Beyond the chasm’s maw lay a void of absolute black, where only the howling winds held dominion, a lonely dirge that echoed as if the fissure were cleaved from the very fabric of existence. A relentless pull emanated from the pit’s depths, hungry to devour all.

Within the crack, Wang Lin sat cross-legged, his gaze fixed on the outer darkness. He seemed a part of the surrounding gloom, indistinguishable, save for the occasional flicker of lightning that danced in his eyes, illuminating the rift with brief, tempestuous flares.

A profound solitude seeped into his heart. Here, he was severed from the world, forgotten by all, with naught for company but the ghosts of eight hundred years spent upon the Dao’s path.

As a lonely traveler cherishes each face met upon the road, so too did Wang Lin’s solitude deepen with each remembered moment. He was sequestered within a moment in time, yearning for the texture of bygone days, or perhaps he lingered in a place, longing for a soul held dear. “The graves of my parents… I wonder if they are tended,” he murmured, his words swallowed by the dark.

A sphere of faint, ethereal light hovered near Wang Lin, its glow so feeble as to barely pierce the gloom. Yet, from it radiated a warmth that flowed into Wang Lin’s heart, a gentle murmur that soothed his loneliness.

Within the sphere, a hazy vision of a woman kept silent vigil, sharing with Wang Lin the oppressive darkness and the winds’ mournful cry. Through cataclysm and the grinding down of ages, her image would persist, journeying with Wang Lin across the heavens, even through the cycles of rebirth.

A chill, perpetual as the grave, permeated the fissure, as though the pit itself drained away all warmth. Yet the presence of the sphere kindled an unwavering heat within Wang Lin, a flame that burned eternal.

Blending into the shadows, Wang Lin raised a hand, and the sphere settled upon his palm. Bathed in its soft, flickering light, he felt a happiness long absent.

“Each soul finds solace in different ways,” he thought. “Mine lies in the company of my parents, in being with Wan’er…” A bitter twist touched his lips, for such happiness was a desperate, unreachable thing.

Unbeknownst to the world, within this forsaken corner of the Demon Spirit Land, far below the pit’s maw, a soul wrestled with fate, succumbing to a heart-wrenching despair. For three years, Wang Lin had remained sequestered within the chasm.

Not from a lack of will to leave, but because the pull from beyond had grown to an unimaginable magnitude.

Two years past, the instant Wang Lin caressed the celestial jade, the pit’s suction erupted in a furious tempest, ensnaring half the diminutive fissure within its grasp.

The arcane might of his Immortal Guard puppet might have afforded him a sixty percent chance of escape, yet the abrupt surge of power reduced that hope to a meager twenty. Undeterred, Wang Lin accepted his fate with quiet resolve, spending the remaining time in patient stillness.

His cultivation had slowed after reaching the Ascendant stage, for this was the apex of the first step on the Dao. Though the starry skies were vast, few could ever hope to reach such a zenith.

Aside from those favored by the heavens, those who reached the pinnacle did so only after years of relentless trials. Wang Lin possessed commonplace gifts, and only an unwavering will and peculiar circumstances had brought him this far.

The intermediate, late, and peak stages of the Ascendant realm were treacherous gates, holding countless cultivators in thrall, consuming their life essence like insurmountable mountains looming before Wang Lin.

For two years, with a tranquil heart, Wang Lin contemplated the will contained within the celestial jade. From within the jade, a single sword art was imparted, a singular strike called the Severing of Luo!

Then, one fateful day, as Wang Lin drew his consciousness from the jade, the celestial treasure crumbled, utterly spent, its purpose fulfilled.

Only the incredible, two-year-honed Severing of Luo remained within Wang Lin’s grasp.

What followed was a vast, unyielding solitude, a deep, unsettling quiet.

Each day, he sat in this fashion, his eyes fixed upon the darkness beyond the fissure, his ears filled with the howling winds, unmoving and unblinking.

A soft sigh escaped from Wang Lin’s pouch of holding, which opened, releasing a painted scroll.

The scroll unfurled in the air, and within it, the figure of a woman slowly materialized.

Wang Lin did not turn to regard the painting, nor did a flicker of surprise cross his face. Only an endless calm filled him. Just before the scroll appeared, he had grasped the luminous sphere that had warmed his palm, absorbing it into his being. “Descend…” the woman’s form spoke, her face unseen, but her voice echoing ethereally within the fissure.

Without a word, Wang Lin drew two fingers into a sword, and with a simple, unadorned motion, he slashed downward. The action held an indescribable quality, and the scroll, recoiling at the gesture, ceased its murmur. Wang Lin cast a glance at the scroll, seized it, and returned it to his pouch.

In three years, the woman had appeared within the painting four times, each time uttering the same elusive entreaty.

What lay below this abyss, Wang Lin did not seek to know. His serenity remained unbroken. He did not even bestow a second glance upon the enigmatic array etched upon the distant stone pillar opposite the fissure. Without sufficient power, curiosity was a deadly blade, capable of destroying all. Wang Lin waited. He waited for the pit’s voracious suction to subside.

The pit’s power lacked all rhyme or reason. If it could erupt with such force two years ago, then surely it could ebb within the years to come. All required was patience.

From within the darkness beside Wang Lin came a chorus of croaks. Wang Lin lowered his gaze, and twin bolts of lightning burst forth from his eyes, illuminating a palm-sized, azure frog. A Thunder Frog!
A year had passed since the awakening of the Thunder Frog. Upon stirring from its slumber, the frog possessed the very size it held now. To Wang Lin’s nascent soul, the frog was most sensitive to the power of thunder. Almost instantly after awakening, it refused to dwell within the confines of a storage pouch, choosing instead to perpetually remain by Wang Lin’s side.

Wang Lin pinched two fingers together, and a bolt of lightning crackled forth, aimed at the Thunder Frog. The frog, with a lazy blink, flicked out its tongue, ensnaring the lightning and pulling it back to its mouth. The frog swallowed, its belly rumbling with distant thunder, a look of blissful contentment upon its face. Wang Lin closed his eyes, his consciousness sinking into the depths of his Dao. His Dao possessed two forms: Dao Transformation of the Yellow Springs, and the Coagulation of a Spring Soul.

Yet the latter, the Spring Soul, had been forged years ago from the countless souls residing within the Soul Streamer. It lacked a vital ingredient – a touch of malignant power. While the Heavenly Ghost possessed a certain malice, it lacked the essential “Sha,” the raw, untamed fury needed for Wang Lin’s Spring Soul. “The true Spring Soul is not found in the mighty, but rather in the simple, the seemingly weak, where the greater potential for Malice and Sha resides!” Wang Lin mused. “If I can but escape this place, I must return to the Realm of Mortals, and draw forth the essence of Sha from their souls, to forge my own Yellow Springs Soul!”

Wang Lin opened his eyes, gazing at the rift before him. Slowly, he extended his right hand, his fingertips crossing the boundary line within the fissure.

Beyond this division, even within the rift, the force of the pull was undeniable. The instant his fingertips crossed the threshold, he felt a searing pain as his flesh was drawn and strained.

The skin on his fingers rippled and warped, and even his fingernails felt as if they were being ripped away. “I, Wang Lin, though trapped within this place, have been granted an opportunity, a chance to perceive the power of the heavens and the earth, to form the third form of my Dao Transformation!” Wang Lin’s gaze was calm, yet a hint of grim determination flashed within. “But before I can proceed, I must cleanse myself of the trouble that festers within!” Wang Lin withdrew his fingertips, now numb and devoid of sensation.

The Immortal Killing Art, he had stored entirely within the Puppet as a precaution. Since Wang Lin first comprehended this art, it had become one of his most vital abilities, and so it was with great struggle that he committed to emptying himself of it completely.

As he practiced the Immortal Killing Art, Wang Lin nurtured a heart of carnage within. Initially, this killing heart remained dormant, even after Wang Lin had transferred all the slaughterous energy to the puppet. However, three years later, mere months ago, Wang Lin clearly sensed a change in the heart of slaughter.

This change brought with it a madness akin to when he had consumed the Ascension Fruit, an overwhelming urge to reclaim the killing energy immediately.

Wang Lin’s eyes flashed with resolve. He rose to his feet and strode forth, stepping directly into the boundary. The immense suction immediately assaulted his body, seeking to drag him from the fissure.

Wang Lin circulated his Immortal Force within, slowly taking a cross-legged seat. He resisted the pulling force, and at the same time, focused on comprehending its nature.

The suction carried a chill that seeped into his body, traveling through his meridians. But the cold was not strong, and could be dispersed by circulating his Immortal Force. He remained seated for days, studying the shifting of the suction. On one such day, Wang Lin took another step forward.

This time, the suction was greater. The blood within him seemed to slow, as if seeking to tear itself from his body. “Not enough!” Wang Lin’s eyes shone with determination.

At the Tide Corridor, near the deep pit, swarms of grotesque mosquito-beasts filled the air. They dared not approach too closely; the suction was too strong. If they drew too near, their bodies would be sucked into the pit.

Within this swarm, one mosquito-beast shone with a purple light. As it flew, the other beasts scattered, giving way. Its cries caused them to tremble.

However, this purple mosquito’s eyes shone with a persistent anxiety. It circled the pit for almost three years. Several times, it had attempted to dive into the depths, but paused, glancing at its brethren, and halting its descent.

A pained cry escaped its mandibles, echoing across the land… like a youngling separated from its kin, calling out a beloved name…