Leon's POV -

  I remember the first time I felt the weight of life and death in my hands. The wind was sharp, slicing across my face, carrying the smell of blood and ash. I was barely older than a man should be, but the world had no room for weakness. Every step I took was deliberate, every breath measured, every heartbeat a drum of conquest. The creatures of Ether, the mortals, the weak, even those who dared to call themselves cultivators—they were all insignificant beneath me. They existed for me to test my strength, to hone my will.

  I was not born for companionship. I was born to dominate, to shape, to make the world bow—or die. My lover… she believed she could temper me, soften me, hold me. Foolish. Even as she smiled, even as she clutched my arm, I knew the depth of my power would drown her eventually. And it did. In truth, I loved her in my way—not with weakness, not with comfort, but with fire. She became a blade in my life, a mirror of what I could not hold without breaking.

  My sword, Esdeath, was not a weapon. It was an extension of my will. Its black edge consumed life, tore through souls, and amplified my demonic qi. One swing, one strike, could unravel armies. I remember the day I split the moon in two, my rage turning the heavens into shards of silver and shadow. They called me insane. I called them blind. None could match my might. None could challenge me and live. Not then. Not ever.

  But even I, Leon Esdeath, the first Heavenly Demon, was not invincible. My arrogance, my bloodlust, and my pride drew the envy of men and gods alike. The six who came to end me—they were not the strongest by accident. They had allies in shadows, whispers in every corner of the sect, and knowledge of the dark magic that could bind even a godlike soul. And they used it.

  It began with subtle poisoning. Not of the body, but of the essence. My demonic qi, the life I had refined for decades, was slowly corrupted. At first, I didn’t notice. The taste of betrayal is bitter, but it is sweeter when it leads to fury. My lover, the one who had shared my bed, my nights, my fires… she was taken. Twisted. They left her alive, but not as she had been. She was a mirror, a reflection, a tool of their cruelty. I found her, and rage unlike any the world had known burned inside me. I struck without thinking, without hesitation. My sword became a storm of black energy, and I killed with precision that spared none. Every scream, every sob, every trembling body fueled me, made my blood hotter, my arms stronger.

  The six came for me that day, thinking to contain the storm they had unleashed. They were strong—unbelievably strong—but together they were no more than kindling before a wildfire. My strikes tore through them like wind through wheat. I remember the feel of one’s head in my hand before it separated from the body, the flash of terror, the stench of spilled essence mixing with their own corrupted qi. I laughed. Oh, how I laughed. The fury they thought to wield against me fed me.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  And yet, even in my rage, I was methodical. The world had to remember me—not as a madman, not as a mere warrior, but as a god walking among men. I left the battlefield with my hands blackened in blood, rivers of red running behind me. Cities burned from the mere echo of my presence. Even the heavens seemed to bow, trembling under the weight of my wrath. The sect was shaped that day—not by law, not by ideology, but by fear and respect for the power I wielded.

  The secret of my death… is not what they believe. They think six of the strongest combined destroyed me. They think betrayal alone felled the first Heavenly Demon. But it was more intricate. They used my own love, twisted and corrupted by the same dark arts they had learned, against me. I was forced to confront the one being I could not kill without consequence, the one tethered to my heart, and in that confrontation, they struck. I fell not to strength, but to manipulation, to the cruelty that men and devils alike can inflict. I cursed them, cursed every soul in that world, cursed the heavens that allowed such treachery.

  Even as death approached, I felt no fear. Only fury. Only certainty that the world would remember Leon Esdeath. My life, my blood, my rage—it became the seed for the Heavenly Demon Sect. Every test, every forbidden zone, every trial now carried a fragment of me. My spirit lingered, woven into the stones, the blood-soaked soil, the weapons, and the very trees that marked the sect’s grounds.

  (If he was still alive… the systems, the artifacts, the rebirth of prodigies like Jin Valentine… none of it would matter. Not a single technique could contain him. The system that aids him now? Would have been but a whisper of smoke before the inferno he could unleash. Not even the Devil’s Heart could approach the magnitude of the wrath, the precision, the arrogance of Leon Esdeath in his prime. The idea is laughable—and that laughter echoes through the ages, a warning to all who think they understand power.)

  I remember the final moments, standing over the battlefield, my lover broken beside me, my enemies lying in ruin, the six panting and trembling, unable to comprehend the full scope of my fury. I had no regrets. None. Even as the final strike approached, even as my essence began to fracture, I smiled. The world would know my name. The sect would rise from my blood, from my will, from my arrogance. I was not defeated—I was remembered.

  I see him now. The boy in the forest, holding Esdeath, feeling the pulse, tasting the rhythm, absorbing the echoes of my life. Jin Valentine. A prodigy, yes, but more. A storm yet to come. I sense the pride, the fire, the arrogance… the same pulse that once drove me to carve the heavens in half. I whisper through the vibrations of the forest, through the remnants of my soul: Walk your path, and surpass me. I will watch, and when the world trembles before you, know that you are my legacy.

  The moon I once split, the rivers I drowned in blood, the cities that remember my fury—all of it sings to him now. He will feel the weight, the pride, the precision of my art in his hands. Esdeath is not just a sword—it is my will, my philosophy, my essence. And as long as he wields it, my rage, my triumph, my sorrow, and my cruelty will live again.

  (The forest stirs. The monsters sense the pulse)

  And I, Leon Esdeath, the first Heavenly Demon, watch. Not as a man, not as flesh, but as legend. And when he strikes, I will know.