Jingxuan opens his eyes, the glow of comprehension fading from them like dying embers.
For three days, he has sat unmoving, delving into the essence of the Iron Eater's powers.
He has grasped the vibration that hides within the Metal Screech ability.
He has understood the corrosive mystery behind the Iron Stomach.
And only a few hours ago, he began unravelling the Law of Metal within the Iron Armour.
Now, he stops.
A disturbance ripples through the quiet.
He rises from his bed and steps into the corridor.
The courtyard outside is shrouded in fog—thick, silent, and unnatural.
His eyes narrow.
They've finally made their move.
Trouble has come.
He exhales slowly, more irritated than alarmed.
I cannot let anyone leave alive.
It's not fear that fills him, but annoyance—his cultivation interrupted, his progress delayed.
Still, this could serve a purpose.
A decisive, overwhelming victory will buy him time.
Make them hesitate before sending more assassins.
Until he reaches the Dark Sun Warlock Realm, his enemies will not stop.
So tonight, he will remind them why Ji Jingxuan is not a man easily hunted.
A glint of metal appears inside the fog, and he snaps his hand out—his fingers turn to rough stone as he clamps around it.
He opens his palm: a double-edged small knife lies there, its blade nicking his skin and leaving a shallow cut that beads with blood.
I really need to deduce a body-refinement technique, he thinks, tasting iron at the edge of his mind.
He levels his palm at a nearby roof and sends a volley of stone shards cutting through the mist.
Halfway, the shards smash into a swelling globe of water; it ruptures with a thunderous splash, drenching the courtyard below.
A claw whistles past where his head was only moments ago—he ducks, rolling aside, and without bothering to look toward the source, fires an acid orb at his attacker's belly.
The acid ball, born from his rough understanding of the Iron Stomach's corrosive mystery, hits true; the enemy's scream is a high, wrenching sound that slices through the fog.
Jingxuan does not move as the two rush him—one sword blazing with fire, the other crackling with lightning.
He has no weapon to meet them.
Instead, he inhales slowly, then opens his mouth.
A roar tears free—metallic, piercing, a vibration that shakes the air itself.
The sound wave blasts outward, freezing the attackers mid-stride; their flames flicker out, their lightning fades, and their faces twist in pain as blood seeps from their ears.
Their blades tremble, reverting to plain steel, and they clutch their heads, screaming voicelessly against the pressure.
Before Jingxuan can finish them, the plants in the courtyard tremble.
The woman lunges, her sword leaving a streak of frost through the mist.
Jingxuan's palm flares crimson—he mutters a word, and a ripple of heat bursts outward, warping the air.
The frost on the stones hisses to steam as fire lashes out from his hand, clashing against her ice blade.
The courtyard fills with vapour and sparks; every blow sends waves of heat and cold colliding.
She moves like flowing water, her attacks precise and elegant, yet Jingxuan meets each strike with his own rhythm of heat, melting her sword's edge again and again.
Then—movement from the fog.
A blur of motion, and a hidden assailant slashes from behind.
Jingxuan pivots, stone shards spiralling from his fingertips, forcing the shadow back—but before he can counter, the two men he'd deafened earlier stagger from the mist, eyes burning red, weapons drawn.
They charge with snarls that sound more beast than human.
Jingxuan turns his forearm to metal, light glinting on its hardened surface, and summons another wave of heat that rolls like a desert wind.
Against four attackers, his expression remains calm.
He fights barehanded, weaving spells between punches—each movement sharp, deliberate, born from years of killing.
Their blades scrape harmlessly off his metal arm.
He drives one back with a molten palm, spins, and kicks another through a wall of steam.
The heat thickens the fog, and their breathing turns ragged.
Panic flickers in their eyes as they draw deeper on their Weird energy; veins darken, skin cracks, alien textures spreading across their limbs.
Their eyes burn scarlet, their sanity slipping away.
Jingxuan sees it—the moment the line is crossed.
"It's over," he says softly.
He inhales, then unleashes a roar—metallic, deafening, the same sound that shattered weapons before.
The wave tears through the fog, and two of them drop screaming, clutching their bleeding ears.
The others stagger, blind with rage.
Jingxuan flashes forward, his palm slicing through the throat of one of the deafened men; blood sprays, turning to steam in the heat.
Roots burst from the ground—another attacker, the plant user, tries to ensnare him.
He burns through the vines with a sweep of fire, turns, and crushes the man's skull beneath a metal fist.
The woman leaps through the mist, ice spears forming around her, her eyes wild.
Jingxuan raises his hands—heat and frost intertwine as he steals control of her element, twisting it back on her.
The spears freeze midair, then turn liquid, then steam.
He steps through the mist and drives his molten hand through her chest.
Her body melts into water and ice fragments before collapsing onto the wet stones.
The fog settles.
Jingxuan stands alone, steam curling around him, eyes sharp, breath steady.
"Next time," he murmurs, "they'd better send someone stronger."
The fog still clings to the courtyard like a living thing; Jingxuan knows why — a magic instrument anchors it.
He spots it on a nearby roof: a dull grey box belching the mist, its seams pulsing faintly with stolen power.
Without hesitation, he climbs up, drops a heavy hand on the lid, and snaps it shut.
The instrument's hum dies instantly; the fog, no longer held, unravels and pours away on the night wind.
He clicks his fingers and, drawing on the mystery of vibration, sets a bell of sound to ring directly in the ears of the sleeping servants and guards.
One by one, they stir, eyes fluttering open; his voice follows like a command. "Come here."
He jumps down from the roof and stands in the doorway of his room, waiting as the last of them gathers.
His gaze moves across the ruined garden: trampled flowerbeds, scorched earth, and five bodies lying twisted between the paths, skin marked with the telltale signs of alienation.
He surveys them coldly, thinking first of pragmatics.
The military office in Sandrift buys alienated corpses; he doesn't know—or care—why.
Money, plus the removal of a danger, is all the reasoning he needs.
Tomorrow, he will send one warlock team to Sandrift City's military office to sell the corpses.
He hears hurried footsteps, the sharp gasps of horror.
Three guards fall to their knees before him, trembling, begging forgiveness.
He waves them off and orders the servants to repair the garden, the guards to store the corpses.
To the housekeeper, he says quietly, "Call Ren Shou tomorrow morning."
At dawn, the town buzzes with whispers as Ren Shou and his team ride through the streets.
Behind them, a cart rolls slowly, carrying five shrouded corpses.
As they reach the town gate, a line of armoured riders blocks the path—the Ji family's divine warrior team, their mounts towering Wulverns, scales glinting like bronze.
Their captain reins in his beast and calls out, "What happened?"
Ren Shou stiffens, eyes catching the Ji insignia on their chestplates—a howling Wulvern against a silver moon.
They are the Ji family's own; they must have come for the commander.
"Commander Ji was attacked last night," Ren Shou says.
The divine warriors exchange alarmed glances, tension thickening the air.
They were sent to protect Ji Jingxuan; if harm came to him, their failure would mean ruin.
Their captain leans forward, voice taut. "How is the Third Young Master?"
Ren Shou senses their fear and quickly adds, "Do not worry. The commander is unharmed."
Moments later, inside the living room, the divine warriors stand before a calm, seated Jingxuan.
"My father sent you to protect me," Jingxuan says.
The captain bows deeply. "Yes, Third Young Master."
Jingxuan nods once. "Good."
He rises without another word, leaves the hall, and returns to his room.
Jingxuan closes his eyes, the room around him fading as his consciousness sinks into the depths of his spirit space.
The Iron Eater's core hovers before him, glowing softly, and the trapped weird spirit writhes inside it, trying to resist.
Jingxuan stretches his awareness, tendrils of spirit energy flowing out like molten silver, probing the strange consciousness.
The spirit recoils at the touch, sparks of alien energy flaring from its form, but Jingxuan's will is absolute.
He coils his spirit around it, like threads of liquid metal wrapping the struggling entity, constricting without pause.
The weird spirit screams in psychic resonance, a soundless howl that shakes the fabric of his inner world, but Jingxuan does not relent.
Piece by piece, he isolates fragments of its essence, drawing them toward himself, pulling the core's consciousness into his own.
Its chaotic energy lashes outward, trying to tear free, but Jingxuan's spirit hardens like iron, pressing it into submission.
He channels the Law of Metal through his spirit, reinforcing the boundaries of his mind, grinding the strange will into quiet obedience.
Slowly, the writhing essence begins to shrink, twisting inward, merging with his own spiritual core.
A flash of alien memory, a glimpse of molten scales and metal claws, floods him, and he absorbs it, feeling the raw, violent strength of the Iron Eater's spirit integrate seamlessly with his own.
The struggle fades. The weird spirit becomes a dormant part of him, its strength and abilities now a silent current beneath his consciousness.
Jingxuan feels his consciousness slip, drifting from the familiar confines of his body as his soul enters the Iron Eater's core, the connection to his physical form severed, leaving him suspended in a strange, metallic void.
The core hums with energy, the merged weird spirit pulsing faintly, and his senses sharpen, attuned to every vibration, every echo of the Law of Metal.
Time stretches differently here; his soul floats through currents of energy and resonance, weaving through the fragments of the core, feeling its potential, its raw power.
He focuses, moulding the merged essence of his own spirit and the weirds, letting the metal pulse through him, letting it flow into every corner of his being, pushing the limits of his comprehension.
Slowly, the fabric of the core bends to his will, and the resonance of the moons beyond the Divine Domain brushes against his soul, their light a guide through the hidden pathways of the spirit.
He senses the thresholds of the next stage, the Moon Realm, shimmering just beyond his grasp, a luminous wall of potential.
With meticulous control, he draws upon the lunar resonance, synchronising it with the vibrations of the Iron Eater's core, weaving Law of Metal and Moon energy together.
Energy floods his soul, a cascade of power, and his awareness sharpens beyond mortal perception; the transition begins, painful yet precise, like a forge reshaping his entire essence.
The core trembles, the weird spirit within adjusting, merging fully with his soul's rhythm, and he feels the first taste of Moon Realm warlock power coursing through him, every cell of his spiritual form awakening to the next plane.
He draws a deep breath as his soul settles back into his body, the pulse of the breakthrough still echoing through every thread of his being.
The barrier that once veiled the world's rhythm is gone; now, every flicker of metal essence hums in harmony with his soul, every vibration of the Law of Metal within the earth and air whispering its truth to him.
He no longer needs cores to comprehend their mysteries—the Law itself reveals its fragments, unfiltered, unbounded.
His soul, still carrying the mark of the Iron Eater's strength, rises faintly from his body before returning through the crown of his head, and in that moment, the glow of the three moons spills through the window, bathing him in silver light.
The moonlight fuses with the metallic resonance within him, solidifying his new realm, and he feels the subtle extension of life coursing through his veins—his lifespan expanding from one hundred and fifty years to two hundred.
But his joy is tempered by urgency; his body, still bound by mortal limits, cannot endure long without his soul's anchor.
He channels energy, knitting the link between soul and flesh tighter, restoring the rhythm of his heartbeat, steadying his breath.
When the final strand connects, his body exhales a metallic mist, and his cultivation stabilises within the initial stage of Moon Realm Warlock.
The ground trembles as he approaches, stones grinding and cracking under his steps.
The divine warriors remain at the barrier's edge, watching silently as Ji Jingxuan crosses into the desolate mountain once more, the golden shimmer of the divine domain fading behind him.
The air is heavy, the rocks scorched black beneath the dark sun that looms above.
He walks with calm certainty, his hand brushing against his sleeve where two newly obtained wind-attribute cores rest.
Their faint hum mixes with the whisper of the metallic essence in his body, a reminder of his growing power.
When he reaches the clearing, the jagged stones begin to shift, sliding against each other with an echoing rumble.
The rock man rises, towering and ancient, cracks glowing faintly with ghostly light.
Last time, Jingxuan had fled.
This time, his eyes are cold, his stance rooted, the aura of a Moon Realm Warlock emanating from him like molten pressure.
The rock man turns its faceless head toward him, and the air tightens with the weight of its presence.
"You remember me," Jingxuan murmurs, lifting his hand.
Metal ripples through his veins as golden light flickers across his skin, his palm transforming into burnished steel.
The rock man roars, the sound like boulders colliding, and charges forward.
Jingxuan's lips curve faintly—this time, he will not retreat.
The rock man slams its colossal fist down, the earth cracking beneath the impact.
Jingxuan sidesteps, stone dust whirling past him as he counterattacks, his palm gleaming with the mystery of vibration.
Each strike he delivers sends ripples through the rock man's body, shattering its layers piece by piece.
The creature roars, the sound like a collapsing mountain, and its massive arm morphs into a jagged spear of stone, thrusting toward him.
Jingxuan raises both hands, heat and metal intertwining—his spell melts the spear mid-thrust, molten rock splattering against the ground.
The battle stretches across the mountain slope, their clash shaking boulders loose, tearing shrubs from the soil, echoing through the barren ridges.
He channels the power of the moon, his body glowing faintly silver, and his final strike—compressed vibration layered with the Law of Metal—bursts outward.
The rock man's core fractures; its stony frame crumbles like sand, scattering under the dark sun's cold gaze.
Only the core remains, a pulsing grey gem resting amid the dust.
Jingxuan picks it up, wipes the ash from its surface, and tucks it away.
Without looking back, he walks down the mountain, his figure vanishing into the thin mist.
Three months later, the capital city gleams with celebration.
Lanterns float on the water, the air filled with the fragrance of incense and the rhythm of ceremonial drums.
Today marks 4,990 years since the founding of the Zhou Empire, and a grand ceremony is held on the lake beside the city.
A temple stands at the lake's heart, its golden spires reflecting across the rippling surface.
Bridges and ships connect it to the shore, each carrying nobles, officials, and royal bloodlines draped in silk and honour.
On one of the largest ceremonial ships, Zhang Wenrui stands among the guards, his spear at rest beside him.
He watches the royal members seated beneath the canopy, their laughter muted by the wind, and his gaze lingers on the princess royal.
Her calm face, her quiet poise, and the faint curve of her lips stir something deep within him.
She looks so much like the woman who died with him in his previous life.
He lowers his eyes, hiding the flicker of emotion, reminding himself he is a guard now, not a man chasing ghosts.
The temple bells ring across the lake.
The emperor rises from his throne aboard the royal ship and steps onto the bridge that leads to the temple.
Flanked by priests and divine guards, the emperor returns from the sanctum, his expression serene, his robes faintly glowing with incense smoke.
He steps aboard the royal ship once more, and the drums beat slowly, signalling the end of the ceremony.
The surrounding ships begin to turn, sails catching the orange light of dusk as the fleet prepares to return to the capital shore.
Then, without warning, a pale fog creeps across the lake.
It thickens unnaturally fast, swallowing the horizon, and a sudden silence falls—a silence too deep, too heavy.
From the decks, divine warriors stiffen as the golden threads of divine energy that usually link them to their patron gods flicker, then vanish.
Panic ripples through their ranks.
"The connection—it's gone!" someone shouts, and in that instant, all divinity leaves the air.
Wenrui's instincts flare; he steps forward, his gaze sharp, moving closer to Li Xueyao and her niece standing behind the silk curtains.
He unsheathes his blade, placing himself between them and the edge of the ship.
Figures in black burst through the fog, leaping from smaller boats and shadows alike, blades gleaming under the faint sun.
Without divine power, both sides fall into raw, desperate combat.
Steel clashes with steel, screams echo, and the once-holy lake becomes a battlefield.
Wenrui slashes through one assassin's arm, turns, and knocks an arrow from the air with the flat of his blade.
Li Xueyao pulls her niece close, trembling, as he steps forward, cutting down another attacker who charges from the left.
The assassins fight with eerie silence, their movements disciplined, their coordination flawless.
Then, an explosion tears through the lake.
The temple behind them shatters in a storm of golden shards and red fire.
From the collapsing ruin, a colossal red hand rises, dripping molten energy, fingers stretching toward the heavens.
The fog disintegrates beneath its pressure, and before anyone can react, the hand releases a pulse of crimson light.
The shockwave smashes across the ships, sending warriors and nobles sprawling.
The energy converges like lightning and strikes Wenrui's chest.
He convulses, red light bursting from his eyes and veins, his blade falling from his grasp.
He stands for a breathless instant, bathed in that alien glow—then collapses as consciousness slips away.