The blood trickling from my forehead rhythmically struck the floor, each droplet ringing in my head like a funeral bell, fueling a monstrous ache.
My hands, bound behind my back after hours of walking hunched over, had gone numb; I could no longer feel my fingers. I was certain that if I looked at them, they would be a bruised, deathly blue, like the depths of the ocean
A faint, snickering laugh pulled my gaze back to the trail ahead. Clad in black, the demonic cultivators chatted in their own tongue, utterly indifferent to my existence—as if they were casually discussing a recipe for human flesh.
To them, I was nothing more than a ration, a meal stored for whenever hunger struck them on the road.
Who could have guessed that only hours after Spider-Man vanished, I would stumble upon cultivators?
It would have been one thing if they were righteous sects, but fate had dealt me a darker hand. Fourteen hours of trekking had shredded every muscle, every fiber in my legs. I knew a blackout was inevitable, but I had to hold on.
The moment my unconscious body hit the dirt, they would slaughter me. Just a little longer... just a little more, and I'll be free of this nightmare.
The sound of footsteps halting finally allowed me to exhale. The filth in front of me began to light a fire. They tethered my chain to a nearby tree, still ignoring me. From their spatial rings, they drew small knives, axes, and bone-breakers.
They were preparing to eat.
The agonizing slowness with which they laid out their tools made my hatred boil. What pushed them into this abyss? What darkness forced them to grow so feral, shedding every scrap of their humanity? Does a beast like this sleep within everyone, waiting for a moment to wake and turn a person into a wretched fusion of primal cruelty and hedonism?
They are pure evil—absolute, uncompromising, and foul. While an ordinary man seeks excuses for his scars in the failures of society, these things...
"Before I die... let me pray."
The cultivator's gaze pierced me. He evaluated me—not as a living being, not as a man, but as a prime cut of meat. His eyes were hollow, devoid of emotion.
"Suit yourself."
His gravelly voice made my rage flare. I should have been trembling; I was for the first few hours. But their endless mockery had forged my terror into a blade of pure hate. I will survive. I will.
Of course, they didn't unbind my hands. I dropped to my knees and pressed down. With a sickening crack, a bone snapped. My body, tempered by elixirs, suppressed the scream. My hand jerked forward—mangled, bloodied, grotesque. Why is this happening? What even is 'happiness' anymore?
"Summon!"
[SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
Hundreds of bright, swirling prismatic rifts flooded me with sudden confidence. My body, which had been ready to surrender, surged with unexpected strength. The demonic cultivators recoiled, bracing for an attack. Idiots—they thought I had used an artifact. Let them think that. Let them watch as the beauty of the rift does its work.
The swirling light vanished, and my vision locked onto the figure before me—or what used to be a man.
A bald head, pupilless eyes, not a single hair on his body, standing nearly seven feet tall. He had the build of an athlete, yet his gaze was so terrified, so cowardly... a look I knew all too well. Darwin. The mutant capable of adapting to anything, immortal and unstoppable, a man who could survive even the realm of Hela.
"Eh—uuuh?"
A grunt. A pathetic, whimpering sound was the first thing the mutant uttered. Darwin stood there in mundane clothes—a simple windbreaker and jeans. I saw his hands begin to shake, his face twisting into a mask of pure panic.
"Get ready, buddy,"
I rasped. My voice was scorched from hours of silence.
I smiled at him. The movement caused blood to slick down my face faster. Then, with a blinding flash of speed, a spark erupted. Darwin's chest was sliced open by a sword. The massive gash and the spray of blood were instantaneous.
POV: Third Person
Horror washed over Darwin like an icy tide, drowning the remnants of his teenage life at Xavier's school. In this heartbeat, his childhood died. His body, hardwired for survival, sensed not just a threat, but the brink of total dissolution. Panic burned out, leaving behind a sterile, deathly silence of the mind.
His fingers interlaced convulsively; bones softened with a wet crunch and elongated, fusing into a dull, grey blade of densified keratin. The cultivator dodged the first swing with mocking ease, a savage grin widening on his face.
He expected Darwin to collapse from blood loss within seconds, ready to be carved up. But Darwin did not fall. Shock paralyzed the practitioner as the mutant closed the
distance with a sub-human burst of speed. Darwin's bone-blade whistled through the air, and the cultivator's smirk twisted into a mask of fury.
"What kind of monster are you?!"
the swordsman spat, parrying another strike.
The second cultivator hesitated. The opponent emitted not a single drop of Qi; his meridians were dead, yet his flesh pulsed with a terrifying, autonomous life.
While he tried to grasp the nature of this enemy, Darwin's arm finished its transformation: the elbow inverted, and the forearm became a yard-long osseous growth, ink-black and vibrating at a frequency that made the ears bleed.
Darwin's legs began to swell, shredding his denim jeans.
His knees snapped backward, skin coating over with hard chitin, and his feet became three-toed talons like those of a locust. The body was adapting to the speed of the cultivators.
Every lunge was punctuated by a micro-explosion of dust beneath his feet. Though the cultivators of the First Core Stage were monsters compared to men, they still possessed human frailties.
This biological killing machine began to overwhelm them, reaching them instantly and striking with jagged, erratic movements. Darwin knew no fatigue—his body was constantly regenerating its stamina through evolution.
Suddenly, the earth shook. A heavy hammer from a peak-stage First Core cultivator slammed into Darwin's back, driving him into the dirt. A sickening, collective snap followed: the mutant's spine turned to powder, and his internal organs ruptured. The swordsman raised his blade for the finishing blow, but in that instant, the victim's body triggered a supreme defensive reflex.
Darwin's skin blackened and burst, venting a blinding pillar of organic flame that disoriented his attackers.
Blinded by the flare, the swordsman swung one last time. Darwin, his bones already knitting back into place, slashed his throat in a sharp, arc-like motion. Death was instantaneous.
In the same breath, the hammer descended again. Darwin threw up an arm, and a massive, hideous bone barrier—resembling a dense tumor—erupted over his forearm. The shield took the hit, cracking but holding; it absorbed the kinetic energy and surged it back into the weapon, wrenching the hammer from the demonic follower's numb hands.
Darwin turned his head, his jaw unhinging to reveal rows of needle-like teeth, his throat swelling like a toad's. A violent spasm of his diaphragm—and a bone spike shot from the mutant's throat, piercing the cultivator's eye socket and burying itself deep in the brain.
In the fading sunlight, a lean silhouette stood still.
His clothes were rags, revealing pulsing, mending skin beneath. A monstrous, cold power. His body slowly "deflated," reverting to a human shape, but his gaze remained heavy, devoid of human mercy.
His mind, like his body, had adapted to the environment, allowing him to view the corpses with cold detachment—or so he thought, until he vomited.
He turned slowly toward Tian Lin. The youth managed to push himself up slightly.
"Can you help me, please?"