that could no longer offer comfort.

The cold of death wrapped around him, but he did not pull away. He closed his eyes, clinging to that final contact, knowing he would never again feel the warmth of those who used to protect him.

He remained like that, motionless, until exhaustion overcame him. He slept next to the bodies of his family, as they once did under the same roof, huddled against the night's chill. But this time, warmth only existed in memories, a distant echo of a life that had faded.

He woke at noon. The cold of the bodies beside him returned him to cruel reality. There was no room for illusions, only devastation and death surrounded him.

Without making a sound, he stood up and walked toward a nearby bamboo grove. He cut several branches and, with meticulous movements, fashioned an improvised sled.

He tore his clothes to tie the pieces together, and with trembling hands, placed the bodies of his family upon it. His face, however, remained unmoved, as if all emotion had been ripped from his being. With the sled loaded, Bai Xuebing set off toward the village.

The weight of the sled was immense, but no heavier than his loss. He sweated as he dragged his burden, his empty gaze reflecting the abyss in his soul.

When he finally reached what had once been his home, he found it reduced to ashes and rubble. The wind blew dust and soot, mixing with the sharp scent of death. Every corner evoked memories that cut deeper than any wound.

His steps were slow, not only from exhaustion, but because every place he passed seemed to trap him in a prison of memories. He remembered children running and playing, adults chatting cheerfully. Now, it was all a cemetery of ruins and silence.

The only sound was the crunching of ashes beneath his feet. Every step tore him apart, as if the memories wanted to remind him again and again of what he had lost. The houses that once radiated life were now empty tombs, their walls blackened by fire, their doors open to an endless void.

Dragging the sled, Bai Xuebing moved toward the center of the village. There, the square, once the heart of the community, lay devastated. The statues that adorned it were broken, their faces disfigured, unrecognizable. He paused for a moment, closing his eyes, trying to hear the laughter that once filled the place.

But only silence answered him.

A whisper in the wind brought a fleeting memory: the day he had competed with his friends to throw stones as far as possible. He relived the bustle, the thrill of winning, and the laughter that had surrounded him. A smile tried to form on his lips, but it disappeared instantly, crushed by the tragedy enveloping him.

Bai Xuebing continued walking, the sled dragging behind him, carrying not only the weight of the bodies but also the weight of a past he could never recover.

—Why...? Why did they have to take all of this?

He lifted his gaze to the gray sky, a turbulent ocean that seemed to reflect his torment. There were no answers, only the endless emptiness of the clouds swirling above him. Without stopping any longer, he continued walking.

In front of what had once been his home, he stopped. At the entrance, he could imagine his mother laughing as she prepared dinner; the scent of her food still seemed to float in his memory, a distant whisper of what once was. But now, only rubble remained, and a silence that devoured him.

—What happened here...?

He bent down and picked up a charred piece of wood from what had been the door. He held it tightly, as if in that fragment, he could find some answer. Sadness and anger fought within him, a whirlwind threatening to consume him.

In silence, Bai Xuebing took a shovel. He headed toward the center of the village and began to dig. Strike after strike, the sound of the shovel breaking the earth was the only echo of his pain. He dug tirelessly, with trembling hands and an exhausted body, as the rain began to fall, soaking him mercilessly.

The ground turned to mud, but he did not stop. Under the storm, his determination remained firm. After hours of effort, he had finished three graves. Carefully, he loaded the bodies of his family and placed them inside, one by one, trying to remain calm as his chest filled with unbearable pain.

The rain accompanied him as he covered the bodies with earth, each handful falling like a goodbye that tore at his soul. When he was finally done, Bai Xuebing sank to his knees before the graves. His hands sank into the mud as his forehead touched the cold earth now covering his loved ones.

Exhaustion overcame him. With difficulty, he stood and returned to the place he once called home. He lit a small fire. The flames illuminated the shadows of the empty space, offering useless warmth in the face of the abyss he felt inside.

Bai Xuebing sat before the fire, his gaze lost in the hypnotic movements of the flames. The sound of the rain hitting the shattered roof was the only thing breaking the deathly silence.

When sleep finally claimed him, unconsciously, he murmured his brothers' names, calling them to sleep. But only silence answered. The absence of their voices was a deafening reminder that they were no longer there.

He wrapped himself in the furs his father had once hunted, seeking comfort that did not come. What had been a warm, lively home was now an empty refuge, where only he remained.

With an indescribable weight in his chest and the loneliness crushing him, Bai Xuebing closed his eyes. And so, he fell asleep, engulfed in the void, with the echoes of his family chasing him even in his dreams.