Flames rain from the sky.
Red, blue, violet—fire in colours no natural world should hold—crashes against a trembling barrier of light that surrounds a small, lone town. Each blast shakes the shield like a drum struck by titans, rippling faint cracks across its luminous surface.
Boom.
A crimson fireball shaped as a wolf slams into the western arc of the barrier.
Boom.
A chain of emerald flames—linked like serpents—lashes the northern wall.
Boom.
A pillar of swirling black fire pierces down like a divine punishment, forcing the barrier to flicker dangerously before stabilising.
Outside the protective dome, hundreds of attackers stand scattered across the ruined plains—cultivators clad in mismatched armour and talismans glowing with heat. Their expressions burn with hunger, hatred, and frenzy.
A scarred man at the front raises his flaming halberd and roars:
"AGAIN! Don't stop until the barrier collapses!"
At his command, the chaotic army shifts—cultivators forming crude circles, runic formations sparking to life beneath their feet. Fire surges around them, gathering, amplifying, merging into monstrous shapes.
Dragons of flame coil in the sky.
Phoenix wings ignite the air.
Fire blossoms into lotuses large enough to bury streets.
The second volley falls.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—
The barrier shudders violently—light trembling, surface dimming. Tiny fractures appear, webbing-like frost spidering across glass.
Inside the town, fear collects like humidity before a storm—heavy, suffocating, impossible to ignore.
Cultivators line the inner streets and rooftops. Some grip weapons. Some meditate to steady trembling hearts. Others simply stare at the barrier, hoping—foolishly—that the next blast won't be the one that shatters it.
Most of them aren't veterans.
Most are young.
Most crossed the portal barely a decade ago—eager to temper themselves in the legendary battlefield realm.
None expected their first true trial to be extinction.
The air carries whispers:
"Why now…?"
"Can we hold?"
"Did the Council abandon us?"
"Will reinforcements ever come?"
But the truth hangs over them like a funeral shroud:
They cannot retreat.
The portal at the town's centre—normally a path of return—is sealed. The enemy's Saint King locked space itself, turning the exit into a dead door.
The Black Fire Race, along with several subordinate clans of the Fire Divine Lineage, has declared war.
Not skirmish.
Not infiltration.
War.
And against them?
The human race has no Saint King present.
Only hope.
Only delay.
Only prayer.
Lou Yuan and Shui Yinhai stand atop the inner tower, where the barrier's power ripples closest to reality. Flames illuminate their faces every time an attack lands—first red, then violet, then pitch black like dying suns.
Lou Yuan finally breaks the tense silence.
"How many days do you think our saint stones will last?"
His voice is calm—but his fingers tighten slightly behind his back.
The barrier isn't powered solely by formations.
It burns saint stones.
Hundreds per day.
Shui Yinhai watches the barrier tremble again before answering.
"At this rate… a decade."
She pauses.
"But no more than that."
The meaning is obvious.
If the Great Elder of the Purple Jade Sect does not break through to Saint King within that time—
This town, and everyone in it, will become ash.
They stand in silence until Shui Yinhai's token rings—sharp, urgent. She takes it and walks away quickly.
Lou Yuan remains alone atop the tower.
Outside the barrier, enemy cultivators laugh as another strike detonates in a bloom of black fire.
Inside Lou Yuan's spirit space, a voice—age-worn, steady, and colder than the battlefield wind—speaks.
"You're thinking of using the Star Staff."
Lou Yuan doesn't deny it.
"Should I? If I break the encirclement now, we'll have breathing room."
A long silence follows—long enough for three more explosions to shake the barrier.
Then the voice responds.
*"Not yet. The situation has not reached desperation.
When you use the Star Staff, all sides will sense it.
And the consequences will be… extreme."*
Lou Yuan exhales, jaw tightening.
"So we wait."
"Yes."
The demon's tone shifts—almost amused.
"Victory is not always given to those who act first.
Sometimes, the one who endures longest… survives."
Lou Yuan nods slowly.
He turns away from the battlefield, crosses the tower interior, and descends the spiral staircase.
When he reaches his courtyard, he closes the door behind him.
The barrier outside trembles again.
The earth shakes.
Lou Yuan's breath steadies as the world outside rumbles with war.
Yet the moment he closes his eyes—
—starlight descends.
Not gently.
Not like moonlight.
But like law.
Pure, ancient, unforgiving.
It pierces through clouds and barriers alike, drawn to his body as if answering a forgotten oath. Each beam threads into his bones, blood, and spirit—tempering them with the silent chill of the cosmic void.
His veins glow faintly—like constellations forming.
His dao hums.
His spirit resonates.
"I have to break through to the Great Saint Realm… as quickly as possible."
His voice is barely audible.
But the determination in it could split mountains.
Even now, as a Saint in the Forbidden State, Lou Yuan could temporarily match a Great Saint. That alone placed him among the peak of the new generation.
But temporary was not enough.
If he reached Great Saint Realm in truth, he could do more than fight.
He could interrupt. Delay. Distract.
Even a Saint King.
Even long enough for others to escape.
So he continues cultivating.
Starlight continues forging him.
And somewhere beyond sight, the battlefield trembles under escalating war.
---
### Spirit Dragon Race — Meeting Hall
The atmosphere is heavy.
The elders sit in silence, as though the walls themselves are listening.
The Patriarch waits with eyes closed—expression unreadable. The hall feels like a coiled storm.
A moment later, footsteps echo.
The Holy Son of the Spirit Dragon Clan enters—his presence sharp and cold, as a blade quenched in celestial frost.
The Patriarch opens his eyes.
"What did the Karma Clan say?"
The Holy Son bows slightly.
"They confirmed that the human has no karmic connection to the Demon Ancestor. His karmic ties to the human race are faint—nothing remarkable."
A ripple passes through the elders.
One leans forward.
"Then he does not carry her inheritance?"
"Likely not," the Holy Son answers.
Silence again.
Then another elder asks, voice low:
"Patriarch… what do you intend?"
Everyone turns toward the throne.
The Patriarch remains silent for several breaths—thinking, calculating—not with emotion, but with strategy.
Finally, the Holy Son adds:
"One more thing. His karma does link to our race. Strong enough to guarantee this—he will return. And when he does, it will be for vengeance."
That breaks the stillness.
Cold killing intent rises from the elders.
The Patriarch finally speaks.
"Then we cannot allow him time to grow."
No hesitation.
No pity.
Only the logic of power.
He continues:
"Let Gu Silan keep the Icefire Sword. And spread word to the outside world."
His voice drops lower—colder.
Announce an execution date. Public. Irreversible."
Several elders stiffen.
One whispers:
"You wish to use the execution as bait."
The Patriarch nods.
"He will come. He must come. And now—while his cultivation is in the saint realm—we will kill him."
Agreement settles across the room like falling ash.
But then—the Holy Son frowns.
"And Silan?"
The Patriarch's eyes sharpen.
"Tell her the truth:
The execution notice may be a lie—
or it may become real."
Some elders inhale sharply.
The Patriarch continues:
"If she wishes to save her daughter, then she must help us kill the man she calls husband."
A silence follows.
Heavy.
Cold.
Absolute.
The Holy Son bows and turns to leave, his steps echoing like thunder.
One by one, the elders rise and depart—preparing for a spectacle the world will watch.
For a false execution.
That may become real.
Outside, ancient bells begin to ring—and proclamations spread like wildfire.
A date is set.
A life is wagered.
And the battlefield realm wakes to a new storm.
The hunt for Merin has officially begun.
---------
The void is silent—starless, endless—yet alive with pressure.
Merin stands within it, suspended in nothingness, surrounded by a slowly forming tribulation cloud.
Not thunder.
Not wind.
Not fire.
Something older.
A presence that remembers creation.
His brows lower.
"So this is the Great Saint Tribulation… and the Weapon Tribulation layered atop it."
A blade of lightning manifests—razor-thin, humming with celestial authority.
First strike.
It falls.
Merin raises his hand—no weapon, just will. His Virtual-Realisation Dao manifests behind him: a single colossal eye of shifting runes.
The lightning sword crashes into his defense—space craters. His body ripples, flesh momentarily scattering before reforming.
A second weapon descends.
Then a third.
Spears, hammers, wheels, chains—each forged by the heavens, each stronger than the last.
Merin blocks, redirects, devours fragments—yet every impact sends cracks through his saint body.
Finally, after seven weapons break against his resilience and calculations—
—The tribulation changes.
The void trembles.
Lightning condenses—not into weapons this time—but beings.
Nine figures step forward, descending from the storm, each formed of thunder, each wearing the aura of:
Young Supremes.
Their realms—Great Saint.
Their presence—overwhelming.
Merin exhales.
"...Heaven wants to kill me."
Then they attack.
Merin doesn't meet them head-on—not yet.
His dao-eye expands above him, runes spinning rapidly.
Analysis.
Calculation.
Deduction.
Lightning fists crash into him—his ribs shatter.
A lightning palm smashes his shoulder—his arm bursts into particles.
A blade pierces his spine—his physical form collapses into mist before reforming.
The void rings with the impacts—two, four, seven strikes at once.
Yet Merin does not stop.
He moves in patterns of survival—minimal motions, maximum efficiency. Every defence gives the Virtual Engine more information.
Weakness.
Patterns.
Rules.
The tribulation constructs are relentless—perfect, merciless.
They kill him again—
—and again—
—and again.
Each time his body reforms more slowly. His soul trembles. His qi burns thin.
Still, Merin's eyes remain calm.
The Virtual Engine continues to analyse:
42%… 57%… 68%… 79%…
Another coordinated attack hits—
His body bursts into ash and void dust.
Only his consciousness remains—flickering.
But still aware.
92%… 96%… 98%…
The final strike descends—
A unified attack meant to erase him utterly.
Merin whispers:
"…completed."
The rune-eye opens fully.
And in the space between lightning—
—Merin moves.
He parries the first strike—not with force—but trajectory shift.
Redirected.
The second—dodged at the exact angle where its power collapses on itself.
Neutralized.
The third countered with a twist of the gravity law borrowed from the tribulation's own structure.
Each Young Supreme falls not because Merin is stronger—
—but because he now knows the hidden flaw in their formation.
Their movements are programmed. Predictable. Rigid.
Merin exploits every weakness with surgical precision.
One by one—
They shatter.
Lightning dissolves into motes.
Silence returns to the void.
Tribulation clouds swirl.
Then—
—collapse.
A torrent of essence, soul force, and law descends into Merin's body.
His meridians expand. His saint essence stabilises. His bones harden to divine-grade crystal. His soul gains a second layer—refined, sharp, eternal.
Behind him, his Dao shudders.
The colossal Eye blooms with fractal runes—
petals of pure law unfolding one after another.
*Virtual-Realisation Dao:
From Blooming → Flowering Realm.*
Merin exhales—a long, quiet breath.
"…No bottleneck until the Quasi-Supreme stage."
Only resources now stand between him and the next gate.
Urgency tightens in his chest.
He turns.
Somewhere far ahead—in the vast emptiness—shines a faint, radiant world. A Supreme World.
"I've delayed long enough."
Space bends around him.
His form dissolves into a streak of light—
—and Merin flies straight toward his next battlefield.