Poison God's Heritage Chapter 5 No Light at The end of The Tunnel

Agony surged through me. The fall felt excruciating, especially as the final expressions of my children flashed before my eyes. This pain dwarfed the impact against the rocks, the myriad cuts and bruises, and even the searing agony of my broken leg. It was an all-encompassing torment that intensified when my tumbling ceased and my body began its grim assessment, sending shockwaves of pain through every damaged part.

My face was numb; I couldn't discern if this insensitivity was a mercy or a curse. Yet, the rest of my body was engulfed in infernal suffering. Breathing became a monumental effort, my lungs struggling to draw in air. With each ragged inhale, sharp spasms of pain shot through my chest. My right leg lay twisted at an unnatural angle, clearly fractured. Setting it right would be another ordeal.

Initially, I hadn't realized the sheer height of my descent. It was so precipitous that the ledge from which I was violently expelled vanished from view. This incline, whether a hill or a mountain, was undeniably steep. Such a fall should have been fatal to anyone. Yet, I owed my survival to this body. Despite being in my late seventies, I retained a strength surpassing the average man, and a resilience that defied my years.

However, even my resilience was no match for the fangs of a famished demon beast. This forest teemed with such creatures, as many from my home, Lucid Spring city, had attested. Numerous individuals ventured here seeking fortune through hunting, but many ended up losing their lives. They were seasoned hunters, powerful and experienced, while I was merely an old man, easy prey for any beast that crossed my path or caught my scent.

I attempted to drag myself along, but my efforts were utterly futile. Even my arms, which seemed to have sustained the least damage, had finally begun to broadcast their own symphony of pain. Both were badly bruised, and I suspected a sprained wrist.

Nevertheless, I endured the excruciating pain and managed to force myself onto one knee. Gazing upwards at the mountain from which I had plummeted, I realized climbing back was impossible. My only hope was to follow the base of the mountain, perhaps finding a path that led through it. I could wait there for several days, and a passing caravan might offer assistance.

This was the plan I formulated, and I was poised to enact it. Yet, my body refused to cooperate. I noticed a tremor running through me – the tell-tale sign of impending shock. If I succumbed to shock, I knew I would never awaken.

I bit down hard on my tongue. The sudden, sharp pain was agonizing, yet it served to jolt me awake, overriding the constant throb and halting my involuntary shuddering.

'I must escape this place,' the thought echoed in my mind.

I began to drag myself forward, propelled by one arm and one barely functional leg. Each movement was accompanied by an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. Within ten steps, I collapsed back onto the unforgiving ground.

'This isn't going to work,' I admitted to myself. A method to repair my shattered body was desperately needed.

Grasping a dry twig, an idea sparked. Perhaps, with some rope, I could fashion a splint for my leg. Furthermore, a couple of sturdier sticks could serve as a makeshift cane.

A wry chuckle escaped me. It had been years since I had engaged in such manual creation. Ascending to the position of city lord had distanced me from such rudimentary tasks. I had delegated these duties to others, providing them with detailed diagrams of my designs.

But now, I was back to the very beginnings, and this hands-on crafting was perhaps the only skill that had truly sustained me, remained with me, and never once betrayed me. The principle of 'do it yourself' was paramount.

With a surge of will, I forced my hip and twisted my leg, audibly snapping it back into place. The sheer agony threatened to send me into unconsciousness, but another forceful bite of my tongue kept me tethered to awareness.

'If I continue this, I might end up biting my tongue clean off,' I mused.

I gathered more twigs and sturdy sticks, carefully arranging them around my injured foot before securing them with a strip of cloth torn from my robe.

Then, I resumed my arduous journey. Locating substantial sticks for support in the forest proved surprisingly simple. Using them, I managed to pull myself upright. Movement was now possible.

However, my breathing grew increasingly labored. With every breath, the pain intensified, a troubling development. I feared that one or more of my ribs were broken, or perhaps had caused internal damage, or worse, punctured a lung. While the latter thought was grim, it seemed unlikely; I was still alive and not experiencing respiratory failure, at least not yet.

As I stumbled onward, a powerful gust of wind swept over me.

Glancing upwards, I saw a figure descending. A man was floating in the air. It took me a few disorienting seconds to realize I wasn't dreaming – this man was genuinely levitating.

He appeared to be middle-aged, clad in the distinctive attire of a cultivator, black and purple robes.

The only cultivators I had previously encountered belonged to the Xuan Fu sect or other minor affiliated sects. Yet, even among them, I had never witnessed anyone capable of flight.

The man's gaze fell upon me, his eyes holding the same probing intensity I had seen in countless physicians throughout my life.

"You will suffice," the man declared. Without making physical contact, he extended a hand, and I was abruptly lifted from the ground. A bone-jarring pain engulfed me, as if an invisible colossus had seized my entire body, leaving me utterly powerless.

My breath was stolen, the crushing weight on my chest rendering me utterly speechless.

Soaring above the dense forest canopy with impossible speed, he vanished into the distance, a direction only he knew. Once again, I was a passenger with no control over my fate.

I must have lost consciousness during the journey. Awakening came not to my own cries, but to a chorus of agonizing screams, echoing from countless souls around me.

I found myself within a vast cavern, its ceiling lost in shadow, illuminated by flickering torches affixed to the rough-hewn walls. Two striking features dominated the space: firstly, a pool of pungent, violet liquid occupying the center; secondly, a sturdy bronze door etched with unfamiliar symbols and inscriptions.

At the heart of this bronze portal was a distinct handprint.

And then, there were the five cultivators positioned around the chamber. Clad in diverse attire, hailing from various sects, they were our captors.

Yes, 'our' is the correct word, for I was not alone. The others with me, men, women, and children of all ages and complexions – dark, white, brown, and many more – were present. An unseen force held us immobile, a palpable power that prevented any resistance. I had only just discerned its presence.

Resistance seemed futile, especially as one of the five, a middle-aged man with long, dark hair and a robe the color of blood, sat beside the pool. He would seize individuals from our midst, driving a finger through their skin with swift, brutal precision, so rapid that blood had no chance to well.

He then unceremoniously tossed his victims into the ominously colored pool, where their screams of unbridled madness echoed through the cavern.

Judging by their expressions, the pain of mere contact with that pool was so intense, it instilled an immediate desire for death.

Yet, with each person plunged into the depths, the strange purple liquid stirred as if alive, draining them, engulfing them, and finally, extinguishing their lives.

This viscous fluid, possessed of its own malevolent intent, flowed into their mouths, nostrils, ears, and eyes, dragging them down into an abyss from which there was no return.

More souls were sacrificed, while I remained, a helpless spectator to my own inevitable demise.

Fate? I had begun to believe in it when I first arrived, convinced I could reshape my destiny, make something of this life. I reasoned that even without the ability to cultivate, my intellect could find a way to overcome this predicament and perhaps achieve cultivation.

But what is fate when a cultivator can ensnare your very existence, twisting it to their will, leaving you with no path to escape their unyielding grasp?

What is life when extinction can be meted out on a mere whim? Fairness? Fate? I call it utter damnation...

These were my final frantic thoughts as my turn approached. I had lost count of how many had already been consigned to the pit.

"Seize him," commanded another man. The crimson-robed figure complied, his hand closing around me. The same incapacitating sensation enveloped my body as I was lifted, as if by a colossal hand, and conveyed towards the man in crimson.

My voice was suppressed, a strangled moan the only sound I could utter, but my tormentors paid no heed. The man was poised to pierce my flesh, to cast me into the void. I was powerless, utterly without recourse. The contemptible helplessness gnawed at me.

However, before the crimson-robed man could inflict his wound, the other individual, the one who had brought me here, spoke. "There's no need. His meridians are already shattered."

The man holding me glanced back, his gaze penetrating, then simply shrugged and tossed me towards my perceived end.

The fall felt agonizing, a torment far beyond anything I had ever endured. If a plummet from a cliffside was a mere tap on the back, this experience was a brutal scourging with a barbed iron whip, a whip forged from molten steel.

I was going to die, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to prevent it.