The venerable one

In the shrouded darkness, the nearby villages were dead silent. Their doors and windows bolted shut as though abandoned. The rivers that were once lively with fishermen casting their nets, women washing clothes by the banks and children jumping in for a swim were now still and lifeless. Mountains held their breath, their ancient contours etched with trepidation.

What were they so afraid of? The blood-red moon hanging high in the night was all telling. It was an ominous event that only took place once a year and for centuries the rivers would be turned to blood and bodies would be strewn all over the villages with the choking smell of death lingering in the air. 

But over the past decade, there had been no incidences except for the ghostly sounds of gongs and drums coming from beyond the mountains. It was for this reason that some villagers didn't temporarily leave but they were still huddled in their homes not daring to breathe too loud. 

Beyond the mountains at the forest's edge was a mist-shrouded valley. The mist was like a sinister veil clinging to every twisted tree and withered blade of grass. The air itself tasted of decay, a poison seeping into the very soil. Here, there was no life, its last breath stolen by the insatiable maw of darkness.

The thick mist coiled around ancient stones and gnarled roots. Its tendrils reached out like a parasite seeking something to devour. This was the gateway to the northern demon realm. Any foolhardy mortal who dared venture here would find themselves ensnared. 

The mist would wrap around their limbs, their breath stolen, their senses dulled. They would stumble deeper, eyes wide with terror until the world outside faded to a distant echo. And then, they would be lost, never to be seen again. 

Far beyond the mist was the infamous demon realm. The streets, despite their ominous backdrop, were filled with life. It was a great disparity when compared to the valley of death.

Demons of all kinds walked over the cobbled paths, their grotesque forms swaying to an otherworldly rhythm. Horned imps with eyes like molten gold danced alongside sinewy demons, their skin shimmering in the eerie glow. The scent of incense and roasted meats hung heavy, masking the underlying decay.

The parade was a macabre carnival. Gongs and drums reverberated, their rhythm discordant yet intoxicating. A procession of demons, their faces painted in grotesque masks, pushed a large statue. It was a twisted model of their demon king. Its eyes glowed with malefic intent, and its fingers clutched a serrated whip its length, sinuous and cruel, bearing jagged edges that seemed to hunger for flesh. 

The hilt, wrought from twisted serpents, coiled around the demon king's hand, their scales slick with venom. At its core, was a blood gem forged from the lifeblood of the master himself. 

As the parade wound toward the Shadowed Jade palace gates, the crowd's fervour intensified. They chanted the demon king's praise in an ancient language, their voices a dissonant chorus. The statue's eyes flared, and its stone lips seemed to twist into a cruel smile.

The palace doors opened and the crowd walked into the main hall the sonorous sounds of their singing getting louder. Suddenly the festive air shifted and the gongs and, drums fell silent. 

Xiang Yu, the Demon King, emerged from the dark shadows his every step deliberate and echoing through the cavernous space. The blood-red lanterns hung in uneven intervals along the corridor, cast elongated shadows on the black silk of his robe with a canvas of golden dragons that writhed like flames.

Xiang Yu stood tall, his ethereal visage both captivating and terrifying. His skin, as pale as moonlight, seemed to absorb the very essence of life. But it was his twisted smile that sent shivers down spines. 

His neck and hands were covered in ancient symbols etched in obsidian ink. Each mark told a story: conquests, pacts, and the souls he devoured. 

As he stepped into the main hall, the demons fell silent fearing that they would unwittingly step on a landmine. His oppressive aura pressed upon them. It was like an invisible weight was stifling their breath and silencing their tongues. 

Xiang Yu flicked his sleeves before lowering himself onto his throne. Beside him stood the twin sisters Lian and Mei. They were mirror images with porcelain skin and obsidian hair. Their eyes, though seemingly normal, buried a chilling aura hard to ignore. Tattoo runes adorned their necks, pulsing with blood cultivation. Lian's smile was sweet, but her teeth gleamed like daggers. Mei's eyes sparkled, yet they held the hunger of wolves. 

And so, the demons bowed their fear palpable, their loyalty unwavering. Xiang Yu leaned back his fingers tracing the armrests. His nails, crimson as fresh wounds tapped rhythmically against the armrest creating a sinister rhythm. 

His eyes glinted with an ominous light as he surveyed the room. His subjects shifted uneasily not daring to meet his gaze directly. His power was absolute, his cruelty legendary. But today, something amused him. A wicked delight curled his lips into a sinister smile.

"Why so serious? Please... carry on," he commanded, his voice smooth yet as sharp as a blade. The demons resumed their performance, bowing low and pretending not to notice the tremors in their hands. Xiang Yu was a halfling, half demon half man but he was more terrifying than any demon to walk on this land.