It didn’t begin with a flash. There was no explosion of Originat. No tremor in the bones. No screaming winds or cries of lightning. A pause between two breaths. A flicker between two heartbeats. And in that pause... something pulsed. But beneath all of it. It had always been there. Moving silently through the body— To anchor the soul to the flesh. To stitch memory into marrow. To root instinct into every drop of red. This was not just blood. The realization did not strike all at once. It came in pieces—heavy, slow, unshakable. A single drop of blood... Held the echo of an oath once sworn by someone long dead. And yet, it still answered. Because blood... does not forget. It was not an element. Blood was not a force of nature. It was the record of existence. It did not shape the world. And it carried every moment forward—quietly, without praise, without permission. To comprehend the Blood Law was not to discover something new. It was to uncover what had always been there. A rhythm beneath the rhythms. A truth beneath the truths. Even now, the cultivator could feel it— Not as power rising, but as weight settling. A weight that could not be discarded. For this Law was not about strength. It was about connection. To comprehend blood... Was to remember what binds all things. Every bond sealed by blood still lingered. Every vow made in blood still lived. Every ancestor who ever lived, ever fell, ever fought, left something behind— And that something flowed within. The cultivator stood still. But within them, rivers churned. Not rivers of Originat. But rivers of identity. It binds the beast to instinct. It binds the family to name. It binds the warrior to their past. It binds the soul to the body. No contract is older. No thread more sacred. The comprehension did not bring joy. For to understand blood was to understand responsibility. What you come from... All of it pulses in every vein. And in that moment, nothing changed— Every heartbeat spoke. Every drop weighed something. Every scar carried meaning. Every breath felt... connected. To what still lingered. To what would come after. It did not need flame. It did not need thunder. It did not need reverence. It simply needed to be felt. It could never be unfelt again. It did not begin with battle. There were no screams. No flashing blades or boiling rage. And in that breath, a sense too quiet to be noticed by the untrained soul began to rise. Not from the Originat. But from a truth that had always been waiting—beneath instinct, beneath intent, beneath emotion. The Law of Slaughter is not born in war. Slaughter is clarity. It is what remains when choice is removed. When the only answer left... is erasure. To comprehend it is not to thirst for blood. It is to stand at the edge of necessity, look down, and not flinch. Because not everything deserves to endure. Not every beast deserves to be caged. Not every wound can be healed. Some things must end. But because they are a threat to the balance of existence. And in that truth, the cultivator felt it: A cold breath upon the soul. Not chilling from outside, but pressing in from within. Like a blade slowly drawn—not to threaten, but to define. The Slaughter Law was not chaos. It was a scalpel, not a storm. It fell only when there was nothing left to be said. There was no beauty in it. It was the final step— The moment when diplomacy ends, and survival begins. It was the last breath that never gets drawn. The footstep that never reaches the ground. The scream that dies in the throat. Slaughter doesn’t wait. The comprehension deepened. And in that stillness, something more was revealed: Slaughter is not always born from hate. It is sometimes born from responsibility. To take the burden of finality—so others never have to. That is why the Law does not cry. It does not explain itself. It carries the burden alone. It is cold—not from apathy, but from the weight of all it has taken. It is quiet—not from peace, but from all it has silenced. It is sharp—not from malice, but from the need to cut without hesitation. And so it is understood: The Law of Slaughter is the boundary between the living and the dead. It is the border where mercy has collapsed. It is the path no one wants to walk—but someone must. This is not vengeance. Vengeance is personal. This is not bloodlust. Slaughter... is lucid. It is the line drawn when the world itself cannot hold what threatens it. It is the hand that decides, This must end here. Now. Completely. And so, the cultivator understood: To carry this Law is to carry judgment. To wield it is not to kill. It is to cut away what refuses to die. What devours everything in its path. The Law offers no reward. And in that silence, peace may bloom. Or perhaps... it never will. Slaughter does not regret. It does not look back. It simply ensures there’s no one left to look back at all. is the comprehension of the Massacre Law. A law for those who no longer flinch. Who no longer need to feel— Only to end what cannot be allowed to live.