100: Chapter 100 The Rakshasa Clan

Year fifty.

The population of the Gifted grew from three thousand to twenty thousand.

This was not through reproduction, but through transformation.

More and more ordinary humans began to mutate. Their mutation speed was faster than that of the first batch of Gifted because the first batch had already found methods to accelerate the mutation.

More frequent prayers.

Longer periods of meditation.

Deeper absorption of Yin Qi.

Zhao Tiezhu stood on the roof of a factory, overlooking the settlement below that had been converted from abandoned buildings. Twenty thousand mutants lived, trained, and prayed here.

Their appearance was already completely different from that of ordinary humans.

The males generally stood over two meters tall, with the tallest reaching two and a half meters. Their bodies were as burly as mountains, their skin a greenish-gray covered in thick keratinous scales. Tusks protruded from their mouths, sharp claws extended from their fingertips, and vertical pupils shimmered with a dark golden light in the night.

The females mutated in a different direction. Their figures remained slender and their faces remained beautiful, even more gorgeous than ordinary human women. However, their skin also had a greenish-gray luster, their nails were as sharp as knives, and their eyes were also dark golden vertical pupils.

Moreover, they were equally bloodthirsty.

Zhao Tiezhu's wife—the woman who had once trembled in fear at the sight of her husband's tusks in the early morning—now stood beside him. Her face was still beautiful, but the corners of her mouth were stained with fresh blood.

This morning, she had personally killed a ferocious beast that had escaped from the Shadow Demon Abyss.

With her nails, she had slit the throat of that Rank Three beast.

"Tiezhu," she said, licking the blood from her lips, "we are no longer human."

"I know," Zhao Tiezhu replied.

"Then what are we?"

Zhao Tiezhu remained silent for a long time.

He looked at the greenish-gray figures below, at their dark golden vertical pupils, their burly bodies, and their sharp claws and teeth.

A word suddenly surfaced in his mind.

It was something he had sensed from the Power Of Faith during his prayers. It was like a revelation given to him by the Netherworld, or perhaps like some ancient memory awakening.

"Rakshasa," he said.

"What?"

"We are Rakshasa," Zhao Tiezhu's voice grew deep. "Warriors of the Netherworld, the Asuras of the Six Paths. We are not human, not ghosts, not gods. We are Rakshasa."

He turned around, looking into his wife's dark golden vertical pupils.

"From today on, we are no longer the Gifted. We are the Rakshasa Clan."

His wife paused for a moment, then smiled.

That smile was enchanting yet hideous, breathtakingly beautiful yet terrifyingly fierce.

"Rakshasa..." she softly repeated the name, "I like it."

Year one hundred.

The population of the Rakshasa Clan grew to fifty thousand.

They no longer lived on the outskirts of Wangxiang City; instead, they had built a city of their own.

Rakshasa City.

The city was built at the northernmost edge of the New Era Ruins, the place closest to Ghost Gate Pass. The architectural style was completely different from that of humans; there were no orderly streets or neat houses, only rugged stone fortresses, towering spires, and deep-dug burrows.

The city walls were constructed from massive blocks of stone, thirty meters high and fifteen meters thick. The walls were covered in claw marks and bloodstains left behind by the Rakshasas during their training.

In the center of the city was a massive arena. The stands were filled with Rakshasas, and in the center of the arena, two Rakshasas were fighting to the death.

Their combat involved no fancy techniques, only the most primal violence. Claws tore through skin, tusks crushed bone, and blood splattered onto the stands, inciting waves of frenzied cheering.

Zhao Tiezhu sat in the highest seat of the arena, overlooking the slaughter.

He was already one hundred and twenty years old, but his body was even more burly than it had been fifty years ago. His height had reached three meters, and the keratinous scales on his skin were thick enough to withstand any attack below Rank Three. His tusks had grown past his chin, and his claws could easily tear through steel.

His rank had jumped from Rank Two to the peak of Rank Four.

He was the strongest existence in the Rakshasa Clan.

But in his heart, there was a question.

"What do we fight for?"

He asked his wife beside him.

His wife remained silent for a long time.

"We fight for the Netherworld," she said.

"Does the Netherworld need us?" Zhao Tiezhu asked. "There are Ghost Kings, the Ten Great Yin Marshals, and the five great races. The Netherworld does not need us."

"Then who do we fight for?"

Zhao Tiezhu did not answer.

He watched his kin slaughtering each other in the arena, noting their frenzied eyes and bloodthirsty smiles.

For the first time, he realized something.

Rakshasas were born for war.

They needed no reason, no goal, and no meaning.

They only needed to fight.

It was their nature.

It was the destiny bestowed upon them by the Six Paths of Reincarnation.

Year three hundred.

The population of the Rakshasa Clan grew to one hundred and fifty thousand.

Their relationship with humans had been completely severed.

Humans viewed them as outcasts, monsters, and cursed beings. The Netherworld Church even issued a decree forbidding believers from intermarrying, socializing, or trading with Rakshasas.

The Rakshasas did not care.

They had their own city, their own culture, and their own faith.

They still believed in the Netherworld, still prayed every day, and still knelt before Ghost Gate Pass.

But their way of praying was completely different from that of humans.

When humans prayed, they knelt with palms pressed together, their faces pious and their lips moving slightly.

When Rakshasas prayed, they stood with clenched fists and ferocious expressions, letting out low battle cries.

Their Power Of Faith was not grayish-white, but dark gold.

It was like congealed blood, like a rusted blade, like the setting sun at dusk.

That dark golden Power Of Faith rose from above Rakshasa City, drifted toward the invisible rift in the sky, surged into the Underworld Space, and converged upon Ghost Gate Pass.

On the doors of Ghost Gate Pass, the runes began to glow with a dark golden light.

Su Bai felt that power.

It wasn't the pure, deep, heartfelt faith of humans.

It was a different kind of faith.

A fanatical, violent, bloodthirsty, yet equally pure faith.

[New source of Power Of Faith detected]

[Source: Rakshasa Clan (Human Mutation Branch)]

[Current Population: 150,000]

[Daily Power Of Faith Provided: 1,500 points]

[Description: The Power Of Faith attribute of this race is 'asura path,' resonating with the asura path within the Six Paths of Reincarnation. This Power Of Faith can accelerate the condensation of the Six Paths of Reincarnation.]

Su Bai watched those lines of text, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly.

asura path.

As expected.

The prototype of the Six Paths of Reincarnation had already begun to influence the living beings of the Living World.

Humanity's pious faith had resonated with the Asura Path, causing them to begin mutating into Rakshasas.

This wasn't a mutation; it was reincarnation.

It was the flow of souls through the Six Paths.

It was the power of the first rule of the Netherworld World.

Year five hundred.

The population of the Rakshasa Clan grew to three hundred thousand.

Their cities expanded from one to five, spread across the northern part of the New Era Ruins. Every city had a massive arena, and every day, countless slaughters were staged.

The social structure of the Rakshasa began to take shape.

At the bottom were ordinary Rakshasa warriors. Their ranks ranged from Rank Two to Rank Three; they were the most numerous and formed the main force of the Rakshasa Clan.

In the middle were Rakshasa Centurions. At Rank Four, they led a hundred warriors and were the backbone of the battlefield.

At the high level were Rakshasa Generals. Ranging from the peak of Rank Four to Rank Five, they led ten thousand warriors and were the commanders of the Rakshasa Clan.

At the highest level was the Rakshasa King.

Zhao Tiezhu.

He was over five hundred years old, but his body was even more burly than in his youth. His height reached four meters, and the keratinous scales on his skin had turned pure black, shimmering with a metallic luster under the sun. His tusks reached down to his chest, and his claws could tear through Rank Five defenses.

His rank had reached the peak of Rank Five.

He was the only Rank Five existence in the Rakshasa Clan.

But Zhao Tiezhu knew that he shouldn't be the only one.