Three years since the Great War of Justice and Evil began.

When the first swords were drawn, no one thought the war would last this long.

The Orthodox factions united as one.

Centering on the Nine Schools and One Gang and the Five Great Clans, numerous sects raised their banners. Martial arts academies, escort bureaus from all regions, and even nameless wandering heroes joined the fray. The common people believed that justice would surely prevail. The foundation of the Orthodox factions, which had protected the Murim for centuries, was solid, and their talent was endless. Though the Blood Cult was a massive force, the prevailing perception was that they were merely a mob of heretics.

In the early stages of the war, it seemed that belief would be proven true.

The Orthodox factions quickly reclaimed northern strongholds and dismantled several branches of the Blood Cult. Renowned elders lost their lives one after another, and Blood Cultists hidden in various regions were busy fleeing. In numerous battles, the banners of the Orthodox factions were planted at the highest points.

People said it wouldn't take long.

Half a year.

A year at most.

It was believed the Blood Cult would soon vanish into history.

However, the Blood Cult did not collapse.

Despite repeated defeats, the organization did not scatter. They abandoned lost strongholds and moved surviving forces elsewhere. If pushed from the front, they struck from the flank; if defeated by day, they reclaimed by night. The front lines shifted constantly.

Above all, their numbers did not decrease.

After every battle, the number of Blood Cultists actually increased.

At first, it was thought that wandering Unorthodox martial artists had joined them.

But as time passed, that alone could not explain it.

When a village fell, a Blood Cult army would appear from that location a few days later. There were even cases where martial artists from destroyed sects stood on the enemy's side. Nameless wanderers gathered under the Blood Cult's banner to obtain food and a place to sleep. Hunger was stronger than conviction, and the number of people picking up swords to survive grew steadily.

The Orthodox factions lost troops even in victory.

The Blood Cult replenished them even in defeat.

That difference began to slowly change the tide of the war.

By the end of the first year.

The Orthodox factions were still superior.

But they were no longer overwhelming.

Captured castles were retaken, and ambushes by the Blood Cult appeared in secured passes. Attacks on supply lines became frequent. Requests for support outnumbered reports of victory, and reinforcements were always insufficient.

As the second year began, the situation worsened further.

The Blood Cult did not avoid direct confrontations.

Instead, they moved massive armies.

Even if thousands fell in a single battle, another army would appear the following month. If one elder died, another took their place. Even if a commander fell, the formation did not break.

It was like a beast that grew a new head whenever one was cut off.

Conversely, for the Orthodox factions, the void felt larger every time a person was lost.

It took a long time to raise a single disciple who had trained for ten years.

A sect elder was not made overnight.

When one person died, there was no one to fill the gap.

Even in victory, the damage remained.

That damage became a weakness in the next battle.

The sects were growing weary.

Sect leaders personally took to the front lines, and even the rising stars of the younger generation picked up swords. Even old masters in secluded meditation opened their doors. The fight to squeeze out the last bit of strength continued.

But the Blood Cult did not stop.

The fighting never rested.

When a battle ended in the east, flames erupted in the west.

When news of victory came from the north, a castle fell in the south.

No place was safe.

The entire Murim became a single battlefield.

The common people were the first to break.

Rice paddies were abandoned.

Merchant caravans lost their way.

Marketplaces closed, and inns were filled with refugees.

Children grew up hearing the sound of clashing blades, and parents could not promise a tomorrow.

In more and more places, there weren't even enough people to bury the corpses.

Rivers turned blood-red, and flocks of crows never left the fields.

In the third year.

The tide of war completely turned.

The Orthodox factions could no longer attack.

Just defending was overwhelming.

Each sect established defensive lines, and their gates were tightly shut. With no room to send support, they even began to ignore each other's pleas for help.

The Blood Cult was different.

Red banners increased by the day.

Cultists who once moved in shadows now strode through the streets in broad daylight, and the Blood Cult's armies advanced to the very gates of major cities. Red banners were raised wherever they passed, and before long, those places became Blood Cult territory.

Half of the Murim was dyed red.

People no longer spoke of who was righteous.

They only talked about who would survive.

The names of the Orthodox factions still stood.

The Nine Schools and One Gang remained, and the Five Great Clans were holding out.

But their influence was not what it used to be.

The great pillars that protected the world were cracked, and those cracks widened every day.

In contrast, the Blood Cult's prestige pierced the heavens.

Even in fear, people spoke that name.

Some submitted, some fled.

Some knelt under the Blood Cult's banner to survive.

And everyone thought of one man's name.

The Blood Demon.

Since he appeared on the battlefield, the war had taken on a completely different aspect.