O Senhor Demoníaco Desce dos Céus, Punhos Dominam Montanhas e Rios

In the northern suburbs of Wencheng, deep within the basement of a self-built villa, lay a space of approximately thirty square meters that had undergone extensive modifications.

The walls, floor, and ceiling all shimmered with a cold, metallic luster, resembling the vault of a bank designed to secure vast fortunes. Even more bizarre were the thick, interlinked steel cables, each as wide as an infant’s arm, bolted to the metal walls and stretching toward the center of the room. It looked like a cage meant to restrain some monstrous beast.

Yet, at this moment, the figure bound in the center of the basement was no tiger, lion, or bear, but a man.

He possessed a tall frame with broad shoulders and back, his muscles as robust and defined as those of a sculpture. He was young, his facial features sharp as if carved by a knife. His eyebrows grew in wild, upward-sweeping arcs like broken blades; his nose bridge was prominent and edged, and a vertical "hanging needle" line was etched into his forehead. At a glance, he appeared unremarkable, but a closer look revealed a fierce, menacing intensity that radiated an intimidating aura.

However, this ferocious countenance was tempered by his eyes. They were half-closed, perpetually lowered like those of a Bodhisattva, as if he could not bear to witness the myriad desires and sufferings of the world. His pupils were clear and bright, like a polished mirror reflecting the purity of his inner heart. It was a face that embodied the paradox: "A demon’s visage masking inner chaos, eyes like a Bodhi-see