Chapter 236: Nameless Divine Skill, Demonic Skill?
The leader of Demonism was bold—shamelessly so.
It was normal for him to be naked. In fact, he considered clothing a nuisance during training, especially while cultivating in his blood tank. Covered in dried streaks of crimson and clothed only in arrogance, he stood tall before his disciples and followers, unashamed, unconcerned, and utterly self-indulgent.
He was proud—too proud.
With his endless access to resources and women, he had long since stopped caring about appearances or decency. Even playing with his female pets in front of a crowd didn't embarrass him in the slightest. To him, it was a show of power. A sign that he could do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased.
But then—
John looked him up and down, tilted his head slightly, and casually remarked with a mocking tone,
"One or two inches at most. Don't embarrass yourself by letting it hang out."
Silence.
One or two inches?
For a moment, the leader was stunned.
Then, realization struck him like a lightning bolt.
He just said I was short?!
In the world of men, there were few insults more cutting.
Two taboos that should never be touched: being short, and being fast. Either one was a direct hit to a man's pride. And John had just hit him with the first.
A man's dignity wasn't something to trample lightly.
But John didn't care. His words were sharp and deliberate, meant to provoke—and they landed perfectly.
"Damn you!" the leader of Demonism roared, his fury igniting like fire.
Without hesitation, he threw a punch forward. His fists surged with vital energy, coalescing into a monstrous, blood-red dragon that tore through the air with a howl.
Hideous.
Ferocious.
Bloody.
A nightmare made of violence and crimson power.
"Level nine refining energy?" John muttered, narrowing his eyes.
The smirk faded from his face, replaced by a focused calm.
He wasn't alarmed—he was interested.
This was his first true encounter with a fellow cultivator.
Until now, his path had been largely unchallenged. But here was a man trained in the ancient, bloody arts of the evil sect, someone whose very essence was forged in brutality.
A real test.
John's expression turned serious as he activated his Nameless Divine Skill.
Boom!
Streams of vital energy erupted from his fists. Unlike the leader's violent crimson aura, John's was ancient cyan—a hue both serene and majestic, like clear skies laced with something older than time.
But beneath the calm appearance lay a terrifying force.
He deliberately suppressed his cultivation to match the leader's—level nine.
He wanted a fair fight. He wanted to test whether his Nameless Divine Skill, a technique shrouded in mystery, could stand against the Bloodbath Skill of a brutal sect leader.
"Brat! You're digging your own grave!" the leader spat, still unaware that John was holding back.
In the world of cultivators, it was a known truth: at the same level, evil sect techniques were often more ferocious, more lethal. They were born in chaos, refined through slaughter, and fueled by corruption.
The leader of Demonism was a prime example of that path.
He had drenched himself in blood to master his craft, and it showed in every move, every breath.
He was confident.
His Bloodbath Skill had shattered the bones of dozens.
With one punch, he'd break John's arm—or so he thought.
Bang!
The two fists collided.
In an instant, two distinct energies clashed—crimson and cyan—erupting in a brilliant explosion of light and force. Waves of vital energy tore through the air, lighting the surroundings in blinding flashes.
But then—
The smell.
A thick, iron-heavy stench filled the air.
Blood.
It wasn't just symbolic or spiritual—it was real. The leader's vital energy had exploded, unleashing a tangible scent that saturated the battlefield like a slaughterhouse.
The leader grinned. "Boy, you should know better than to fight evil sect cultivators at the same realm!"
He was sure he had the upper hand.
But then—
His grin froze.
In the next second, his expression changed from smugness to shock.
Then from shock to horror.
Something was wrong.
Something was very, very wrong.
His blood-red energy was being devoured.
Devoured?!
"What the hell?!" he gasped, stumbling back, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"Boy… what kind of skill are you using?!"
This wasn't just a clash of techniques.
His own energy—his hard-earned, blood-soaked power—was being pulled into John's fists, like water sucked into a whirlpool.
It wasn't just weaker.
It was being consumed.
That meant one terrifying truth:
John's skill was more domineering than his Bloodbath Skill—one of the top-tier demonic arts.
Which could only mean…
John's technique was also demonic.
But how?
The colors didn't match. Evil sect techniques came in only two forms—blood-red or pitch-black. Both came with violent, soul-crushing auras.
But John's energy was ancient cyan—a shade that screamed orthodoxy, not darkness.
Yet the behavior of the energy said otherwise.
At first, the leader had sensed gentleness in John's energy. It had lulled him into believing he would crush the younger man with ease.
But beneath that tranquility lay an abyss.
John's cyan energy wasn't just powerful. It was deceptive.
It devoured.
It assimilated.
It corrupted his opponent's energy without even revealing its full nature.
It was a black hole masked in light.
No orthodox technique should behave this way.
This wasn't divine.
This was demonic—maybe something even darker.
"Are you also with the evil sect?!" the leader shouted, his voice cracking from disbelief.
John didn't reply.
Instead, he frowned, staring at his own hand as his energy continued to consume the blood-red force.
This wasn't what he had expected either.
Why was his Nameless Divine Skill devouring his opponent's vital energy?
And more importantly—why did it target evil energy so aggressively?
He remembered…
That moment with Alice.
Back when they sparred for fun, he had joked and teased, but after the exchange, Alice had gone pale.
She'd pulled away and said,
"This technique… it's too strange. I think something's wrong with it."
At the time, John had brushed it off.
The Nameless Divine Skill had been passed down by his master, someone he trusted without question.
If it was truly flawed—truly demonic—why would his master have given it to him?
But now, doubt crept in.
This devouring nature… the way it swallowed energy from a distance… even he couldn't explain it.
And yet, it kept happening.
The sect leader tried to back off, stepping away, but the crimson energy on his arms refused to retreat.
It clung to him, bound by invisible threads, still being sucked, pulled, and assimilated by John's cyan force—even from afar.
"Damn it!" the leader roared, desperation setting in.
"I don't care if you're from the orthodox faction or the rebel faction—
I'll kill you here and now!"
With a furious snarl, the leader erupted in a final burst of power.
From deep within his body, a strange black mist exploded outward.
It surged like a violent current, tearing through the invisible threads connecting their energy.
With a sharp crack, the link between them snapped.
The leader stumbled back, panting, blood pooling around his feet.
He had managed to preserve a fragment of his vital energy—but the majority was gone.
Devoured.
His confidence had been shattered.
And for the first time in years, the leader of Demonism felt something unfamiliar…
Fear.