Chapter 105: Chapter 105: Fight
Silence.
Every single one of them of the bystanders watched in absolute silence at what had just happened in the arena.
"What...the hell?"
"It's over?"
"In an instant?"
In the stands under the arena, the remaining participants, the supposed strongest and most talented people in the region, felt a primal chill crawl up their spines.
Of course, Ling Luochen and Shangguan Mu'er were more in awe than afraid.
They stared with wide, unblinking eyes at the central arena, their breath catching in their throats.
There, in the center of the grey stone stage, Shen Haoran stood with the effortless posture of a scholar.
His robes hadn't even been ruffled by the wind of the giant's charge, and in his right hand, he held the severed head of the muscular giant, Nuo.
The giant's face was frozen in a mask of terminal confusion, his mouth still mid-syllable as if he were trying to finish his introduction, or his roar.
Then, a beat of agonizing stillness passed before the massive, headless torso of the 250cm warrior, which had been standing unnervingly straight as if the soul hadn't realized it was dead, finally buckled.
It hit the stone floor with a heavy, wet thud that echoed throughout the vaulted chamber.
"WINNER! NUMBER 1!" the Heaven Piercing Saint's voice boomed, the sound vibrating through the statues lining the walls.
"How boring," Haoran murmured, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet hall as he looked down at the head in his hand with a localized frown of genuine dissatisfaction. "I didn't expect him to be so weak. To think his neck would give way and his head would be severed when I was just trying to deliver a light tap to knock him unconscious. The quality of 'cultivators' in this realm is truly deteriorating."
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the head onto the floor as if discarding a piece of unwanted fruit.
He watched as the blood and the body dissipated into motes of white light before he stepped off the arena, his boots clicking softly on the stone as he returned to his group.
Not a single drop of blood had stained his sleeves; he was as pristine as the moment he had entered the forest.
"Splendidly done, young master," Shangguan Mu'er praised, her voice a smooth, icy ripple.
She didn't look at the dissipated corpse; her eyes were fixed solely on Haoran, her respect for his overwhelming power deepening with every passing second.
"Indeed," Ling Luochen added, nodding solemnly.
Her blood-red eyes were wide with a mix of awe and the realization of just how far she still had to climb to even see the hem of his shadow.
Before Haoran could offer a response or a critique of the battle, the golden numbers swirling in the air above the arena shifted and coalesced into a new pairing.
NUMBER 8! VS. NUMBER 2!
Shangguan Mu'er straightened her posture, the bluish-silver strands of her hair catching the golden light from the ceiling.
She began to step toward the arena, her Nascent Soul pressure beginning to leak out like a rising tide.
However, before her foot could even touch the first step of the stage, her opponent—a young woman dressed in the yellow robes of a mid-tier sect, currently at the first stage of the Golden Core Realm—frantically raised her hand.
"I surrender! I forfeit the match!" the woman shrieked, her face pale as parchment.
She had watched the giant Nuo die in less than a second; she had no illusions about surviving a confrontation with a Great Elder of the Conferred Pagoda.
"WINNER! NUMBER 2!"
Shangguan Mu'er stopped, her eyes narrowing as she stared at her cowering opponent.
She didn't say a word, her expression one of cold, stoic boredom as she simply crossed her arms over her chest and stepped back into the shadow of the pavilion pillars.
To her, a victory without blood was efficient, but ultimately unsatisfying for her thirsty blade.
Just then, the numbers in the sky whirled again, settling on the third pairing of the trial.
NUMBER 6 VS NUMBER 3.
"I surrender!" Number 6 declared immediately.
He was a lean man, breathing heavily, who appeared to be only at the first stage of the Core Formation Realm.
Xue Bing'er, the number 3, stared at him.
Number 6 held up his hands in a gesture of peace, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "Forgive me, everyone. I am a realist, you see, and I actually had the extensive help of my clan's hidden servants when hunting those beasts in the forest. You can say I pulled some strings to get those cores. But even I know my limits. I'm not that strong, and I'd rather keep my head attached to my shoulders."
Xue Bing'er, the Sect Master of the Ice God Palace, stood across from him as she stared at the man for a long moment, her silver eyes scanning his relaxed posture.
Finally, she gave a short, curt nod of approval.
"Knowing when to advance and when to retreat is also a vital part of a cultivator's ability," she said, her voice like the cracking of winter ice. "To throw away your life for a pride you cannot back with strength is the height of folly."
Number 6 smiled at her, cupping his hands in a deep, respectful bow. "I thank the Ice Goddess for her wisdom."
He turned and walked out of the designated combat zone, looking remarkably relieved.
"WINNER! NUMBER 3!"
The voice boomed again, the trials moving with a ruthless, mechanical efficiency as the numbers changed once again.
NUMBER 5 VS NUMBER 7!
"I'm going, master. Young master," Ling Luochen said, nodding toward Mu'er and Haoran.
Her face was set in a mask of absolute focus as she leaped toward the arena, her white silk robes fluttering behind her like the wings of a predatory bird.
She landed in the center of the stage, drawing her slender, single-edged white sword in a fluid motion.
From the opposite side, another figure followed her up.
It was a man with long, wild black hair and a scar running down his jawline, and he carried with him a heavy broadsword that pulsed with an earthen brown light.
"Ling Luochen, Conferred Pagoda," she stated, her voice cold and formal as she introduced herself.
"Peng Kun, Young Master of the Peng Clan," the man replied, his voice gruff.
He shifted his weight, his eyes darting to the people who had voluntarily gave up, then back to the girl before him.
Ling Luochen gave a sharp nod, then, second later, the Saint's voice roared, signaling the start of the engagement.
Without a moment of hesitation or mercy, Ling Luochen activated her physique, and the tribal tattoo on her back erupted with a violent purple radiance that could be seen even through her robes.
The air behind her warped and curdled, manifesting the terrifying, three-headed and six-armed phantom of the Asura.
The demonic entity let out a silent, soul-piercing scream that caused the stone of the arena to crack over.
Shen Haoran stared at her, "I really am impressed. If I remember correctly, every time you use this physique, it would feel like a hot melted iron was coursing through your veins. She can actually use it without changing her expression."
Shangguan Mu'er hummed, "Her desire for power suppresses her feelings of pain, young master. Her will and determination is the reason why I took her as my disciple and handed her that Cultivation technique."
Shen Haoran remained silent, but in his mind, he couldn't help but think, that if this girl was brought into the upper realm and was given variety of resources, with her suicidal-like thirst for power, she would surely become a Supreme who can suppress an era.
In the arena, Peng Kun's eyes widened until they looked ready to burst as he took a stumbling step back, his broadsword trembling in his grip. "W-What is that!? A demon!? Are you a demonic cultivator!? How can the Pagoda allow such an abomination!?"
Ling Luochen didn't waste her breath on an explanation as she became a blur of purple and white, darting toward Peng Kun with a speed that left afterimages.
Her sword turned into a streak of light aimed directly at his heart.
At that moment...
"Surrender! I surrender! Stop!" Peng Kun screamed, dropping his broadsword and raising his hands in a frantic gesture of defeat as terror covered his entire body, his knees knocking together as he felt the icy tip of her blade.
Ling Luochen's control was absolute, and she was able to stopped her sword mere centimeters from piercing through Peng Kun's chest, the wind from her thrust ruffling his hair.
She stared into his terrified eyes for a moment, her expression unreadable, before she smoothly sheathed her weapon.
Then, the purple figure of the Asura flickered and vanished into her shadow before she turned her back on him and jumped down from the arena, returning to Haoran's side.
Behind her, Peng Kun collapsed onto the floor, cold sweat pouring off his body in sheets.
He remained there, gasping for air, the image of those six spectral arms burned into his mind.
He knew that in that one moment, he had stood on the very edge of the abyss.
"WINNER! NUMBER 5!"
The atmosphere in the hall reached a crescendo of tension with only one pairing remained.
NUMBER 9 VS NUMBER 10!
Shen Haoran didn't move, but his golden eyes sharpened, focusing entirely on the hooded figure at the edge of the waiting area as a slow, dark smirk spread across his face, one that promised a very different kind of entertainment.
"Alright," Haoran whispered to the shadows. "Show me if you've improved even just a little bit in your time as a rat, oh 'father' of mine. Let's see if the heavens still have any tricks left to save you."
Chapter 106: Chapter 106: Heart
The atmosphere in the arena had shifted from the theatrical dominance of the previous rounds to a cold, clinical tension as the golden vortex in the ceiling pulsed with a rhythmic, heartbeat-like thrum, signaling the commencement of the final bout of the second trial.
"FIGHT!"
The voice of the Heaven Piercing Saint boomed, the sound wave alone causing the dust on the arena floor to dance in frantic patterns.
Immediately, the two remaining participants—Number 9, a lithe swordsman from a mid-tier Northern sect, and Number 10, the mysterious cloaked figure—engaged in a blur of motion.
Shen Haoran leaned back against a cold stone pillar, his golden eyes narrowing as they locked onto the hooded figure of Jiang Chen.
He didn't look at the exchange of blows or the technique of the swordsman; he looked at the spiritual foundation beneath the tattered brown cloak.
'First Stage of the Foundation Establishment realm...' Haoran mused, a sliver of mocking disappointment crossing his features. 'It seems his luck has truly hit a wall. If it was him when I first arrive, when heavens were incredibly biased towards him, then a year should be more than enough for him to grow to the peak of Foundation Establishment realm at the very least. It seems the 'Heavens' are becoming stingy.'
Haoran realized that the interference he had run—the systematic "emptying" of the Southern Continent and the psychological crushing he had delivered at the Ling gates—had actually begun to fray the threads of Jiang Chen's destiny.
It seems that in this world, a protagonist who fails to achieve a face-slapping incident within a certain timeframe begins to lose their narrative momentum.
This is understandable, after all, who would like a protagonist that id always suppressed by the villain without even having a chance to show off?
Unless you're a masochist, that story would fall faster than a shooting star.
'Looking at him now,' Haoran thought, 'I think the only thing that can save him from death isn't the heaven, who might've already abandoned him, but that old saint who appeared back then. And even so, I believe that Qing'er will be more than a match for that old guy.'
After all, Qing'er possessed a special physique, has been trained brutally since childhood, and is at full power while the old guy, despite being at Heavenly Saint, is gravely injured, and probably couldn't even exert half of his strength right now.
Just then, a sudden, sharp scream echoed through the hall, snapping Haoran back to the present.
On the arena floor, the swordsman known as Number 9 was sent flying through the air, jis chest was caved in, and both of his arms were bent at unnatural angles, the bone protruding through the skin.
He hit the stone floor with a sickening crunch and rolled toward the edge of the pit, groaning in a state of semi-consciousness.
Jiang Chen stood in the center of the ring, his hood still obscuring his face, his breathing slightly ragged.
He had won, but it wasn't the effortless victory a "Protagonist" should have had against a minor character.
"WINNER! NUMBER 10!"
The majestic voice boomed once more, its tone now carrying a hint of finality.
"The second trial is concluded! Those who have failed shall be sent out from my realm and returned to the frozen wastes. Those who have passed shall proceed to the next trial!"
Just like in the forest, the golden numbers on the backs of the winners' hands began to glow with a searing, white heat.
Haoran watched as his own hand began to dissolve into shimmering motes of light.
The sensation was different this time—less like falling and more like being pulled upward by an invisible thread.
A bright, absolute white light engulfed his vision, forcing him to close his eyes against the brilliance.
The sounds of the arena—the groans of the injured, the panting of the victors—faded into a profound, ringing silence.
Then, a few moment later, the pressure on his chest eased, and when he opened his eyes, he found out that he was no longer in an arena.
Instead, he was standing atop a sea of clouds that stretched infinitely in every direction.
The sky above was a deep, celestial indigo, filled with stars that seemed close enough to touch.
In front of him, sitting cross-legged upon a cushion made of solidified cloud, was a handsome middle-aged man.
He wore a simple grey robe and had a wooden table in front of him, upon which sat a steaming pot of tea and two cups.
His eyes were not human; they were like windows into a nebula, swirling with ancient knowledge and a trace of weary sorrow.
Shen Haoran stared at the figure for a long moment, his posture remaining upright and arrogant.
"...You must be the Heaven Piercing Saint," he stated, his voice calm in the vacuum of the high heavens.
The man hummed, a sound that vibrated through the clouds beneath Haoran's feet as he poured a cup of tea, the liquid flowing like liquid jade. "And you... you possess the absolute, unyielding bloodline of the Shen Clan. I would know that scent even if the universe were reset."
Haoran didn't wait for an invitation and walked forward with measured steps and sat down on the mist-cushion opposite the Saint. "So what if I am? Does my lineage disqualify me? Am I not eligible to inherit the legacy of the one hailed as Heaven Piercing Saint simply because I am the descendant of the clan that eventually took your life?"
The Heaven Piercing Saint shook his head slowly, a faint, melancholic smile touching his lips. "It has been hundreds of thousands of years, young man. In the river of time, a single life, even a Saint's, is but a ripple. Whatever grudges, hatred, or spite I carried from that era have long since faded into the void."
"Is that so?" Haoran asked, his golden eyes narrowing. "Then spare me the philosophical preamble. Tell me, what is the third trial?"
"This is the third trial," the Heaven Piercing Saint said, gesturing to the table and the vast emptiness around them. "Before I hand over the culmination of my life's work, the techniques that once forced your ancestors to tremble—I must know your heart. I must understand your Dao. Tell me, young Shen, why do you cultivate? What is the end of your path?"
Haoran didn't hesitate, he didn't even need to ponder or search his soul as the answer was etched into his very marrow.
"I walk the path of supremacy." he declared, his voice ringing out across the clouds. "One day, I will stand above the nine heavens and look down upon the gods. One day, I will become eternity itself, a constant in an ever-changing universe. One day, the things that the legends of the past couldn't accomplish, and the things that the people of the future continue to fail at, shall be achieved by my own hands! Is that an answer worthy of your legacy, Heaven Piercing Saint?"
The Saint stared at him for a long time, the nebula in his eyes swirling with a complex emotion.
"...That is an incredibly lonely path, young one," the Saint whispered. "To be the peak is to be isolated. There are no peers at the summit of eternity. Can your heart bear the weight of that silence? Can you truly exist when there is no one else to witness your existence?"
"Without any shadow of a doubt," Haoran replied instantly. "Cultivation is naturally a road paved with pain, suffering, and the abandonment of the mundane. If one does not have the heart to endure the isolation of the peak, then they had no business embarking on this path in the first place."
"....And to achieve this goal," the Saint continued, leaning forward, "are you truly willing to abandon every bond you have forged? Your mother? Your aunts? The women who follow you? Are they merely tools to be discarded once the height is reached?"
"Yes," Haoran said, though his voice lacked its usual sharp edge. "As long as it serves my ultimate goal, I will walk a path of no return. I will never turn back nor stop for anyone. Yes. My gaze halts for no one, and my heart softens for none. That is the price of supremacy, and I am prepared to pay it."
The Saint stared at him, his gaze piercing through Haoran's golden eyes and into the depths of his soul. "...Is that so?"
"...Yes," Haoran replied.
"You hesitated," the Saint said softly.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Haoran said nothing, his jaw tightening.
'Did I hesitate?' he thought, his inner mind a storm of denial. 'No. Surely not. I am a Shen. I was born superior to every living soul in this universe. How could mere bonds affect a heart that was forged for the sole purpose of ruling?'
"It seems your heart isn't as firm as you believe it to be," the Saint said, his voice tinged with a pity that made Haoran's blood boil. "You speak of supremacy, to bear the burden of loneliness, but there is a tether in your soul that you haven't yet dared to cut."
Haoran narrowed his eyes, a dangerous, golden light flickering in his pupils. 'Isn't as firm as I believe?'
Just the thought of it was ridiculous. Bonds? So what? In his vision, none of those things could ever be allowed to hinder his ascension.
Yes, his heart did not waver.
It is more possible that this is merely this Saint's excuse to have him fail the third test, not wanting him to inherit the legacy due to his hatred for the Shen Clan.
'Very well...' Haoran thought, 'If you refuse to give me your legacy willingly because of a phantom waver in my heart, then don't blame me for being a true Shen. If the inheritance will not be given, I will simply take it by force and burn the rest to the ground.'
"It seems your pride blinds you from seeing your heart, young one." Said the Saint. "Understandable. You are a prodigy, born superior than anyone else. How could your heart waver because of the bonds you forged with those you considered lesser than you...am I right?"
Haoran did not answer.
"Very well." Heaven Piercing Saint stood up, "Young Shen, consider this as a senior giving advice to a junior...Now, let us begin."
[The Third Trial: The Trial of Heart!]
Chapter 107: Chapter 107: The Self
[The Third Trial: The Trial of Heart!]
[Begin!]
The sea of clouds beneath Shen Haoran's feet suddenly rippled and dissolved, and the vast, starry indigo sky was pulled away like a silken veil.
The profound silence of the High Heavens was replaced by the gentle, rhythmic rustle of leaves and the faint, sweet scent of mountain air.
Haoran blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he was no longer sitting before the Heaven Piercing Saint, instead, he was standing on the periphery of a memory, a ghost in his own past; this was in a mountain in the Shen Clan Domain.
A few yards away, a younger version of himself—barely six years old—sat cross-legged beneath the sprawling canopy of an ancient peach blossom tree.
The boy's golden blonde hair caught the dappled sunlight, and his golden eyes, even then, held a depth that no child should possess.
He was staring at the sky, not with wonder, but with a strange, clinical detachment.
Just then, the voice of the Heaven Piercing Saint resonated through the air, no longer majestic and booming, but soft, layered with a tragic, haunting empathy.
"Shen Haoran," the voice whispered, "you were born superior to everyone else. It is the blessing and the curse of your blood. Born from a supreme clan that dictates the laws of the universe, gifted with a talent that defies the very heavens, and nurtured by parents whose shadows cover entire realms. A true young supreme, a god in the cradle."
The scenery shifted violently, the peaceful orchard replaced by a cold, white jade training plaza within the Shen Domain.
The six-year-old Haoran stood in the center, his small hands clean, his breathing steady.
Around him lay the broken, weeping bodies of his peers—the "prodigies" of the branch families and allied sects.
They were clutching shattered limbs, their faces twisted in agony and shame.
But the young Haoran didn't look down at them with cruelty; he simply looked through them, as if they were nothing more than fallen autumn leaves.
"But," the Saint's voice continued, "that extreme superiority also brought you an extreme, suffocating loneliness. When you are the peak, everything else is just the base of the mountain."
The image blurred and reformed. Now, a ten-year-old Haoran stood at the edge of a sky-piercing cliff, the wind whipping his robes.
He was overlooking a vast, breathtaking scenery of floating islands and crystalline seas, a view that would have moved any mortal to tears.
But his face remained a mask of marble.
There was no joy in the view, only the realization of the distance between himself and the world below.
"There is no one who can understand you," the Saint whispered, the words echoing like a funeral dirge. "There is no one you can truly talk to. There is no one who can stand beside you and see the colors of the world the way you see them. Your mother, Chu Xueyu? Your aunts, Feng Yuyan and Leng Shuang? They love you with a ferocity that could burn the stars. They would give up their very lives for you without a second thought. But ultimately... they cannot understand you. To them, you are a miracle to be protected. They look at you and see a treasure, but they do not see the soul that is starving in the dark."
The world shifted again, showing a seventeen-year-old Shen Haoran standing atop a flying sword, soaring high above the clouds.
The wind roared around him, but he looked solitary, like a lone spark of gold in an infinite blue void.
"Yes. Isn't that so? Deep down, the reason you search for power with such desperate, quiet intensity is not for the sake of ruling. It is because you believed—you hoped—that at the very top, at the ultimate summit of the Dao, there may finally be people who can understand you. You thought that if you climbed high enough, you would find your equals."
The image flickered and changed once more, and this time, it showed the twenty-year-old Haoran under the thunderous pressure of the waterfall, his muscles taut, his golden eyes blazing as he broke through the first stage of the Golden Core Realm.
The power he radiated was enough to make the earth tremble, but as he stepped out of the spray, his expression was one of profound, hollow disappointment.
"But... you have given up hope. You looked at the 'experts' of the world and found them wanting. You looked at the masters of the realms and found them shallow. There was simply no one who could stand equal to you, and the silence of the peak was becoming absolute... until..."
The scene shifted back to the familiar, opulent hall of his mother's palace, and the twenty-year-old Haoran stood there, his mother sitting on his throne, watching the dying Shen Ming—Haoran's cousin, with Qing'er kneeling in the shadows.
This was the moment that he found out about the protagonist and villains.
"...you found out the 'truth' of your world. You found out about these anomalies known as 'Protagonists.' People chosen by the heavens themselves, gifted with 'Systems' and 'Fates' that allowed them to grow at a rate that matched your own. People who were meant to be the true sovereigns of the narrative."
Haoran felt a strange, cold shiver run down his spine as the Heaven Piercing Saint materialized beside him within the memory.
The Saint turned his nebula-filled eyes toward Haoran, but he was looking down, his hands clenched at his sides, his golden blonde hair obscuring his face.
"When you first found out about this, what you felt wasn't just anger," the Saint said, his voice dripping with a terrifying insight. "No, you did feel rage when you realized you were being cast as a mere stepping stone, a 'Young Master' villain meant to be slaughtered for someone else's growth. But the very first thing you felt... the emotion that hit you before the rage... was joy."
The image shifted rapidly, showing the moment Haoran first met Huo Yue in the Huo Clan.
They stood in the center of the Huo Clan's hall, the air between them electric.
It was the first time Haoran had looked at a peer and felt a spark of something that wasn't just boredom.
"Yes," the Saint whispered. "You thought: 'If it's them... if they are truly the favorites of the world... maybe they can stand beside me. Maybe they can understand the weight of this existence.' That was your first thought. You saw a protagonist and you didn't see an enemy; you saw a potential friend."
The scenes began to flicker faster and faster, a kaleidoscope of the "Anomalies" Haoran had encountered.
He saw Huo Yue's fiery determination, Lin Feng's shamelessness, Chu Fang's pervertedness and knowledge of the future, Tang Shan's hidden depth, Yun Li's strange aura, and finally, the broken but rising Jiang Chen.
"You believe, in the secret corners of your heart, that perhaps they can grow alongside you," the Saint said, the words hitting Haoran like physical blows. "That is why you didn't just kill Huo Yue, and instead you helped her grow, giving her just enough resources to survive
That is why you spared Lin Feng, giving him resources to grow his sect. That is why, when you encountered these protagonists, your first instinct was not to eliminate them with the cold efficiency of the Shen Clan, but simply to observe. You were waiting, Shen Haoran. You were waiting for one of them to reach out and bridge the gap."
The Saint stepped closer, his voice becoming a soft, heart-wrenching sigh that seemed to resonate with the very core of Haoran's Infinity Dragon God Physique.
"Yes. Look at yourself, Shen Haoran. Deep in your heart, behind the mask of the Young Supreme, behind the cold decrees and the ruthless slaughters, you desired neither supreme power nor the cold immortality of the void. Your true, simple desire... was the desire to be understood."
Haoran stood in the center of the shifting memories, his breath hitching as the iron-clad walls he had built around his heart—the "Supremacy" he had preached, the "Loneliness" he had embraced as a badge of honor—felt like they were cracking under the weight of the truth.
He saw himself in these images, and for the first time, he didn't see a god, but saw a boy standing under a peach tree, waiting for someone to sit down beside him.
His golden eyes trembled, however, he reamined expressionless, with no one knowing what he was thinking aside from himself.
The silence of the high heavens returned, and he found himself back on the cushion of mist, staring at the Heaven Piercing Saint.
The tea on the table was still steaming, but the world felt different.
The "loneliness" he had claimed he could bear was no longer a noble sacrifice, but now it was more of a wound that had been laid bare.
"So," the Saint said, his voice gentle. "Tell me, young Shen. Can a heart that seeks a companion truly walk the path of the absolute? Or is your 'Supremacy' just a loud cry for someone to hear you in the dark?"
Haoran sat in silence, his hands trembling slightly on his knees...until eventually, he sighed.
"Good," he said, voice steady, even as that truth still lingered in his chest. "So that is what I am."
He exhaled slowly, and the disturbance in his aura smoothed, deeper than before—less pure, perhaps, but far more real, as if a man who has been confused his whole life suddenly found the answer to what he has been searching for.
"Many cultivate for a lifetime and never see this," he continued. "They chase illusions and call it dao."
His eyes lifted again, no longer hiding from themselves.
"But today... I have seen my own." There was no shame in his expression, only clarity. "You're right, I am searching for people who can understand me. Someone who would not be crushed by my shadow, nor blinded by my brilliance. Someone who could look at me not as a genius of Shen Clan, nor as an unreachable existence, but as an equal."
Yes.
What he chased for wasn't power. For him, power was just a tool.
It wasn't supremacy either. That was only an excuse.
What he truly sought... was simple.
Someone who could stand beside him without fear, someone who wouldn't worship him, someone wouldn't resent him, someone who wouldn't be left behind by him.
...Someone who could look at the same heights, and understand why he kept climbing.
"Understanding oneself is harder than conquering heaven," he said with a small smile. "You have given me that chance. For that... I give my thanks."
He stood up, and his qi erupted!
His power at the peak of Golden Core Realm circulated, and his divine physique glowing as if it was about to explode.
Then suddenly...
BOOM!
An aura far more powerful than a Golden Core bursts out of him.
The Heaven Piercing Saint watched as Qi began to revolve and gather around Haoran, as if his very presence itself commands the world to bow before him.
Finally, after a few moments, the burst of power subsided, and Haoran can be seen smiling as he clenched his fist.
"First stage Nascent Soul... I've reached it."