565: Chapter 565 Chaotic Thunder Demon Body

When those scrutinizing, pitying, and subtly mocking gazes—clinging like maggots to the bone as they wandered back and forth between him and his younger brother—and when those whispers of "Wufa is truly the superior one" and "Wutian, you should look up to Wufa" clung to his ears like sticky spiderwebs—

In the youth's heart, not even a fraction of a poisonous bud of resentment sprouted.

He simply straightened his back further. Hidden in his sleeves where no one could see, his ten fingers dug deep into his palms, branding a silent vow:

He had to work harder.

More crazily.

At the very least, he had to be worthy of the title "Wufa's older brother"—he absolutely could not become the dim shadow beside his brother's glory.

Therefore, when Wufa grinned and stuffed that Lightning Spirit Pearl—snatched from the Life and Death Secret Realm, shimmering with brilliant light and hidden lightning—into his hands, saying, "Brother, this is for you, it suits you best"—

He accepted it.

He rubbed his brother's hair, thanked him earnestly, his smile as usual.

Until that cheerful figure disappeared at the end of the corridor, and the world suddenly fell silent—

Only then did he slowly lower his head.

With trembling hands, he cradled the bead containing boundless power, pressing it tightly against his violently heaving chest.

Hot liquid finally spilled from his eyes.

One drop, then another, splashing onto the surface of the bead shrouded in lightning.

He was not jealous.

He was simply completely submerged in a warmth that bordered on panic—

"What virtue or ability do I have to possess such a brother?"

"What virtue or ability do I have to bear such unreserved gifts?"

The vow at that moment was hotter than any before, branded into his marrow, burning away all hesitation:

No matter to what heights Wufa would soar in the future, or what mountain peaks he would stand upon—I, Wutian, must have enough strength to stand in a place where he can see me, where he can rely on me.

To become the most solid backing behind him, one that he never needs to look back to confirm.

He thought this was fate's gift.

The entire meaning of his struggle.

But fate—

What it loves most is to mock piety.

Ancestor Demons Secret Realm.

From then on, these four words became the background color of all the dark nights in Wutian's life.

They became the title of all the nightmares that swirled within him.

He remembered every detail of the day the Secret Realm opened. Cruelly clear.

Wufa stood at the entrance of that vortex that swallowed everything—the most dazzling morning star of the Demon Race, about to fall into the abyss.

His brother turned back. Amidst the chaotic figures and howling Devilish Qi, he looked precisely at him, raised that familiar, brilliant arc of a smile, and mouthed:

"Brother, wait for me to return."

He suppressed the inexplicable unease in his heart. He returned a forced, almost exaggerated smile, raising his arm high and waving.

Then, the light gate of the Secret Realm slowly closed.

Swallowing that figure.

And seemingly swallowing most of the light in the world.

For the next month, he became a persistent stone statue at the entrance of the Secret Realm.

He did not drink or eat. He did not sleep or rest. His gaze was like a nail driven into that gradually unstable Void Realm.

He watched the Elders' expressions grow heavier day by day, watched the light of the Formation maintaining the passage flicker like a candle in the wind.

Finally—the Secret Realm began to collapse.

Terrifying fluctuations swept out.

One Disciple after another escaped from the cracks, their faces devoid of blood, their eyes unfocused like dead ash, as if their Souls had been left behind in that terrifying place.

"What happened inside?!"

He pounced like a dying beast, grabbing an acquaintance Disciple, the voice squeezed from his throat hoarse and torn.

The Disciple trembled all over, pupils shrinking to pinpricks, looking at Wutian as if looking at a phantom from another world.

His lips trembled for a long time before broken, dream-like syllables spilled out:

"He... Wufa... He went crazy... Everyone died... All of them... Gone..."

Crazy?

Gone?

Wutian could not understand.

Or rather, his Soul refused to understand.

Until the very last moment of the Secret Realm's collapse, the instant the crack was about to close forever—

A figure, stumbling, dragging a sky full of blood, walked out.

It was Wufa.

Yet, it was no longer Wufa.

That body, once praised by the entire Demon Race, hailed as a once-in-a-millennium "Chaos Lightning Demon Physique," was now like a piece of porcelain violently shattered and then barely pieced back together.

The golden lightning patterns all over his body—those proud lines symbolizing power and talent—were broken inch by inch, dim and lightless, as if torn apart from the inside by a pair of invisible giant hands.

At his Dantian, hideous cracks were densely spread like a spiderweb. These were the scars of despair left after his power had been completely drained and his Foundation shaken.

However, all this tragedy could not compare to—his eyes.

Wutian's gaze locked onto his brother's eyes.

There, once held the brightest starlight, the most exuberant laughter, the warmest reliance.

At this moment, only boundless emptiness and coldness remained.

It was not cold ice—cold ice still has luster and hardness.

It was the deep black of an ancient dry well, the absolute nothingness after even despair itself had died.

He looked at him, yet it was as if he were piercing through him, looking toward a wasteland where nothing existed.

"Wufa!"

Wutian roared and lunged forward, wanting to embrace that broken body, wanting to use his body temperature to summon back a trace of familiarity.

Yet Wufa walked straight past him.

His steps were slow and floating, and the breeze he stirred up was full of a rusty, bloody scent.

No pause.

No side-glance.

As if Wutian were merely an unimportant stone by the roadside, a negligible speck of dust.

"...Wu...fa?"

His outstretched arm froze in mid-air.

The heart in his chest was like being gripped by a cold, metallic hand—then fiercely squeezed and twisted, causing him so much pain he could not breathe, could not think.

Everything that followed was like falling into the most absurd and cruel nightmare.

And unable to wake up.

In the Ancestor Demons Hall, Wufa confessed to everything.

His voice was calm and waveless, as if stating the crimes of another.

He said he killed his fellow Disciples and destroyed the Foundation of the Secret Realm.

He said he was a sinner, willing to accept the ultimate punishment.

"It is not him! It absolutely cannot be him!"

Wutian collapsed onto the cold hall stones, his voice as shrill as a cuckoo weeping blood—

"Father! Old Ancestor! You watched Wufa grow up, he is the most sentimental and protective, how could he possibly..."

"There must be a conspiracy in this! There must be a hidden reason! I beg you to investigate—!"

"Wutian."

His father's voice came from the high main seat, carrying the exhaustion of a night of aging, and even more, an unarguable finality.

"The evidence is conclusive. He himself... has also pleaded guilty."

"No... no...!"

He turned to every high-and-mighty presence in the hall, using all his dignity and strength to slam his forehead fiercely against the hard obsidian floor.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The dull sounds of impact echoed in the silent hall.

Thick blood soon stained the hair on his forehead, winding down, blurring his vision, and even staining the black stone surface symbolizing the majesty of the Demon Race beneath him.

"I beg you... investigate one more time... even just once..."

"He is Wufa... he is my brother... he would not..."

"I beg you... I am willing to use everything to redeem him... my cultivation, my life, everything I have..."

An Old Ancestor closed his eyes and slowly shook his head:

"Wutian, family affection is precious. But clan rules are like mountains, and crimes cannot be tolerated. Step down."

The verdict sounded like the knell of a final judgment—

Abolish the Chaos Lightning Demon Physique.

Imprison forever in the Graveyard of Ancestral Sins.

To be destroyed beyond redemption.

Wutian did not leave the Ancestor Demons Hall.

He just knelt there, on that stone surface soaked in his own blood, kneeling into a statue that was gradually losing its warmth.

One day. Two days. Ten days. A month.

He did not speak, did not eat, did not sleep, relying only on a persistent obsession that refused to be extinguished to sustain his life.

His knees went from stinging pain to numbness, eventually festering to the bone.

The wound on his forehead scabbed over with dark red, only to burst open again during the next more forceful kowtow, repeatedly tortured, akin to self-mutilation.

He begged everyone he could think of.

From his dignified father and tear-exhausted mother, to the Old Ancestors of the halls, the Elders of various lineages, and even the servants who bowed and swept daily.

He grabbed the hem of everyone's clothes, his gaze unfocused but burning with a final flame, incoherently repeating his pleas.

The response he received—was only averted gazes, heavy sighs, or helpless head-shakes.

The whole world seemed to have built an invisible high wall overnight.

Separating him and the person he wanted to protect on two ends of despair.

Dusk, a month later.

The setting sun was like blood, spilling over the grim eaves of the Ancestor Demons Hall.

He was "invited" out to the steps outside the hall.

Watching that figure—his once radiant brother—wrapped layer upon layer in heavy, python-like Demon-Locking Chains, like a broken offering that had lost its value, being escorted away, turning into a black meteor, cast toward the despair-filled sky curtain in the distance called the "Graveyard of Ancestral Sins."

Just at the moment that black shadow was about to disappear into the blood-colored horizon—

Wutian suddenly laughed.

At first, it was a low, suppressed, muffled laugh.

Then the laughter grew louder and sharper, tearing at his dry throat and broken chest.

Finally—it turned into a shrill, dying beast-like howl that did not sound human at all!

In the laughter was the collapse of faith, the excruciating pain of having a loved one torn away, the most bone-deep mockery and despair toward these cold, ruthless rules!

"Good! Good! Very good—!"

He turned fiercely toward that towering, grim Ancestor Demons Hall that represented the supreme authority of the Demon Race, toward this world of the Demon Race that indifferently watched everything happen—

Using the last strength of his Soul, he roared hoarsely, every word weeping blood:

"Since these clan rules cannot accommodate him! Since this world does not allow him to explain!"

"You imprison him in the Graveyard of Ancestral Sins today—"

"One day, I, Wutian, will trample these so-called rules, and split open this damn graveyard!"

"In my own way—"

"Bring him home!!!"

The last word was spat out mixed with blood foam, echoing in the twilight, actually inducing faint thunder in all directions—

As if it were an ominous omen, and yet like the resonance of a new vow.

That night, he returned to his empty practice room.

There was no crazy smashing.

There was only a kind of extreme, heart-palpitating calmness.

He raised his hand, Devilish Qi surging—not destroying outward, but inward.

Precisely, without hesitation, he shattered all the Cultivation resources displayed in the room.

Spirit Stones turned to powder.

Medicinal Pills dissipated into green smoke.

Treasures snapped and rotted.

This was not venting.

This was a funeral.

And even more, it was a Nirvana.

He was personally burying—the "Wutian" who followed old laws, was gentle and modest, willing to stay behind others, and placed his hope in the kindness of others.