In the human-held town, every cultivator—Tao stage and Saint stage alike—stands atop walls and rooftops, weapons ready. No one speaks. No one needs to.
The sky burns with firelight as the bombardment continues.
Lou Yuan stands among them, gaze fixed on the trembling barrier overhead. When it shatters… I will break through.
Days pass under relentless assault.
Then—
crack.
The sound spreads like shattering glass. Fractures spiderweb across the barrier dome.
Beside him, Shui Yinhai exhales and murmurs, "The order is to escape."
The words fall heavily.
No excitement. No hope.
Just resignation.
Everyone already understands: this battle was never meant to be won. Their only chance had been the Great Elder of the Purple Jade Sect stepping into the Saint King realm.
But there has been no message. No breakthrough.
Only silence.
Shui Yinhai forces a thin smile. "I hope… we meet again."
Lou Yuan answers without hesitation, quiet but certain,
"We will."
He glances toward the tower at the heart of the town—sealed with formations, hiding the Great Elder in seclusion.
"No change?" he asks.
Shui Yinhai only shakes her head.
The barrier continues to splinter—each fracture blooming like frost across glass.
Lou Yuan watches it a heartbeat longer, then says softly,
"The moment has arrived."
He steps forward—and flies.
Straight upward.
Straight toward the sky.
Straight into the open space just beyond the failing shield.
Shui Yinhai's expression breaks.
"Lou Yuan—WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"
Her voice echoes across the town.
Faces snap toward him—shock first, then grim comprehension.
---
Outside the walls
Enemy cultivators pause mid-assault.
A Saint King of the Star-Fire Clan narrows his molten eyes.
"They're attempting to escape."
A Great Saint beside him snorts. "Escape? No one escapes."
Then both freeze.
A pressure rolls outward—heavy, ancient, absolute.
Above the town, the sky twists.
A tribulation cloud—dense, towering, golden—condenses in an instant.
The Saint King's expression shifts.
"…He dares break through now?"
One step back.
Then another.
Even he does not wish to stand beneath that storm.
Inside the town
Humans react instantly.
Some drop to the ground.
Some hide beneath buildings or descend into underground chambers.
No one wants heaven to mistake them as part of Lou Yuan's tribulation.
Shui Yinhai bites her lip, trembling, yet unable to look away.
The Tribulation Begins
The cloud churns—gold lightning writhing like furious dragons.
Lou Yuan hovers beneath it, robes snapping in the rising wind, face calm, eyes steady.
A breath.
A heartbeat.
The first bolt falls.
A golden spear of heaven's judgment tears through the sky with a sound like the fabric of reality ripping apart—
—and slams down onto Lou Yuan.
----
The void ripples as Merin passes through the thinning world barrier.
A final layer of resistance trembles—then fractures—
and he steps into the inner void of the Supreme World.
For a moment, he floats in emptiness, surrounded by drifting sparks of fractured law and scattered fragments of ancient formations.
Then space stabilises.
And the world reveals itself.
A vast ocean stretches beneath him—so large the horizon curves like a planetary ring. Upon its surface float thousands of continents of every shape and size.
Some glow molten red—continents of pure volcano and magma rivers.
Some glitter with crystal forests or gold mountains.
Others are wrapped in eternal storm, swirling lightning.
And one—far to the north—is a continent drowned in absolute darkness, swallowing light itself.
Merin observes in silence.
"…So this is the Supreme World."
He turns toward one of the larger continents—familiar, structured, and layered with defensive formations. Human race territory.
But he is not headed for humans.
He is headed for the Demon Abyss, the same abyss that once served as a gateway to the Battlefield Realm.
A faint irritation passes through him.
"I should have calculated the coordinates before leaving."
"If I had—
—I could have entered the Battlefield Realm directly through space."
He descends.
As he nears the southwestern coastline, the calm view fractures.
War.
The coast burns.
Explosions shake the land. Flames—dark and oily—cover buildings like crawling serpents.
Merin halts in midair, eyes narrowing, expression unreadable.
Below, a city collapses under assault.
Screams echo.
—A barricade shatters.
"The gate has been breached! RUN!"
Humans scatter in panic, pushing through the streets, climbing walls, teleporting blindly—anything to escape.
Houses burn.
Families cry.
Children cling to parents as black-armored figures descend through smoke—members of the Black Fire Race.
They wield fire that isn't flame—it is corruption—burning flesh into pitch-black ash.
Any human below the Tao Stage dies in a heartbeat.
Cultivators struggle but fall just as fast.
Some are incinerated mid-spell.
Some are skewered on black fire spears.
Some become burning statues—alive and screaming until they collapse.
It is slaughter, not war.
---
High above the carnage, clouds rupture with spiritual pressure.
A lone female Saint in Holy Fire Sect robes stands panting, bloodied sword shaking in her grip.
Across from her—three enemies:
One—a Saint of the Black Fire Race, body wrapped in flickering black flames.
Two—Saints of the Flame Serpent Race, serpentine bodies coiling with molten scales.
Her flames flicker weakly.
Their flames surge stronger.
She is losing.
The Flame Serpent Saint laughs, voice echoing like venomous bells.
"Struggle more. Your despair is delicious."
Their killing intent rises.
They step forward to end her.
Then—
They freeze.
Their bodies stop mid-motion, expressions locked in confusion.
Their feet…
…now stand on black and white tiles.
A chessboard.
Wind falls silent.
Reality shifts.
A calm voice echoes—not loud, but absolute:
"Analysis complete."
A pause—like the world inhaling.
"Termination: begin."
The female Saint's eyes widen.
She watches—unable to believe—
—as the three enemy Saints vanish.
Not cut.
Not burned.
Not destroyed.
Just—
erased.
Across the continent—across the sky—across the battlefield—
Similar figures vanish.
Saints.
Commanders.
Leaders.
Every being marked hostile is removed from existence in a single breath.
Silence spreads.
The flames stop spreading.
Only ash drifts.
---
Far above the world, Merin lowers his hand.
Expression calm.
Breathing steady.
His Dao—the Flowered Virtual Engine—shimmers faintly behind him.
A chessboard of law and logic.
In his field—
he is the law.
He is the judge.
He is the executioner.
He does not smile.
He does not celebrate.
He simply states—not aloud, but deep within himself:
"They declared war… not on one city, but on the human race."
"And even if some humans betrayed me—"
His eyes narrow—cold, sharp, unwavering.
"I do not abandon my race because of a few."
The words settle in the air like a verdict.
Then—
from deep within the territory of the Black Fire Race—a terrifying aura erupts.
A Great Saint.
A voice follows, thunderous and livid:
"YOU DARE."
A palm made of pure black fire forms—massive enough to blot out the horizon. Its flames carry three intertwined laws: Fire, Death, and Darkness. It tears through space and surges toward Merin with the intent to erase him entirely.
Merin doesn't flinch.
He exhales once—short, amused.
"Why wouldn't I dare?"
His own palm manifests—not flame, not shadow, but pure law, forged from the Five Elements Dao. Fire, water, wood, metal, and earth intertwine in perfect balance and collide with the incoming strike.
Space screams.
The sky fractures.
Both attacks detonate—cancelling each other completely.
When the exploding laws disperse, an old woman floats before him. Her back carries burning wings of black fire, each feather made of collapsing darkness. Her gaze is sharp enough to cut steel, and hatred burns openly in her eyes.
"I will skin you alive."
Merin snorts—expression unchanged.
"We'll see."
She raises her hand—not toward him—
but toward her sword.
A long blade appears, wrapped in chains of law.
And Merin's eyes sharpen.
A Quasi-Supreme weapon.
The sword howls silently, and the world trembles as a field of endless black fire erupts from it—turning the sky into an inferno.
Merin responds in kind.
His Dao unfolds behind him—
a vast chessboard field of logic, calculation, and devouring law.
The two domains collide.
Fire burns.
Law grinds.
Reality bends.
Neither overpowers the other—both are held equal.
The old woman moves first—vanishing in a streak of black flame, sword aimed for Merin's throat.
Merin steps forward—not retreating, not defending—
meeting combat bare-handed.
The battle begins.
The battle ignites in silence—
no war cry, no declaration.
Just motion.
The old woman's sword descends in an arc of black fire that burns laws themselves, while Merin's claws meet it with flawless precision, redirecting rather than blocking.
Clang—!
Sparks of dying worlds scatter.
She sweeps again—
her movements brutal, refined, filled with centuries of accumulated killing arts.
Merin slips past her blade, countering with palm strikes and claw patterns that distort space. Every time her sword cuts, his Dao redirects. Every time he attacks, she dissolves into flame and reforms behind him.
They clash again—
Their domains are tearing the sky apart.
Black fire surges.
Chessboard lines ripple through space.
Neither overwhelms the other.
Wounds appear—then vanish—
Both heal with Saint-level speed.
To onlookers, it seems eternal:
Two forces perfectly opposed, perfectly matched.
But Merin's expression slowly shifts—
from calm
to thoughtful
to faintly amused.
The old woman notices it too late.
She swings again, pouring her full Saint King intent into the blow. The flames twist into dragon shapes—roaring, venomous, annihilating.
Merin raises only two fingers.
Tap.
The flame dragon shatters into ash.
Her pupils contract.
She lashes out again—harder, faster, desperate—until finally she notices.
Not the strikes.
Not the wounds.
But the field around them.
It hasn't weakened.
It hasn't fluctuated.
It hasn't needed stabilisation from a weapon.
Her voice trembles with realisation:
"Your… Dao is not being amplified by a weapon."
Her sword quivers in her grip.
"You're not using an external field—"
Her breath stops.
"—Your Dao has reached the Flowering Stage."
Merin finally smiles.
Calm.
Cold.
Absolute.
"You noticed," he says softly.
Then his eyes shift—sharp as a blade.
"But it's too late."
The old woman doesn't understand—
not until her sword vibrates violently in her hand.
The runes on it flicker, dimming.
She gasps.
"No… impossible—this weapon is—"
Merin cuts her off.
"The analysis is complete."
The chessboard beneath them glows—lines locking into formation.
His voice drops—quiet, final:
"Execute."
His field surges.
Black fire collapses inward—devoured.
The old woman screams, trying to retreat, trying to activate deeper laws—but her body is already unravelling, turning to fragments of fire and shattered light.
Her hand disappears.
Then her arm.
Then her wings.
Then her voice.
Last to vanish are her eyes—filled with hate and fear.
Then silence.
Her existence ends like a candle smothered.
The battlefield stills.
Merin lifts his hand.
The Quasi-Supreme sword trembles once—then shoots into his palm like it was always meant to return to its master.
The blade hums softly, reluctant… but obedient.
Merin studies it—expression unreadable.
"A fine blade," he murmurs.
Then a faint smile touches the corner of his lips.
"But you will do better once reforged."
His voice becomes a whisper to the weapon:
"You will become mine—entirely."
He closes his hand around the sword.
Black fire trembles.
The world holds its breath.
And Merin steps forward—toward the next battlefield.