The clash was instantaneous, a fleeting moment when the Celestial Marshal’s divine power met the golden-armored warrior. Surprise flickered in the Marshal’s eyes; closest to the impact, he alone perceived the subtle tremor, the warrior’s body shattering not once, but twice, under an unseen assault.

Had his divine strike landed true, the golden warrior would surely have perished. Yet the Marshal sought not to kill, but to restrain. He retracted his power with practiced ease.

To onlookers, however, it appeared the Celestial Marshal had delivered a devastating blow, crippling the warrior.

The Marshal, baffled, stepped back, his gaze fixed on the golden figure.

The warrior staggered, spewing forth a torrent of blood. His demonic energy, once a raging torrent, evaporated, and cracks spiderwebbed across his meridians. The mighty dragon had become a crawling worm.

“Whose… whose voice was that?” he gasped, sweat beading on his ashen face. “More terrible than the Emperor… nay, beyond comparison! He did not seek my death. Had he truly wished it, I would be no more.” The twin assaults, invisible yet undeniable, had crumbled his very essence.

Though appearances pointed to the Marshal’s doing, Wang Lin, standing nearby, witnessed the truth: the Marshal’s power never touched the golden warrior.

A spark ignited in Wang Lin’s eyes. He buried his questions, for opportunity had presented itself. The warrior was crippled, weakened by forces unknown. If Wang Lin hesitated, he would not be Wang Lin.

Without pause, his right hand rose from the drum, seizing the frail warrior. A killing intent blazed in his eyes as he slammed the warrior against the enchanted skin.

“Thump!”

The warrior’s ravaged body struck the drum. Crimson mist erupted, and a final, desperate gasp escaped his lips, painting the drumhead with his lifeblood.

Wang Lin poured the entirety of his sorrow into his hand, a final strike of his Nascent Soul stage. He would unleash all his regrets, all his grief, in this single blow.

As the warrior met the drum, Wang Lin’s sorrow surged forth, a tidal wave crashing through the warrior’s failing defenses, seeping into the very wood of the instrument.

“Dong!” The sound reverberated.

The drum replied with a ferocious echo, hammering against the warrior’s broken form. In that instant, as the sound pulsed, the golden-armored warrior, the General, Jin Wuxu, disintegrated. His body dissolved into crimson spray, scattering upon the heavens.

His shattered remains were absorbed into the drum.

Five strokes severed an arm, ten broke both limbs, but fifteen strikes stole life itself.

His true killer was not Wang Lin, but the unseen force that had crippled him. Had only one voice spoken, even wounded, the warrior would have fought. But the twin assaults, coming in rapid succession, had stripped him of his power, his strength, his very being. He was nothing, not by his own will. Combined with Wang Lin’s relentless wrath, the fallen warrior was made to pay the ultimate price.

Aboard the pleasure boat, the youth paused, muttering, “Dead? How could…” He glanced sharply into the distance, his gaze piercing the city and beyond, before returning to an empty stare.

On the plaza, the Celestial Marshal stared at Wang Lin, sensing the rebellious spirit within. Admiration sparked in his eyes, as if he saw a reflection of his younger self, the path he had not taken.

The other seven Marshals, their faces a mask of complex emotions, focused not on Wang Lin’s power, but on the fact that he struck the drum fifteen times!

Fifteen times! He had surpassed them all, becoming the foremost drummer in the land, in name and deed.

Among the Lieutenants, shock rippled. Lieutenant Xuan drew a deep breath. His stagnant cultivation was on the verge of breakthrough, inspired by Wang Lin’s cleansing tone, by the change he felt within himself.

From the stands, the sobered spectators watched Wang Lin with a newfound respect.

In the Demonic Spirit Lands, strength commanded reverence.

Silence fell amongst the Generals. Mo Lihai watched Wang Lin’s back, knowing his ascent to Marshal was assured.

The fifteenth roar echoed through the heavens, carrying a taste of blood and a weight of sorrow. It swelled, amplified by the drum’s vibrations.

Silver serpents danced in the sky, and thunder rumbled, as if in agreement. The thunder absorbed the drum’s sorrow, and a wave of unfathomable grief swept down upon the city, inundating all who dwelled within.

The fifteenth strike eclipsed the previous fourteen, carrying Wang Lin’s Dao, his sorrow, his perfect heart. The path to defy the heavens was laid bare.

No longer did the sound carry the sorrow of a man, but the sorrow of the heavens themselves. Throughout Tian Yao City, tears flowed unbidden.

On the pleasure boat, the musician felt the weight of grief and responded with a mournful melody.

Wang Lin looked up at the sky and whispered, “I have retained my obsession.”

The Heavenly Dao was omnipresent, the fabric of existence itself. The vulgar lords of men said “all beneath the sky is the king’s domain”. The Heavenly Dao encompassed even more. It was the cosmos, the universe, every blade of grass, every grain of sand.

The Demonic Spirit Land, though it was said to be the mansion of an ancient being, could not deny the Heavenly Dao. For the very soil, the very air, was part of it, a testament to its presence.

The Heavenly Dao descended.

Formless by nature, it took shape in the form of punishment: the Heavenly Tribulation!

With the shattering of the Immortal Realm, the Tribulation seemed to have vanished. But it was merely the Immortal Tribulation, called forth by Immortals. The true Tribulation, the wrath of the Dao, would only descend upon those who defied it.

It would come when the true rebel emerged.