The failed assassination.., p.1
The Failed Assassination of the Thunder God, page 1
The Failed Assassination of the Thunder God
Dark Cultivation Fantasy
K. Klein
Copyright © 2022 by K. Klein
Cover created by JV Arts
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Contents
Novel Playlist
Foreword
Map of Rasheia Side 1
Map of Rasheia Side 2
Dedication
1. Reunion
2. Wintertide
3. Familiarity
4. Accusations
5. Truth & Lies
6. Unfaithful Servants
7. Hidden Darkness
8. Liberation
9. First Meeting
10. Luminous Soul
11. Meditation
12. Cultivation Partners
13. Consequences
14. Promises
15. The Hunt
16. Devastation
17. Hazy Reminders
18. Chamber of Divinity
19. Blood & Liquor
20. Honarvar
21. Healing
22. Dragon Master
23. To be continued...
24. Bonus
Endnotes
Acknowledgments
Information Guide
About the Author
I'm the Great Immortal Hero's Love Interest
Novel Playlist
Mr. Forgettable by David Kushner
Born Without a Heart by Faouzia
Dynasty by MIIA
War of Hearts by Ruelle
Man or a Monster by Sam Tinnesz & Zayde Wolf
Villains Aren't Born (They're Made) by PEGGY
Secrets and Lies by Ruelle
Power by Isak Danielson
Madness by Ruelle
Now that We're Alone by The People's Thieves
Foreword
I would like to inform readers of the various trigger warnings in this title. It contains emotional and physical abuse, family trauma, suicidal thoughts, death, blood & gore, violence, and foul language.
To all the writers out there crafting the story of their heart and soul.
Reunion
Present
Gods and mortals are not so different.
Such was the thought of 1Qian Meng as he moved down the long, murky corridor. This lifeless castle with a musty draft didn’t appear to be the home of a God, but what did he know? The information his contact gave him was accurate—the shady man had never steered him wrong over the hundreds of years they’d known one another. And Qian Meng was no more than a commoner who practiced cultivation and magic by his own grit and sweat, never swearing allegiance to a temple nor a God. For all he knew, they preferred to play around in the dark. At the thought, the side of his mouth hitched up in a rare, sardonic smile.
He turned a corner to move further into the building, following a weak qi signature roiling through the air, teasing his senses. The energy tickled the back of his brain as if there were a memory once tethered to it. Yet, after cultivating for over one thousand years, he rarely thought of his past, and when he did, it often slipped through his fingers like water. Disappearing before he could see it clearly. The dark cultivator pushed reminiscence aside. Before him stood a nondescript wooden door. Qian Meng pressed in close, trying to discover whether someone or something waited for him on the other side. There was no sound, only a sense of change in the air, marking the being as one that wielded powerful magic. Just what awaited him? For a moment, he stepped back, taking a dagger from his waist to flip it back and forth in his hand. A tic he often reverted to whenever he felt indecisive.
“Will you be coming in to kill me or not?”
The voice bled through the wood without warning and so clearly Qian Meng startled, eyes widening. It was crisp and melodious, almost calming. He remained frozen for two heartbeats, pressing his lips together. Was the being behind that door the God he was sent to kill? If so, the element of surprise had long since been tossed out the nearest open window. The realization didn’t bother him. He had killed many aware of their own demise in the past—Gods and humans alike—and would kill many after.
With that thought, he pushed open the heavy door. It was unlocked, and even the slight glow of flickering candles inside seemed to blind him as he unsheathed his sword. It was a long saber contrived of dark as sin 2starmetal—forged deep within the very first kiln of Sena. Not a single cultivator other than himself had managed to lift it, let alone wield it. The magic it possessed was unrivaled, brimming with murderous intent and ferocity. It slithered throughout the room, swallowing all light whole and shrouding them in darkness.
The being before him stood by the cold hearth. One arm resting upon it while the other hung down by his waist, face tilted away. The stance was elegant, yet lazy. As if the man had been waiting all day and was willing to wait for ten thousand more. His robes contrasted with Qian Meng’s—a celestial white edged in gold and covered in stunning etchings of lotus flowers—the depiction of the Divine Emperor of their world. Qian Meng’s lips twisted as he stepped closer, hefting the blade up between them.
The being at last turned, glowing crimson eyes heavy-lidded as he looked the cultivator up and down. He was indeed an immortal. Holding devastating beauty as all other Gods did. Lush lips, full arched brows, and a single golden gem pressed between them. His silky raven hair fell in waves around his body, tied away from his face with a gleaming hair ornament in the shape of a roaring dragon. He held no weapons but for a single worn mallet at his waist.
“You are different from what I expected.”
Qian Meng raised his brows. “And what did you expect?”
The man smiled, and it blinded Qian Meng far more than the light of the sun ever could.
“Someone softer, more delicate.”
He reared away, lips pulling back from his teeth as he sneered. “You know of me and you expected softness?”
Qian Meng was a renowned cultivator esteemed for his exceptional power and craving for bloodshed. He wielded the rare art of Spiritual magic touted by the Achak Temple. Once luminous and beautiful, his power changed throughout his years of heinous deeds, turning sinister. Because no matter how death was dealt or to whom, it was nevertheless murder. The general public knew him as the immortal to call upon should they need someone of importance assassinated, and while such a claim was semi-true, he only killed when it was warranted. Crucifying evil men by evil means was his specialty. It just so happened that many of the evil men he’d killed also cultivated an insurmountable amount of influence. Should the man know of his history, there was no way he’d expect him to be some soft, delicate flower.
Yet, the God laughed, lips stretching into a full smile.
“Yes, I know you.”
The reply felt loaded, shimmering with more knowledge than he possessed. It unnerved Qian Meng enough that he almost took a step back before catching himself and gritting his teeth.
“I have come to kill you.”
The man didn’t lose his grin, throwing out his arms to either side. “Ah, I thought so. Then, go ahead. I will not stop you.”
Despite the clear invitation, Qian Meng did not move from his spot across the room, brows twitching. Never had anyone he came to kill requested death. Just what in the world was this man playing at? Was he invincible? Impenetrable by blades? Did he possess some kind of demonic talisman used to rebound an opponent’s killing blow? There must be a clearer explanation other than a God simply asking to die. If there was one thing they were known for, it was their boundless arrogance and wealth of life. Not a single one of them would be humble enough to offer such things on a silver platter.
“Go ahead? What, are you tired of living?”
The God answered the question with one of his own. “What is your name, young man?”
Young man. Qian Meng almost snorted. It had been a long time since such a title had been bestowed on him.
“Qian Meng,” he replied flatly, not bothering to ask in return.
The man told him regardless with a flourish of his wrists. “Lovely name. I am the God of Thunder and Justice, 3Lei Gong.”
“Great, that’s great. Now, answer the question,” Qian Meng demanded, teeth still grinding.
Lei Gong turned his body to face him, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his opulent robe. “Hm. I suppose I’m not tired of living, but I wouldn’t mind dying at your hands.”
Qian Meng was struck speechless. He stared and stared at Lei Gong until the silence between them grew unbearably awkward. There was nothing to say. Such a wild, terrible joke should only be met with his sword. And yet, he still could not move. His limbs refused to obey his screaming command to lunge, to put the poor man out of his misery. Qian Meng’s legendary sword, 4Yu Chang, fell limply to hang beside his waist. He sneered, then scoffed, then closed his mouth with a snap. Was the God truly so pitiful that Qian Meng felt an ounce of sympathy? No, that couldn’t be it. The only emotion chasing its tail in his chest these days was annoyance. This had to be some kind of sorcery. In any other circumstance, he would not hesitate. He’d rush to complete his aim if only so he could drift along for another thirty years in the silence of nature—cultivating in blessed seclusion. His old bones were good for nothing else.
“You are...” He sa
Lei Gong stepped closer. “I am, what?”
Qian Meng eyed him. “Deranged.”
The God laughed, rosy eyes closing; long, soft lashes gracing his cheeks. “No one else has ever said such a thing to me!”
Qian Meng didn’t know why his statement was funny.
“I’m sure they haven’t. Do not despair, though, for I'm this horrid to all the men I kill.”
Lei Gong’s expression darkened suddenly, going from soul-aching to near murderous. “Everyone gets treated like this?”
Qian Meng tilted his head. “Well, most times, not a soul lives this long before they grow cold in a puddle of their own blood. So, if it truly matters to you, congratulations on lasting a few more minutes.”
It was meant as a biting jest, but Lei Gong’s grin returned as if Qian Meng said exactly what the man wanted to hear.
“I’ll count myself as lucky, then!”
With that, the God took yet another step closer, and as the room was quite small, it brought him within a 5chi of Qian Meng. He wished to back up, but the only thing behind him was the now-closed door. No matter how hard he thought about it, Qian Meng could not recall it swinging shut in the first place. Such a drastic misstep was strange. . . He was never lax on minute details. Normally, should anything change, move, or squeak even the slightest bit, he knew. The sword at his hip shivered in his grip. From nerves or something else, he couldn’t place the feeling rushing through his chest. All he knew was how fast his heart rate had become, thumping in his head so loud it was all he could hear.
Lift the sword. Lift it!
He screamed inside himself—raged—but his outer shell only stood still as a tower of jade. Lei Gong leaned in, hands tucked behind his back and stomach coming within centimeters of the trembling blade. Did he not fear him? Was the man convinced Qian Meng could do no harm to a God? The dark cultivator clenched his jaw so hard it ached, keeping his eyes focused on the man before him. Never blinking. He wanted to tell this pompous God just how many of his kind he’d killed in the past, but also didn’t want to give the man the satisfaction of forcing Qian Meng to speak first. So, they only stared at one another. Lei Gong’s eyes were a deep, luminous crimson ringed in amber. A color he’d never seen in any human, nor God. It was a gaze a maiden fell into without resistance, and one any average man fled from.
But he was no average man.
“You are provoking me, you know,” Lei Gong finally murmured, gaze tracking across his features.
Qian Meng did his best to keep his expression flat, unbothered. Hoping to hide just how little control he held over his body.
“Provoking you?”
Lei Gong took the final step forward, actually impaling himself on the saber. He made no noise even as blood seeped through his cream robes. His face remained severe, lips pulled back to reveal a set of overly sharp incisors. Did he just stab himself on Yu Chang? Qian Meng thought dizzily, eyes flitting between the blade sunk to the hilt inside the man’s stomach and his face. They were now pressed together, chest to hips, the scent of iron engulfing them. Wherever Lei Gong touched him, even through their clothes, it felt impossibly warm. As if the God were on fire and would set him ablaze at any moment.
“Yes. It’s been so many years, and yet, you still pretend not to know me,” Lei Gong whispered, pressing his forehead to Qian Meng’s.
He could feel the golden gem between the God’s brows digging into his skin. It was cold to the touch, the only part of their bodies not burning. Qian Meng couldn’t help it, he gasped softly, lips parting. Lei Gong’s eyes dropped to them, narrowing like a predator finding its prey. The dark cultivator knew he should struggle, should want to, but his body had gone liquid against the door. If Lei Gong were to step away, he might slip to the floor, losing all strength in his legs. What was happening to him? Not a single spell he knew of could accomplish this, and he knew of no magic items the God possessed with such an ability. He wracked his brain for a solution, continually coming up empty.
“I have never met you,” he replied.
Lei Gong chuckled, all animosity flying away like a passing breeze. “Sticking to your convictions. How commendable.”
He pressed in, pushing one knee between Qian Meng’s legs. His eyes widened at the sensation, lips pulling back as indignation flared through his chest. He’d never been treated like this in all his life. With that thought, some semblance of sense returned to him, giving his body the strength to support itself. He shoved Lei Gong away, pushing the God off his blade with a single kick to the ribs. Blood sprayed, and Yu Chang was coated in shining red as Qian Meng once again pointed the saber at his target, seething. Even so, his limbs felt weak, but not from fatigue. It was another type of sensitivity, one he’d prefer to ignore.
“Just what are you playing at?!” Qian Meng shouted, voice echoing off the cold, concrete walls.
Lei Gong had staggered back upon being kicked, but slowly straightened, blood trickling from the sides of his mouth. Still, he stood with pride, both hands tucked behind his back. “Just why haven’t you killed me?” He retorted.
Qian Meng was asking himself the same thing!
He could lift Yu Chang, and feel anger thrumming through his entire being, but his body refused to take a single step. To fall into all the training he’d spent years cultivating. His qi was a storm inside his dantian, writhing so forcibly it made him sick to his stomach, sweat breaking out across his brow. It almost strained toward the other man, reaching for him as if he were the last sip of water in the middle of a desert.
“I...” Qian Meng gasped, eyes narrowing so entirely that they turned to slits.
Lei Gong leaned in as if to hear him better. “Yes?”
Qian Meng took one staggering step forward through sheer force of will, screaming through his teeth. Yu Chang pulsed with dark magic in time with his stuttering heart and trembled so badly you could see the shivers of it across the blade. Another step, another bead of sweat. His head swam the closer he staggered until the entire room was spinning ceaselessly.
“You—!” He grunted.
“Me?”
Qian Meng could not finish the sentence, the dizzying pace of the room slowing only for darkness to seep in, spiraling until Lei Gong’s smiling face was the last thing he saw as he fell prey to unconsciousness.
Wintertide
Past
Winter had arrived weeks early, bringing along with it flurries of snow and air you could see your breath in. The Noelani mountains were known for their drastic wintertide, but this felt excessive. Qian Meng brushed his hands together, blowing hot air between his palms to warm them even while knowing they were frozen solid. The only thing that could thaw him now was a blazing fire and two bowls of slow-roasted rabbit and root stew.
He daydreamed about it while shifting on the icy branch, muscles screaming for how long he’d been crouched there, waiting on the caravan 6Yi Jie ensured would trek through this very mountain pass. However, he wasn’t specific enough with his intel. Qian Meng didn't know when the caravan would clop through, only that it would be here. So he’d shown up hours ago, just after the sun rose, and had been here long since.
“Just a bit longer,” he muttered to himself, tucking his hands into the folds of his robe.
If they didn’t arrive by nightfall, he’d trudge back to the village and wring Yi Jie’s neck. That would absolve at least an ounce of the rage festering in his chest where his heart should be. It’d long since grown too large for a single death to handle; beginning its gestation period when he was no more than five. Now, he’d be turning twenty in just a few weeks, marking two decades in this world. One more than he ever thought possible for a broken and forgotten boy like him. He licked his lips, shoving aside thoughts of his childhood. If he wasn’t careful, he’d fall into qi deviation—a state of mind and body destruction wrought by poisonous emotions and dangerous practices. . . For which he had an abundance of both.
Thankfully, there was nothing else to think about as a carriage came inching around the corner, flanked by dozens of guards sitting elegantly atop their mounts. Their armor caught the afternoon sun, throwing arcs of dazzling light across the snowy banks along the path. Qian Meng straightened his posture, forcing his aching body into a ready position. Slush and dirt kicked up from beneath the spinning wheels as the guards spoke amongst themselves, at ease. Lines of malnourished and improperly clothed servants trudged along behind, heads hanging and shivering bodies a shade of frightening blue. Qian Meng’s chest tightened at the sight, and the hand gripping his sword clenched. Horses stomped their hooves, sweat-slicked backs dripping to mark a long journey traversed. It seemed the caravan was late and in a hurry. . . Too bad he didn’t plan on allowing them through to their destination.
