Just as the situation seemed to stabilise, the demon threw a curveball by choosing Huai Xiaozhun as its opponent for the soul scale showdown. The air grew thick with astonished gasps, and even Lan Yunlong, who usually maintained a sage-like composure, looked as though he had swallowed a lemon. He had previously assured Huai Xiaozhun that the soul scale could be easily broken, much like a cheap vase in a rambunctious household, but now that seemed overly optimistic.

With a gleeful cackle, the demon began to manipulate Huai Xiaozhun's essence, transforming the battle from a tense standoff into a chaotic nightmare. Under the demon's control, Huai Xiaozhun moved like a marionette, his body a horrifying extension of the demon's dark will. The disciples watched in dismay as their comrade turned against them, his sword slicing through the ranks with a chilling precision. It was as if a sinister puppeteer had taken the stage, and Huai Xiaozhun was forced into a grotesque dance of death. Each swing of his blade was a macabre reminder that the battlefield could turn into a theatre of the absurd at any moment, where one's allies could become their greatest threat in the blink of an eye.

The disciples, who had once been as grateful as kittens with a saucer of milk, were now in a state of absolute bedlam, scattering like confetti in a hurricane. Their once harmonious chants had turned into a cacophony of hysterical screams, ringing out like the world's most disorganised symphony as they attempted to flee the unending assault.

Some, in a futile display of courage, tried to mount a defence, waving their swords with all the determination of a toddler with a plastic spoon. Others simply ran, their cries of terror echoing across the battlefield like the wails of a thousand banshees at an opera night.

Despite their frantic pleas and increasingly inventive appeals for mercy, Huai Xiaozhun continued his rampage with the dedication of a man who had promised to slash through every last disciple and was determined to keep his word. It didn't matter if they begged, bartered, or promised him their firstborn children; he mowed them down like a particularly aggressive gardener dealing with an overgrown hedge. Even the most valiant of them, standing their ground with as much resolve, were dispatched with a mere three slashes—precise, swift, and as inevitable as an unwanted gift from a relentless aunt.

Huai Xiaozhun, a man who had trained for years and could now probably disassemble a warrior with his eyes closed, seemed incapable of stopping himself. His strength was so overpowering that even Lan Yunlong, who had known him since he was a young lad with more dreams than sense, could do little more than watch in slack-jawed disbelief. There he was, forced to witness his once-pupil-now-wrecking-ball slicing through the disciples like a hot knife through butter—except this butter screamed and bled a lot more.

Lan Yunlong, usually a paragon of discipline and control, stood there with a face that was part astonishment and part "I cannot believe this is happening." He had drilled countless lessons into Huai Xiaozhun, only to now find himself the unwilling audience to this gruesome performance.

As the battlefield turned into a nightmarish stage, he felt a surge of powerlessness wash over him. The demon controlling Huai Xiaozhun's every move let out a laugh that was a mix of maniacal glee and a rather catchy yet eerie tune that one might hum absentmindedly while brushing their teeth. It added an extra layer of chaos to the already dismal scene.

With every fallen disciple, the chilling realisation dawned on Lan Yunlong that he might be next in line for this impromptu anatomy lesson. As Huai Xiaozhun, now more demon than disciple, approached him, the sword raised high like a twisted salute, his inner turmoil was as visible as a melodramatic teenager's diary. His hands shook with a ferocity that could rival a leaf in a tornado, caught between the ruthless demon's will and his own desperate resistance.

Huai Xiaozhun's thoughts were a maelstrom of panic and regret: What do I do? I don't want to do this! I swear! His internal struggle against the malevolent force played out in his quivering limbs, as if he were trying to break free from an invisible straitjacket. The battlefield, once a place of orderly combat, now resembled a tragic puppet show, where Huai Xiaozhun's actions were the strings pulled by a cruel puppeteer, each violent slash a twisted dance of defiance and despair.

As Huai Xiaozhun's blade hover threateningly just inches away from his mentor's throat, Lan Yunlong's eyes brimmed with a sorrow that seemed to reach the depths of his very soul. His gaze, heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken regrets, locked onto Huai Xiaozhun, searching for a glimmer of the disciple he once knew.

"I suspected as much," Lan Yunlong murmured, each word laden with a resignation that felt more like a death knell than a mere statement. His voice, cracked and weary, reverberated with a sorrow that echoed through the battlefield like a lament for the living.

"You never intended to break the scale, did you?" His accusation, sharp and cutting, hung in the air like a dagger, stabbing deeper than any physical wound could, betraying a profound sense of betrayal that seemed to tear at the very fabric of their bond.

Huai Xiaozhun, already ensnared in a brutal internal struggle, felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks, mingling with the blood and sweat that marked his face. Each tear that fell was a testament to the agony of a soul at war with itself.

He desperately tried to summon the strength to resist the dark force that controlled him, but his own body had become an unyielding prison. The agony of his predicament was compounded by the realisation that his beloved mentor, the man who had been like a father to him, now looked upon him with doubt and sorrow. The thought was a knife twisting in his heart, each turn a fresh wound in his already tormented spirit.

Lan Yunlong's initial disappointment rapidly gave way to a deeper despair, each word he spoke dripping with a sorrow that seemed to carve its way into Huai Xiaozhun's soul. "You planned this all along, Huai Xiaozhun!" he cried, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief.

The accusation reverberated through the air, branding Huai Xiaozhun as heartless and treacherous, the sting of betrayal like a cascade of sorrow that shattered the bonds of trust irreparably. Lan Yunlong's voice, once a beacon of wisdom and strength, now quivered with an anguish that seemed to reverberate across the battlefield like a dirge for the dying.

The demon, a silent observer to this tragic tableau, likely found great amusement in the chaos it had sown. Its malevolent presence loomed like a shadow, dark and oppressive, over the scene. It watched with a quiet, sinister delight, relishing in the spectacle of Huai Xiaozhun's torment and the ruination of his mentor's spirit.

Huai Xiaozhun, still shackled by the demon's malevolent influence, stood frozen and speechless, his body a mere puppet to the dark force's whims. His mind, however, was a storm of defiance and despair, each attempt to reclaim his autonomy met with an overpowering resistance. He had become a puppet of death, his every move dictated by a dark and sinister will, his spirit dancing unwillingly to the demon's twisted tune.

Lan Yunlong's voice, now thick with a mixture of sorrow and betrayal, pierced the air with the sharpness of a dagger, each word a note in a mournful symphony of lost hope and shattered dreams. "How could I have ever been proud of you, knowing this was inevitable?!" he lamented, his words vibrating with the echoes of a thousand broken dreams.

The depth of his anguish was palpable, each syllable resonating with the pain of a heart that had been irrevocably shattered. Before he could finish, the demon's insidious voice cut through the emotional storm like a cold wind, adding to the turmoil. "You're nothing but a heartless monster," Lan Yunlong declared, his voice carrying the finality of a judgement passed, a sentence that felt as heavy as a mountain crushing down on Huai Xiaozhun's already burdened soul.

The dark voice of the malevolent force, dripping with venomous delight, taunted Huai Xiaozhun, mocking his futile resistance. "What are you doing? Why are you still resisting?" it sneered, its words winding around his mind like a poisonous serpent, squeezing tighter with each passing second. The demon urged him to succumb, to let the darkness that now consumed him take full control.

But in a fleeting moment of clarity, like a brief ray of sunlight piercing through storm clouds, Huai Xiaozhun turned to confront the demon. A spark of defiance ignited in his eyes, a last, desperate flicker of the man he once was. "I know what you want, but I won't let you," he countered, his voice trembling but resolute, fighting against the tide of darkness that threatened to overwhelm him.

Each movement, each word spoken, was a thread in a tapestry of despair, where the bonds of trust and loyalty unravelled in the face of a relentless, malevolent force. The demon, with a knowing grin, watched as Huai Xiaozhun, its puppet, fought a losing battle against the inevitable.

Turning back to Lan Yunlong, his mentor, teacher, and the closest thing he had ever known to a father, Huai Xiaozhun was met with a complex tapestry of emotions in the old man's eyes. Fear mingled with sorrow, and beneath it all, a profound sense of loss and betrayal.