From the chasm’s maw erupted a swarm of flying vermin, each the size of a finger, their hues a shifting kaleidoscope. As they coalesced into a living, swirling cloud, their camouflage was nigh perfect, blurring into the jagged, shadowed cliffs. To the untrained eye, they were but a fleeting shimmer before the living tempest descended.

The swarm surged forth, dividing into five tendrils of buzzing horror, each aimed at the hapless adventurers.

Du Jian’s face turned ashen, devoid of all color. He knew the hunger of these creatures, having witnessed their feast upon a once-proud automaton, its metal shell pierced and its essence devoured in mere moments.

Without hesitation, his hand plunged into his satchel, emerging with a jade talisman gifted by the Celestial Fortune-Teller. This talisman, imbued with three lives, had been used but once before. Now, it was called upon for the second time.

The jade erupted in a radiant, seven-hued shield, enveloping Du Jian entirely. But as the light bloomed, the swarm abandoned its divided attack, converging upon the shield like moths to a flame. A chorus of unsettling cracks echoed as the insects gnawed at the luminous barrier.

Panic seized Du Jian, his voice a desperate plea. “Help me! Brother Murong, save me!”

Murong Zhuo, with a flicker of hesitation, channeled his immortal power, conjuring a hand seal wreathed in ominous black miasma. With a resounding whoosh, the dark hand hurtled towards the swarm imprisoning Du Jian.

But a spectral anomaly occurred. The black hand passed harmlessly through the insects, and even through Du Jian himself, as though he were nothing more than a phantom. The attack struck the cliff face beyond, leaving no mark upon the swarm.

A grim shadow fell upon Murong Zhuo’s face as he stared at the insects, a troubled frown etched into his features.

Zhao Yiying, her fair face contemplative, observed the swarm with a hidden depth in her eyes. Beside her, Xu Fei’s gaze flickered with fleeting speculation, but the thought vanished as quickly as it came, swallowed by the weight of Wang Lin’s passing glance.

These events unfolded in the blink of an eye. Seeing Murong Zhuo’s power rendered useless, Wang Lin’s eyes widened with sudden realization.

Murong Zhuo, unwilling to yield, channeled spell after spell, each a dazzling display of power. Yet all were futile, each passing harmlessly through the swarm.

The cracking sounds grew more frantic as the seven-hued shield around Du Jian dimmed rapidly.

Despair threatened to consume Du Jian, but in that moment of clarity, his gaze locked onto Wang Lin. “Wang Lin! I know secrets of our master! Save me, and I will reveal all!”

Wang Lin remained unmoved, his attention fixed on the insects. They were indeed peculiar. They had intended to scatter and attack, but upon seeing Du Jian’s shield, they had immediately… converged.

“If these insects devour Brother Du, we shall become their next feast. If we do not flee now, our chance may be lost,” Zhao Yiman said softly, idly twirling a strand of hair.

As if on cue, Du Jian’s rainbow shield shattered, leaving him exposed. With a surge of adrenaline, he activated the talisman’s final protection. The jade crumbled to dust.

But the cracking sounds were his death knell, resonating within his soul, growing ever more urgent.

“Wang Lin! I know the truth of Sun Yun, the betrayal of the Purple Sect! I know why he turned against our master! Save me, and I will tell you everything!” Du Jian roared, revealing his most guarded secret.

Wang Lin, his expression unchanged, met Du Jian’s gaze before raising his right hand. A blinding golden light erupted, radiating outwards and banishing the shadows. It was one of the eleven golden sigils from the cave realm.

In that instant, the insects surrounding Du Jian erupted in a frenzied buzz, turning as one towards the golden light in Wang Lin’s hand.

A glint of understanding shone in Wang Lin’s eyes. His theory was correct: these insects were drawn to light, or perhaps, driven by an insatiable hunger for it!

Wang Lin retreated a few paces and summoned a crystalline brush from his satchel. With a flick of the wrist, arcane runes materialized in the golden glow. The swarm responded, splitting into smaller groups to devour each shimmering glyph.

Wang Lin’s brush danced across the air, each stroke birthing another rune, and each rune drawing the ravenous insects away.

In truth, there were but a few hundred insects, but their size and ethereal forms gave the illusion of vast numbers. They swirled around the dozen runes, consuming the light they emitted.

The sight stunned the others, especially Zhao Yiying and Xu Fei, their faces reflecting the same emotion for the first time: disbelief.

This shared expression sent a jolt through Wang Lin. He finally understood the uncanny familiarity he felt when looking at them. But now was not the time to ponder such matters. He turned towards Du Jian, still reeling from the destruction of his final defense.

Du Jian, though not a master of ascension, was still a disciple of the Celestial Fortune-Teller, and possessed formidable skills. In desperation, he bit his tongue, expelling a mouthful of vital essence.

The blood transformed mid-air into droplets of corrosive acid, capable of melting even Wang Lin’s flesh.

Wang Lin’s eyes flashed with cold fury. With a flick of his sleeve, the droplets were deflected away. This desperate technique, sacrificing one’s essence, was a common, yet dangerous, act of self-mutilation.

Seizing the momentary reprieve, Du Jian retreated, pulling forth from his satchel a series of grotesque, black nodules of flesh.
A pang of regret twisted his features. Though grotesque in form, these festering Flesh Grafts were the culmination of years of painstaking ritual, conjured from the vilest of corruptions. A mere touch would taint a cultivator’s very essence, making them a tool of insidious malevolence.

Now, with a grinding of teeth, he flung them forth. In the echoing abyss, the grafts detonated with sickening pops, unleashing a wave of putrid stench that surged towards Wang Lin.

Ice hardened Wang Lin’s gaze. As he moved, a river of putrid, yellow energy erupted from his outstretched hand. The River Styx swept outwards, engulfing the fragments of corrupted flesh.

The River Styx, a conduit of all the world’s filth, seemed not to diminish, but rather *thrive* upon the Flesh Grafts. Du Jian was a formidable foe amongst his peers, his Flesh Graft technique bordering on invincibility. But to Wang Lin, a cultivator touched by enlightenment, Du Jian lacked true foundation; he needed to tear down the walls of his own self doubt before ascending to new heights.

With swift precision, Wang Lin seized the despairing Du Jian. No words were exchanged. Immortal energy surged within him, severing the connection between Du Jian’s spirit and his physical form. A flick of his wrist summoned the Restriction Banner. In a flash, countless seals blossomed around Du Jian, imprisoning him within a sphere of power, joining Yao Xixue in the depths of his storage bag.

The act was ruthlessly efficient, so swift that even Mu Rongzhuo’s protest died in his throat.

Wang Lin turned, his Immortal Brush tracing a final arc. The gilded talismans responded, spiraling around him, forming a glittering barrier. The ravenous insects, fixated on their feast, continued to devour the golden light emanating from the runes.

The golden aura seemed boundless, resisting all consumption.

Wang Lin’s gaze sharpened. A single, focused strike of his left index finger, a Annihilation Finger, pierced a talisman as if it were no more substantial than mist.

This blatant display, coupled with Mu Rongzhuo’s earlier failed attempts at a power-based attack, did not go unnoticed by Zhao Yipan and Xu Fei. A flicker of avarice ignited in Zhao Yipan’s eyes, while Xu Fei’s expression remained impassive, though her pupils contracted ever so slightly. Only Mu Rongzhuo, while clearly taken aback, betrayed no hint of desire.

“Shall we continue, fellow cultivators?” Wang Lin’s demeanor remained unchanged, the swarm of golden-rune-devouring insects surrounding him projecting an image of unnerving power.

Wang Lin resumed his descent into the abyss, followed in silence by Mu Rongzhuo. Zhao Yipan and Xu Fei, after a moment’s hesitation, trailed behind, maintaining a wary distance, their caution now readily apparent.

*”An immunity to all power, they claim,”* Wang Lin mused as he descended. He doubted the existence of any creature that could truly nullify all power. To him, the failed attacks indicated the power of those specific techniques were simply too weak, that the bugs were resistant to that form of magical energy.

Wang Lin channeled a whisper of Ling Tianhou’s Sword Qi into his right hand, and gently touched one of the insects. The creature shuddered, but did not perish.

Wang Lin’s surprise was genuine. He possessed but a single strand of Ling Tianhou’s Sword Qi, and this cautious probing had pushed the limit of its use to a fraction of its strength.

The four continued their descent into the abyss. Using the Beryl Crystal’s Sight, Wang Lin navigated through seemingly impassable barriers, with the assistance of Mu Rongzhuo.

Zhao Yipan and Xu Fei also contributed to the effort, especially Zhao Yipan, whose attacks possessed a singular and dangerous subtlety, often striking with silent, unseen force.

Xu Fei’s contributions paled in comparison, but Wang Lin, his suspicions now fully aroused, observed her closely, and his conviction grew with each passing moment.

*”To think, even in this place, I would find members of that sect,”* Wang Lin thought to himself, withdrawing his gaze, unwilling to press the matter.

As long as they did not provoke him, he had no desire to expose their secrets.

Mu Rongzhuo, in contrast, impressed Wang Lin with his varied and refined techniques, never once repeating a technique.

Wang Lin judged that, with his current cultivation, he could defeat the man, but only with the use of his magical artifacts, and only then after being injured. And who was to say this Mu Rongzhuo didn’t have powerful artifacts of his own?

If his escape arts were as potent as that of the diminutive elder he’d once faced, Wang Lin knew he would be outmatched in pursuit.

*”I’ve imprisoned that elder’s spirit within the Soul Devouring Banner. Once I’ve rescued Zhou Yi and resolved this abyss business, I must devote myself to mastering these techniques,”* he vowed.

With Mu Rongzhuo’s aid, they finally reached the lower depths of the Abyss. Wang Lin briefly felt a rush of anticipation, before bringing it under his control. From here, even the Beryl Crystal offered only a vague sense of the path ahead.

However, Wang Lin’s goal was near. The ancient spirit, Beryl, sensed Zhou Yi’s presence nearby! But even with Beryl’s might, pinpointing his exact location proved impossible.

“Brother Mu Rongzhuo,” Wang Lin began, clasping his hands, “I have pressing matters to attend to and will not accompany you further.” He paused, glanced at the impassive Mu Rongzhuo, and added, “I am gladdened to have met you during the tides of this Abyss, and if you ever require my aid, speak without hesitation!”

For Wang Lin, these words were rare and meaningful. Though quiet and reserved, Mu Rongzhuo had proven unfailingly cooperative and unmoved by greed.

He had no deep bond with him, and so Wang Lin did not elaborate. Mu Rongzhuo offered a rare, faint smile, nodded in acknowledgment, and continued his descent.

Wang Lin hesitated, then sent a telepathic message: “Brother Mu Rongzhuo, be wary of Zhao Yipan and Xu Fei. If I am not mistaken, they are members of the Corpse Yin Sect. One of them, I believe, is inhabited by the spirit of the dead!”
Lord Murong, his face a mask of indifference, gave neither glance nor sign toward the Lady Zhao nor the Maiden Xu. As if deaf to the whispers of Wang Lin echoing in his mind, he pressed onward into the abyssal depths. Yet, unseen by mortal eyes, a flicker of wariness ignited within his soul, a shadow of caution betraying his outward calm.

The Corpse Yin Sect… he knew of its grim reputation. Its power dwarfed even the mightiest of mortal kingdoms. Upon countless stars within the celestial sea, its tendrils spread, its influence vast and insidious. A sect steeped in necromantic arts, its secrets best left undisturbed.

Lady Zhao and the Maiden Xu, after bidding farewell to Wang Lin, descended as well, their forms swallowed by the gloom below. But the Maiden Xu, her head bowed in assumed humility, toyed idly with a strand of her raven tresses. A single, severed hair floated downward, clinging lightly to the rough-hewn wall of the chasm.

When their silhouettes had vanished into the distant murk, Wang Lin’s gaze turned cold as glacial ice. His eyes, sharp as honed steel, fixed upon the stray lock nestled in the crevice. With a gesture of his hand, the errant hair drifted into his grasp, held delicately between two fingers.

“It seems my warning fell upon deaf ears,” Wang Lin murmured, his voice a chilling breeze. He crushed the strand between his fingers, and a flame of sickly green erupted, consuming it. A wisp of ethereal essence, a fragment of spirit, flickered forth. Before it could solidify into discernible form, Wang Lin unleashed a torrent of primordial breath, scattering the spectral tendrils into nothingness.

Far below, in the heart of the Tidal Abyss, the Maiden Xu stumbled in mid-air, a crimson trickle staining the corner of her mouth. A tremor of raw terror pulsed within her, a silent scream trapped in her wide, frightened eyes.