Strongest Scammer: Scamming The World, One Death At A Time-Chapter 544: The History Of The Sect

Han Yu remained seated in silence for a long while, the flicker of the talisman flame casting dim shadows across the cave.

The last of Ju Fan's letters rested before him, their inked lines carrying the weight of a dead clan's tragedy. Yet, something about the whole scene still refused to make sense.

He looked around once more.

The air here was thick, metallic, and stank faintly of coagulated blood. Splashes of dark red stained the rough walls. A small pool in the middle of the chamber shimmered under the talisman's glow, its surface sluggish with a faint crimson tint.

'If Ju Fan had lived here, why did it look like this?'

From what Han Yu had seen during their fight, Ju Fan had not appeared to be a man who wallowed in filth. His robe, although a bit bloodied and dirted from battle, had been kept relatively clean.

His weapon was well maintained, and even his beard had been trimmed neatly. The blood stains on the walls were too widespread and irregular to be from simple injury or habit.

Han Yu's gaze returned to the bookshelves. Though dust-covered, the shelves were neatly organized, and the scrolls were aligned with surprising care. This was not the living space of a deranged hermit.

Someone with a mind this orderly did not simply let chaos take root unless it served a purpose.

"Something else happened here," Han Yu murmured. His voice echoed faintly through the cavern.

He rose to his feet and walked slowly around the pool. There was a faint pulse of spiritual energy here, barely noticeable, but distinct enough for him to feel when he focused his senses. The energy was cold and heavy, the kind that clung to blood.

"Was this where Ju Fan cultivated?"

Han Yu knelt beside the pool and touched the surface lightly. It rippled sluggishly, leaving a faint trace of warmth on his fingers, as though the blood still carried remnants of vitality. He withdrew his hand, frowning in thought.

"Blood Masters," he whispered under his breath.

The letters had mentioned them.

A lineage that shaped their cultivation around the essence of life itself, using their own blood as both weapon and medium. If Ju Fan was one of them, perhaps this place was not a living area but a cultivation chamber. The blood on the walls and the stains on the floor might have been a byproduct of their techniques.

Unfortunately, Han Yu had found no manuals or scrolls detailing the Blood Masters' methods. Ju Fan's spatial ring had been disappointingly empty of such knowledge. Even the few books and scrolls in the cave contained nothing but common sect material and history texts.

It made Han Yu wonder if Ju Fan had deliberately hidden or destroyed them.

Many clans, especially those with unique cultivation heritages, enforced strict secrecy. Techniques were often memorized rather than recorded, ensuring that only the bloodline heirs could practice them.

Perhaps Ju Fan had done the same, carrying the ancient teachings solely in his mind.

If that were the case, then those secrets had perished with him.

Letting out a slow breath, Han Yu stood and turned toward the shelves again. He could waste the entire day wondering about Ju Fan's past and the mysteries of his clan, but that would not get him any closer to understanding the sect's current condition.

He picked up one of the history books from the lowest shelf. The title was faintly engraved on the spine in old characters: The History of the Slaughtered Moon Divine Blood Sect: The Moon that Bled the Heavens.

The binding was frayed, but the pages had been kept surprisingly clean. Ju Fan had clearly taken care of it.

Opening it carefully, Han Yu began to read.

The first few passages described the origins of the sect in poetic prose, tracing its roots back to an age when cultivation was still young.

The Slaughtered Moon Divine Blood Sect stands as one of the first temples of power birthed by mortal suffering and divine wrath. Its foundation lies beyond the reach of recorded time, yet scholars estimate its age at no less than five hundred thousand years.

Han Yu's eyes widened slightly. 'Five hundred thousand years?'

Even the great sects of his world, such as Twin Leaf Peak Sect, claimed histories of less than a hundred thousand years. Beyond that, most lineages had long vanished... swallowed by wars, disasters, or decline. But this sect had endured.

He leaned closer, his curiosity sharpening.

The world was younger then, its skies heavy with primordial essence. From chaos rose the first cultivators, and among them was a man who would one day be called the Slaughtering Moon Ancestor.

Han Yu read on, fascinated.

He was born a mortal peasant of the Southern Plains, in a nameless village often plundered by bandits. His people were powerless, living in the shadow of stronger men. One fateful night, those bandits descended upon the village again. They pillaged, burned, and slaughtered without restraint, leaving behind rivers of blood. Among the dead and dying lay the man who would become the Ancestor, his body pierced and his life fading away.

Han Yu could almost picture it: the broken village, the smell of smoke, and the red flow of blood meandering through the dirt.

As his vision dimmed, he gazed up at the moon. It was full that night, pale and distant. To his dying eyes, it seemed to watch coldly from above, a silver eye that cared nothing for the suffering below. Something inside him broke. He screamed at the heavens, cursing the moon for its indifference.

Han Yu's grip on the book tightened slightly.

That fury awakened something within him. The air trembled, and the heavens responded. The silver moon above turned red, as though bleeding. The rivers of blood on the ground began to rise, drawn upward by invisible force, swirling together in the sky to form a new moon of blood. As the last breath escaped his body, his blood resonated with it. He stood, no longer dying, no longer mortal.