A hush fell upon the vast plaza, the silence amplified by the three tiered stands overlooking the scene. Only the echoing drumbeat permeated the air, a mournful cadence that stirred a deep melancholy. It seeped into the hearts of the onlookers, awakening forgotten memories, like autumn leaves swept away on the wind.

Within the immense square, even the formidable demon generals were subdued by the sound.

A profound shift in understanding swept through the crowd. The drum’s lamenting song, like a gentle stream, trickled into their hearts, stirring the depths of their souls.

Wang Lin’s hand remained on the demon drum. With each beat, he imbued the instrument with his very essence, projecting his Tao into the heavens and earth.

Flashes of his past echoed in his mind.

His encounters with the maiden, Li Muwan, replayed as a sad ballad in his heart, and the seven centuries of lonely cultivation stretched out before him.

The illusionary hundred years spent with Li Muwan within the Heaven Defying Sect, the desolate wanderings through the streets of the Land of the Ancient Demons – all these memories halted abruptly, broken by a single, crystalline note.

It was the sound of a zither, drifting across the water from a painted boat. The music had resonated with him for months, cleansing his spirit and elevating his understanding of the Tao.

Now, that very melody intertwined with the drum’s lament, finding a bridge within Wang Lin’s heart. His hand moved across the drum’s worn hide, releasing the sorrow he had kept hidden since Li Muwan’s departure, a torrent of pent-up grief.

The drum’s resonance washed over the plaza. Many wept openly, lost in the depths of their own memories. Each note stirred the waters of their past, revealing forgotten moments, both joyous and sorrowful.

Every soul held a story, buried deep within the heart. But the drum’s music, like an ancient spell, dredged those stories to the surface, wielding the power of empathy.

With each resonant beat, Wang Lin conveyed the very essence of what he had felt when first hearing the zither’s song.

Among the demon generals, Mo Lihai’s eyes shone with remembrance, and even the stoic Shi Xiao bore a flicker of sorrow.

Only one remained untouched: Mo Fei. His expression was serene, almost chillingly impassive, as if the drum’s sorrowful song held no meaning for him.

The drum’s lament lingered long after the final beat had faded. Slowly, the crowd began to awaken from their reverie.

Save for the demon commanders and a select few, most were shaken to discover their cheeks stained with tears.

Xuan, the deputy commander, stared at Wang Lin by the demon drum. A sigh escaped him, the conflicting emotions in his eyes giving way to profound respect.

“To communicate through the drum’s song… perhaps *he* is the one the Demon Emperor has awaited for millennia. In the wake of the drum’s lament, the barriers that have long held my cultivation have begun to yield.”

Among the demon commanders, each regarded Wang Lin with a different expression save for Tian; however, each expression conveyed the same sense of awe.

None present understood the significance of communicating through the drum’s song more than they.

It was a measure of one’s enlightenment, a testament to one’s spiritual mastery.

Tian, the sky commander, gazed at Wang Lin, his clouded eyes now clear and sharp. “He… he is called Wang Lin?”

Wang Lin lifted his hand, his gaze sweeping the assembly. All eyes were upon him.

Finally, his gaze settled upon the gold-armored warrior, the captain of the guard.

The warrior’s face, once darkened with fury, was now ashen. He stared at Wang Lin, his words failing him. The cultivator before him had brought forth a maelstrom of emotions.

From the initial five strikes, delivered without flinching, to the three that followed, vying with Mo Fei, to the resounding ninth and tenth beats that had forced Wang Lin to stumble backward…

The captain had believed it was over. He had thought the drums could no longer be pushed… but it was then, that Wang Lin proved to him: all that had happened up to that moment had been but a prelude.

The eleventh strike had resonated through the plaza, born not just of strength, but from the depths of Wang Lin’s very soul.

It was one thing to beat the drum, and an entirely different matter to convey one’s heart through its resonance. The captain knew he could never achieve such a feat.

It transcended mere cultivation; it was a mastery of spirit, a communion with the very essence of existence.

The day’s events would forever be etched into the captain’s memory. Now, faced with Wang Lin’s gaze, he recoiled, unwilling to meet his eyes, an instinct as primal as life itself.

“Fifteen strikes,” Wang Lin said softly, his voice carrying clearly through the air, “and you lose an arm, is it not?”

A chill ran down the captain’s spine. He would rather face Wang Lin in a head-on battle, even forsaking his most potent spells, than endure the lingering power of the drum’s resonant lament.

But Wang Lin offered him no respite. He turned away from the captain and scanned the onlookers in the stands. One by one, they averted their gaze, unable to withstand the force of his presence.

Among the deputy commanders – Tian, Xuan, Huang, Yu, Zhou, and Huang – each turned away as Wang Lin’s gaze fell upon them, save for one. It was Xuan, whose eyes, clear and unwavering, met Wang Lin’s own.

A hint of understanding flickered in Xuan’s gaze. He clasped his hands together in respect.

Wang Lin offered a slight nod, then turned his attention to the eight demon commanders. Their eyes met in unspoken understanding, a silent exchange that revealed a multitude of hidden truths. It was Tian, the sky commander, who spoke first,

“Wang Lin, I will remember your name.”

Among the demon generals, many averted their eyes, but Shi Xiao, with a guttural roar, forced himself to hold Wang Lin’s gaze.

A spark of battle lust shone in his eyes, but Wang Lin dismissed him with a flick of his gaze.

Finally, Wang Lin’s eyes came to rest upon Mo Fei.

The stoic one met his gaze and stared back with the same impassiveness he wore for all, neither wavering nor hinting what lay beneath.

Wang Lin closed his eyes, his hand resting gently on the demon drum. Striking it again was no longer his goal.
At the echo of the drums, a summons resonated within Wang Lin, a yearning he’d never known before – the call to Ascendency! He brushed against the very precipice of Apotheosis.

“I shall… attain Immortality!” His eyes remained closed, yet a surge of unwavering conviction erupted from his being.

His right hand rested upon the Demon Drum.

*Thrum-thrum*. Though his hand remained still, the drum throbbed with a sound that reverberated like thunder cleaving the heavens.

Sorrow, a lament profound, emanated from the drum’s voice, each echo deeper than the last. With two strikes, the thunder itself seemed imbued with grief.

“Still… lacking,” Wang Lin whispered. The moment the words left his lips, the Demon Drum unleashed another mournful *thrum*.

Three strikes now! The twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth booms of the drum rent the air!

The echoes converged, coalescing into a wave of force tenfold stronger than before, coursing through the Demon Drum, through Wang Lin’s hand, and directly into his very soul.

At that instant, all present heard a sound emanating from Wang Lin, a series of crisp *thunk* sounds. It was not the celestial melody of the Vault of Heaven, yet those who heard it felt a sensation of profound relief, as if drawn from the very marrow of their bones.

Droplets of black liquid began to seep from Wang Lin’s pores.

“Essence Cleansing!” The Celestial General exclaimed, his eyes blazing with admiration he had never before displayed.

“This… this is true Essence Cleansing! What came before was but a surface scrub!”

The other Demon Generals watched Wang Lin with undisguised envy. None understood better than they why the Demon Drum held the place of second highest importance within the Celestial Demon City, after only the Dragon Pool.

Within the Dragon Pool dwelled the Spirit of Ancient Demons, a source of enlightenment, a venerated presence.

The Demon Drum, however, was crafted from the hide of an Ancient Demon, imbued with its potent essence. Legend whispered that successive Demon Emperors, through a sacred ritual of drumming, could draw forth the power of the Ancient Demon, thus ensuring the glory of the Celestial Demon City for eons.

To cleanse one’s essence with the power of an Ancient Demon was a privilege reserved for the Imperial Clan. Outsiders could only hope to be granted this boon as a reward for deeds of unparalleled valor.

Each Demon General, upon assuming their rank, was gifted the opportunity to strike the Demon Drum once. The true reward lay hidden within: Essence Cleansing.

But the ability to truly cleanse one’s essence depended entirely upon their individual cultivation.

The three strikes, now a raging torrent, surged through Wang Lin, washing over his already purified form with renewed vigor.

“Fourteen…” The Golden Armored man grew paler with each passing moment.

Around the plaza, the others seemed to have forgotten his presence, lost in the echoes of the drums, in the reverberations that shook their very cores.

This was the Song of Essence Cleansing!

During Essence Cleansing, the sounds resonating from the one being purified could induce a lesser cleansing effect within those who heard it.

Wang Lin opened his eyes. Every impurity had been scoured away by the drum’s song. He felt a disorienting lightness, as if the heavens themselves would claim him. He gazed upon the Demon Drum, clarity filling his eyes.

“For seven hundred years, I have walked the Dao. My Illusory Realm is perfect, yet I have not reached the pinnacle. Now… I understand. Though my Illusory Realm encompasses eight bodies, my Dao Heart was incomplete. Deep within my soul, there lingered a grief, a scar, a sealed memory.

When Li Muwan perished, my Illusory Realm ascended, yet she became my obsession.

That is why the music of the zither player resonated so deeply within me. To listen to that music for centuries, until that woman aged and died… only then would I have fully understood. The sorrow within would fade with the final note, leaving only an imprint upon my soul.

But today, with this drum, I have, in a mere moment, lived through a lifetime of sorrow. I poured all my grief into the drum, and now, with no lingering sadness, my Dao Heart will be complete, and I shall Ascend.”

Wang Lin’s right hand rose, then fell gently. In that fleeting moment, the memory of Li Muwan, and all the sorrow bound to her, surged forth with the final strike upon the Demon Drum.

“But to do this is to choose oblivion… to truly forget.” Wang Lin’s hand wavered.