The Author's Draft-Chapter 31: Azazel

The moment Long Chen spoke the final words of the contract, while elder feng was attacking Demon Dweller had erupted.

A blob of reddish-black fog exploded from the blade like a geyser breaking through stone. It poured out in waves, thick and viscous, radiating killing intent so potent it made the air itself recoil.

The fog wasn’t empty. There was weight to it, a substance. Like staring into a mass grave where millions had been slaughtered and their hatred had condensed into something physical.

Elder Feng stumbled backward, his face going pale. "What—what is that!?"

The fog didn’t answer. It just moved.

It shot toward Long Chen like a living thing, tendrils reaching out, wrapping around his transformed body. His arms, legs, torso and head. The reddish-black substance seeped into his skin, his eyes, his mouth—pouring into every opening it could find.

Long Chen tried to resist. Tried to pull away.

But his body wouldn’t obey.

The fog forced its way inside, invading him like floodwater breaking through a dam, filling every space, every corner, drowning everything that was Long Chen beneath its presence.

The last thing he felt before losing control was a sensation like falling backward into deep water.

Then his consciousness vanished into red.

---

Outside, Elder Feng watched the transformation with growing horror.

The gray-skinned demon that had been Long Chen straightened slowly. The hunched, desperate posture from seconds ago was gone. Now he stood tall, relaxed, like someone who’d just woken from a pleasant nap.

Then Long Chen smiled.

It wasn’t a normal smile. It was looked wrong. Too wide and sharp. The kind of expression that belonged on something that had forgotten how human faces worked.

"Ahhhh..." Long Chen rolled his shoulders, the joints popping audibly. "It’s been... how long has it been?" He tilted his head, considering. "Centuries? Millennia? Time’s funny when you’re sealed in a sword."

His voice was different. It was still Long Chen’s vocal cords, but the inflection, the tone, the way the words rolled out—it was someone else speaking.

Elder Feng’s grip tightened on his sword. "Who are you?"

"Rude." Long Chen—or whatever was wearing his body—stretched his arms above his head, working out the stiffness. "I possess someone’s body after being sealed for eons, and the first thing you do is demand my name? Not even a ’welcome back to the world of the living’?"

The entity cracked his neck left, then right, each pop accompanied by small bursts of that reddish-black fog leaking from his skin.

"Still," the entity continued conversationally, "I suppose introductions are polite. Especially between people about to kill each other." He gestured casually at Elder Feng like they were old friends meeting over tea. "You can call me... well, actually, you won’t be alive long enough for my name to matter. But I’m feeling generous."

He grinned wider. "Let’s just say I’m the current tenant of this body."

Elder Feng took a step back. Every instinct screamed at him that something had changed. The desperate Foundation Establishment cultivator from moments ago was gone. In his place stood something that looked at a King Realm Stage 7 cultivator like he was an interesting bug.

"This is your last resort?" Elder Feng forced confidence into his voice. "Some kind of possession technique? It doesn’t matter. You’re still in a Foundation Establishment body. Your cultivation hasn’t changed."

"True, true." The entity nodded agreeably, still stretching. He bent forward, touching his toes. "This body is quite limited. Forced Foundation Establishment Stage 3. Barely functional meridians. Damage everywhere." He straightened. "But you know what? It’ll do."

Elder Feng had enough of this mockery. "Die!"

He channeled King Realm qi into his sword—his good hand gripping the hilt with white knuckles—and launched a palm strike with his mangled wrist anyway, the pain be damned.

The attack shot forward, spiritual energy condensing into a visible shockwave that tore through the air.

The entity wearing Long Chen’s body didn’t move.

It just stood there, still smiling, as the attack closed in.

Five meters. Three. One.

The palm strike was about to connect when a baleful red aura suddenly flowed out of Long Chen’s body.

It erupted from his skin like smoke from burning flesh—thick, crimson, and alive. The aura moved with purpose, coiling around him in defensive layers.

"Huh," the entity said, looking down at the red energy surrounding him. "I was actually right. This body does have that blasted heart ." He sounded genuinely pleased. "Good. That makes things easier."

Elder Feng’s attack struck the red aura.

And stopped.

The palm strike hit the barrier and dispersed like water splashing against stone. Not deflected, nor redirected. Just... negated. As if it had never existed.

Elder Feng’s eyes widened. "Impossible—"

"Is it?" The entity tilted his head curiously. "You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means."

He raised one hand lazily. The red aura around him condensed, forming into a claw shape that mimicked his fingers.

"My turn."

He flicked his wrist.

The red claw shot forward faster than Elder Feng could track. It struck his chest, tearing through protective qi like tissue paper, and sent him flying backward.

Elder Feng crashed through three trees before hitting the ground, blood spraying from his mouth. His ribs were cracked—multiple fractures that ground against each other with every breath.

He forced himself upright, shock written across his face. "How—you’re only Foundation Establishment—"

"Am I?" The entity walked toward him slowly, hands in his pockets, utterly relaxed. "Or am I something else wearing Foundation Establishment like an ill-fitting coat?"

He stopped ten meters away. "Come on...attack me again. This is fun. I haven’t had a proper fight in ages."

Elder Feng’s mind raced. This wasn’t right. Nothing about this was right. The strength, the aura, the casual arrogance—it all pointed to something far beyond Foundation Establishment.

But he couldn’t retreat. His pride wouldn’t allow it. His cultivation wouldn’t allow it.

He was King Realm Stage 7. He’d lived for over two hundred years. Fought in sect wars. Killed Foundation Establishment cultivators by the dozen.

He would not be mocked by some possessed brat.

Elder Feng roared and launched himself forward, his sword blazing with King Realm power. He poured everything into the strike—all his remaining qi, all his technique, all his desperation.

The blade came down like a falling star.

The entity caught it with two fingers.

The sword stopped dead, the tremendous force behind it completely negated. The entity held the blade casually between his index and middle finger, examining it like an interesting trinket.

"King Realm weapon," he mused. "Middle-grade. Decent craftsmanship. Terrible maintenance though. Look at these chips along the edge." He tutted disapprovingly. "You should take better care of your tools."

Elder Feng tried to pull the sword free, but it didn’t budge.

The entity’s grip tightened.

Crack.

The sword shattered, fragments scattering across the forest floor like falling snow.

Elder Feng stumbled backward, staring at the broken hilt in his hand.

"Now then." The entity’s smile grew wider, showing too many teeth. "Let’s play properly."

He moved.

One moment he was standing ten meters away. The next he was in front of Elder Feng, his fist already in motion.

The punch struck Elder Feng’s stomach.

The impact folded him in half. Air exploded from his lungs. Blood sprayed from his mouth. His internal organs shifted from the force, some rupturing on contact.

He flew backward again, this time not stopping until he’d carved a trench thirty meters long through the dirt.

The entity walked after him leisurely, the red aura swirling around him like loyal hounds. "You know what’s funny? I haven’t even used a technique yet. This is just raw physical enhancement from my aura."

Elder Feng tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t support him. His cultivation was in chaos—meridians torn from the internal damage, qi leaking from dozens of ruptures.

"Please..." he gasped out, blood running from his mouth. "Please, I surrender—"

"Surrender?" The entity laughed. It was a genuine, delighted sound. "Oh no, no, no. You don’t get to surrender. You wanted to kill this body’s owner, remember? Take his treasures?"

The red fog condensed around the his right hand, forming into a blade shape. "Actions have consequences. Surely a two-hundred-year-old cultivator knows that."

He raised his hand for the killing blow.

Elder Feng’s spiritual pressure spiked one final time—a last desperate attempt to defend himself, to escape, to do anything—

The entity’s hand came down.

---

Inside the red space, Long Chen screamed.

He’d been screaming for what felt like hours, though it might have been seconds. Time didn’t work right here.

The space around him was endless crimson—no floor, no ceiling, no walls. Just red in every direction, stretching into infinity.

And he could see everything.

Not through his own eyes. Through a window. A viewing screen that showed his body moving, fighting, dominating Elder Feng with casual brutality.

But he wasn’t controlling it.

His body moved on its own. Spoke with someone else’s voice, fought with techniques he’d never learned.

He was a prisoner in his own flesh.

"SYSTEM!" Long Chen shouted into the void. "What the fuck is happening!?"

A notification appeared in front of him, the familiar green text stark against the red background.

[Current Status: Consciousness Displaced]

[Your body is currently being controlled by: Azazel]

[Classification: One of the Seven Deadly Sins - Demon of Pride]