Poison God's Heritage

Three days had passed in the lands of the Beyond, and the devastation left in the wake of the Suns' fury was nothing short of apocalyptic. The Rakshasa, once an overwhelming force, had been reduced to little more than broken bodies and scattered remnants.

Their blood, an unnatural blue, seeped into the earth, staining it like an eternal reminder of their foolishness in challenging the might of the Suns.

The battlefield was a sight to behold—if one could stomach the carnage. The space above the beyond was littered with the torn and mangled corpses of the Rakshasa, their once terrifying forms now nothing more than grotesque reminders of a battle they never stood a chance of winning.

The skies above the Beyond had darkened, as if mourning the thousands of souls that had been obliterated in the Suns' onslaught. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burnt flesh and the metallic tang of spilled blood, creating an atmosphere so oppressive it felt like the world itself was on the brink of collapse.

Yet the Rakshasa weren't the only ones to feel the brunt of the Suns' wrath. The Darkest Sun found himself utterly powerless in the face of the chaos his fellow Suns had unleashed. His carefully laid plans had been trampled underfoot, and his battlefield turned into a slaughterhouse.

The precision and order he had instilled in his forces were now nothing but a distant memory, replaced by the reckless abandon with which the Suns tore through the Rakshasa.

The Blue Sun, a figure typically associated with calm and collected wisdom, had become something else entirely—a storm of unrelenting fury. She plunged into the thick of the Rakshasa hordes, her attacks unyielding, her movements fueled by a deep, simmering rage that no one had ever seen in her before. Her elegant, almost serene demeanor had been replaced by a cold, calculated brutality.

Each strike she made was precise, designed not just to kill but to cause as much suffering as possible. The skies above the battlefield wept blue blood for three days straight, a gruesome testament to her unending vengeance. It was as if the very heavens were mourning alongside her, their tears mingling with the blood of the fallen.

Shen Bao's death had awakened something in the Blue Sun that she herself hadn't anticipated. He wasn't just another cultivator; he had been her intellectual equal, a rare mind that had sparked in her a sense of camaraderie and kinship she hadn't felt in eons. They had been partners in discovery, explorers of the unknown, crafting wonders that defied the very laws of the universe.

The thought of losing such a companion, of never again engaging in the exhilarating exchange of ideas and theories, filled her with a grief so profound that it threatened to consume her entirely. And so, she channeled that grief into her strikes, each one more vicious than the last, as if punishing the Rakshasa for the crime of existing in a world that no longer contained Shen Bao.

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The Red Sun, known for his fiery temper and unstoppable power, had become a living embodiment of rage. His avatar, a colossal figure that seemed to blot out the very sun with its presence, descended upon the Rakshasa like a vengeful god. His many arms moved with such speed and ferocity that they became blurs of destruction, tearing through the fabric of space itself with every swing.

The void around him crackled with energy, distorting reality as if the universe itself couldn't contain his wrath. The Rakshasa, for all their numbers and strength, were nothing more than fodder for his rage, their bodies torn apart in a relentless storm of violence.

The Red Sun's fury wasn't just born of a need for revenge—it was a reflection of the deep respect he had developed for Shen Bao. The young cultivator had shown a spirit that refused to break, a will that stood strong even in the face of overwhelming power, even against him.

In Shen Bao, the Red Sun had seen a reflection of his own indomitable nature, a kindred spirit who shared his refusal to bow to fate. And now that spirit had been extinguished, snuffed out by the cruel hand of the heavens. The Red Sun's avatar became an instrument of his grief, each of his arms a scythe of retribution, reaping a bloody harvest among the Rakshasa hordes.

The Wisest Sun, ever the thinker, had responded to Shen Bao's death in a manner befitting his nature—by creating something entirely new, something terrifying. His rage was cold and calculated, a stark contrast to the overt displays of fury by the other Suns.

He channeled his grief into the creation of a new Key, a construct of pure law and mysticism, an artifact he had only ever theorized about before. This Key had no elemental alignment; it was a mystical tool inspired by Shen Bao's Sky Pearl, the artifact that had once served as his eye, allowing him to see the world in ways others could not.

The Key floated above the battlefield like an ethereal wraith, a silent sentinel that inspired terror in the hearts of the Rakshasa. Whenever a Rakshasa laid eyes upon it, the Key activated, boring into their consciousness and forcing them to relive the most agonizing deaths of their brethren.

It was a living record of pain and suffering, an ever-growing archive of death that fed on the misery of its victims. The more the Rakshasa suffered, the stronger the Key became, its power amplifying with each new death it witnessed.

It was a weapon of unimaginable cruelty, a reflection of the Wisest Sun's own internal torment, a manifestation of the pain he felt at the loss of a cultivator who had shown him a new way of seeing the world.

The Flamboyant Sun, never one to shy away from spectacle, turned his grief into a display of divine retribution. Though his relationship with Shen Bao had been brief, it had left a lasting impression. Shen Bao had been a man who defied the expectations of those around him, who stood tall even in the face of overwhelming odds.

The Flamboyant Sun, who had always lived life on his own terms, saw in Shen Bao a reflection of his own refusal to conform, his own desire to blaze his own path through life.

In his grief, the Flamboyant Sun unleashed his full power, creating a colossal apparition of death and flames that soared through the heavens. His wings, spanning thousands of miles, were a kaleidoscope of color—yellow, gold, red, and white flames interwoven in a tapestry of destruction. He became a divine avenger, an angel of death whose very presence incinerated the Rakshasa.

His flames were not merely an attack; they were a purification, a cleansing fire that burned away the taint of the Rakshasa, leaving nothing but ashes in their wake. His rage was so intense that it scorched the sky itself, turning it into a burning canvas of death and destruction.

Yet, despite the immense power displayed by the Suns, there was one among them whose fury was so great that it had to be contained—the Lording Sun. The eldest of the Suns, a being so ancient and powerful that his very presence commanded awe, had been forced to seal himself away.

He had asked the other Suns to bind him with chains crafted in the likeness of the Seven Colored Cloud that had struck down Shen Bao. These chains, replicas of the ones that had ended Shen Bao's life, were the only things capable of holding the Lording Sun in check.

The Lording Sun's rage was a force of nature, a tempest so intense that it threatened to tear apart the very fabric of reality. His existence shuddered and vibrated with the power of his grief, a barely contained storm that could break free at any moment.

The other Suns knew that if the Lording Sun were to unleash his full power, it wouldn't just be the Rakshasa who suffered—the entire Beyond would be at risk of annihilation. And so, the Dusking Sun had taken on the unenviable task of keeping the Lording Sun contained, using all his power to suppress the vibrations and shaking that emanated from the eldest Sun's bound form.

The Lording Sun had always been a figure of immense power, but this was different. This was a man who had lost something irreplaceable, something that had stirred feelings long buried beneath centuries of stoicism. Shen Bao had been like a son to him, the son he never had. He had watched over Shen Bao since his earliest days of cultivation, guiding him from afar, nurturing his potential.

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The Black Merchant, his most trusted retainer, had delivered the Lording Sun's favorite brush, made from the whiskers of a mighty dragon, to Shen Bao—a gift of immense significance. The Lording Sun had even prophesied the arrival of an Emerald Sun, a Sun who would bring harmony and compassion, yet possess the venomous devastation of a vengeful god.

He had believed Shen Bao to be that Sun, but the Heavens had cruelly denied him.

The Dusking Sun, though known for his speed and agility, had never faced a challenge as great as this. To suppress the rage of the Lording Sun was to fight against the very essence of the universe's fury. Every ounce of his energy was spent in holding the Lording Sun's power in check, preventing it from spilling out and consuming everything in its path.

The Dusking Sun had to put aside his own grief, his own rage, to focus on the task at hand, knowing that if he failed, the consequences would be catastrophic.