Within the absolute seclusion of his pavilion, Sunny collapsed onto his spine-throne.
He was entirely drained, his civilian mind struggling to process the sheer volume of slaughter he had just navigated. He explicitly dedicated this brief respite to analyzing the brutal mechanics of the Supreme Merge System.
Through his recent extortion of Commander Vile, Sunny had verified a horrifying reality regarding demonic ascension. Forcing a fiend to break through its genetic ceiling demanded an astronomical influx of dark essence.
If the raw materials were insufficient, the violent restructuring of the beast’s core would cannibalize its own innate potential, permanently degrading its grade from Elite to Normal. The higher the tier, the more catastrophic the material cost became.
Sunny explicitly realized he needed a vault. If he continued extorting the Vanguard captains, he would soon possess a mountain of Corrupted Spirit Stones. Leaving them piled in his tent was an open invitation for thieves. He desperately required the spatial-attribute monstrosity he had witnessed earlier: the Abyssal Void-Sac.
He pulled up the sect’s intelligence matrix via a glowing bone-scroll. The Void-Sac was an anomaly. During the ancient cataclysms, a colony of subterranean lung-leeches had been irradiated by spatial fissures. They mutated, developing internal dimensional pockets, and learned to drift upon ambient death Qi. However, they possessed zero offensive capabilities. In the ruthless ecosystem of the Demonic Path, they were bottom-tier prey, hunted mercilessly by flying terrors. Their only survival mechanism was their disgusting, highly acidic taste, which deterred most predators.
To the sect’s elite, they were nothing more than floating, fleshy rucksacks used by lowly smugglers. But to Sunny, a beast with the Space attribute was a miraculous canvas. If he could fuse that dimensional pocket into the Phantom Ash Scorpion, his assassin would become a walking armory.
Sunny stood up, his joints popping in protest. He explicitly wanted to nap for a decade, but survival demanded action.
He stepped out of his pavilion and summoned a low-ranking Vanguard scout named Krax to act as his guide.
Krax was a rat-faced cultivator covered in festering curse-scars. The moment Sunny’s cold gaze fell upon him, Krax dropped to his knees, his entire body convulsing with mortal dread. He explicitly believed the Supreme Flesh-Crafter had summoned him to be dissected alive for a dark ritual.
"Lead me to the Flesh-Bazaar," Sunny commanded, his voice a freezing, emotionless rasp.
Krax’s heart nearly detonated in his chest. The Flesh-Bazaar was the chaotic, lawless black market of the Outer Sect. High-ranking nobles never went there unless they were hunting for human test subjects.
Krax explicitly concluded that the Young Master intended to slaughter the market’s denizens and force Krax to haul the severed organs back to the pavilion.
"S-Supreme One!" Krax wept, his forehead bleeding against the obsidian tiles. "I shall guide you flawlessly! I swear I will not scream when you harvest my blood! Please, just spare my soul-tether!"
Sunny stared at the sobbing scout. He was internally bewildered. He merely wanted to go shopping for a floating backpack; why was this idiot offering his blood? Sunny explicitly chose not to correct the misunderstanding, knowing his voice might crack from sheer fatigue.
"..." Sunny projected absolute, freezing silence.
Krax interpreted this mute stare as the ultimate confirmation of his impending torture. Whimpering, he scrambled to his feet and led the way, walking stiffly as if he were already a corpse.
The Flesh-Bazaar was a sprawling nightmare of blood-stained tents, rusted iron cages, and bubbling cauldrons of toxic sludge. The air was thick with the stench of rot and the shrieks of mutilated fiends. As Sunny walked through the muddy pathways, his innate villainous aura suffocated the surroundings. Heavily armed smugglers and ruthless cutthroats instantly silenced their haggling, pressing themselves into the mud to avoid the crimson gaze of the Sect Master’s heir.
Sunny maintained a flawless mask of aristocratic cruelty, though internally, he was intensely nauseated by the smell of decaying intestines hanging from the vendor stalls.
Near the edge of the quarantine zone, a scarred slaver stood atop a rusted iron platform, holding a glowing blood-rune amplifier.
"Witness the abyss!" the slaver roared to a crowd of greedy outer disciples. "I offer the ultimate smuggler’s vessel! An Abyssal Void-Sac, harvested directly from the subterranean fissures! Hide your stolen elixirs! Conceal your forbidden weapons! The Enforcers will never detect your contraband!"
Hovering miserably beside the slaver was the entity in question. It was a semi-transparent, pulsating orb of dark veins, drifting sluggishly in the toxic air. It looked profoundly pathetic.
To demonstrate its utility, the slaver grabbed a massive, jagged executioner’s axe. He violently shoved the weapon directly into the fleshy membrane of the Void-Sac. The axe did not pierce the creature; it was instantly swallowed by a ripple of spatial energy, vanishing entirely into the beast’s internal dimension.
The Void-Sac let out a weak, burbling wheeze. It attempted to float away from the cruel slaver, bobbing awkwardly in the air like a punctured lung. However, it was far too slow. The slaver casually reached out and yanked the heavy soul-chain attached to its membrane, violently dragging the creature back to the rusted platform.
"Behold its absolute docility!" the slaver laughed, stretching the Void-Sac’s fleshy exterior to show its elasticity. "It possesses no fangs, no venom, and no malice! It is the perfect, obedient vault!"
Several outer disciples watched with hungry eyes. The ability to hide illicit resources was invaluable in the cutthroat lower ranks.
A young, arrogant disciple wearing the sigil of the Poison Pavilion stepped forward. "I claim it. Name your tribute."
"Thirty high-grade Corrupted Spirit Stones!" the slaver demanded, his face twisting into a greedy sneer. "These spatial anomalies are incredibly rare. You will not find another in this sector!"
The disciple’s arrogant expression shattered. "Thirty stones?! Are you suffering from brain rot? It is a defenseless, floating stomach! I offer five stones, and you should thank the dark heavens for my generosity!"
The slaver crossed his arms. "Thirty. I braved the subterranean ash-tides to secure this anomaly. I will not be robbed."
The disciple ground his teeth, his hand drifting toward his blood-whip. He clearly wanted the beast, but the extortionate price was equivalent to two years of his sect rations.
Sunny explicitly decided he had endured enough of this pathetic haggling. He stepped out from the shadows of the crowd.
The temperature around the rusted platform plummeted. The young disciple felt a suffocating, lethal pressure wash over his spine. He turned around, his eyes locking onto Sunny’s glowing crimson gaze. The disciple recognized the Supreme Flesh-Crafter instantly. The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale as a corpse. He did not utter a single word; he simply turned and sprinted into the ash-fog, abandoning the auction in pure, unadulterated terror.
The slaver froze, his greedy sneer melting into an expression of absolute horror. He explicitly knew that if the Young Master desired the Void-Sac, attempting to charge him thirty spirit stones would result in the slaver’s own head being mounted on the platform.
Sunny approached the rusted stage. He explicitly ignored the terrified murmurs of the fleeing crowd. He stared at the trembling Void-Sac, letting his internal System interface analyze its pathetic stats.
"Supreme One..." the slaver choked out, falling to his knees and raising the soul-chain with shaking hands. "Please... take the anomaly. It is yours. I require no tribute..."
Sunny looked down at the groveling man. He explicitly wanted to select the most physically resilient spatial beast available, ensuring the upcoming fusion wouldn’t instantly detonate due to a weak foundational core.
"..." Sunny offered absolute silence, letting the slaver sweat under his demonic gaze for several agonizing seconds.
"The breeding pits," Sunny finally rasped, his voice echoing with absolute authority. "I will inspect the entire harvest."
The slaver practically wept with relief that he wasn’t immediately executed. "Yes! At once, Supreme One! I will escort you to the holding cells! You may claim whatever your dark heart desires!"
Krax, standing a few paces behind Sunny, squeezed his eyes shut in absolute despair.
He explicitly concluded that the Young Master was heading to the breeding pits to select the perfect, lightless environment to begin Krax’s excruciating vivisection.