A nameless force, ethereal and unseen, tugged at Wang Lin’s soul. After an internal battle that defied description, he chose, yet did not choose, to become a streak of light, fleeing the scene.

Had the Daoist Lan Meng not presented him with his first trial of choice, had the Vermillion Bird Elder not subjected him to the second, his resolve, his very Dao, might never have reached the heights of a true Grandmaster.

More importantly, had he not delved into the memories of Si Mozi, witnessing paths so similar, yet diverging in their ultimate destinations, perhaps Wang Lin would have succumbed, becoming a thrall to the Palm Sovereign. The Sovereign’s words struck at the heart of Wang Lin’s deepest fears. Even as he fled the Fire Sparrow Clan’s territory, even as the devastating collapse of the Sacred Ground engulfed the Clan behind him in a wave of fiery destruction, consuming nearly half their settlements, the inferno served only as a backdrop to his despair.

A muted rumble echoed through the cosmos, but Wang Lin’s mind remained shrouded in a fog of bewilderment.

His heart, it seemed, had been torn asunder, pain coursing through every fiber of his being.

Time became meaningless. Gradually, the haze in Wang Lin’s eyes cleared, replaced by a profound darkness. His injuries demanded immediate attention, lest his cultivation wither beyond repair.

At his level of cultivation, ordinary wounds were but fleeting discomforts. But such grievous harm threatened to unravel his very foundation, causing a catastrophic decline in his power.

Fortunately, his lineage as an Ancient God granted him unparalleled regenerative abilities, setting him apart from ordinary cultivators. Where others might require centuries to heal, his recovery would be significantly shorter.

“Wan’er, have faith in me. I will awaken you with my own hands… Then, with Ping’er, we shall live as a family in a remote village, unknown to all, and live out our days in peace. I shall teach Ping’er the art of woodcarving, passing down my father’s legacy…” Wang Lin murmured, a sudden longing for home overwhelming him, for the familiar stars of his own realm. This vast, primordial starfield offered no solace, no sense of belonging.

Here, amidst the boundless, inky void, the cold, distant stars offered no warmth, only a gnawing loneliness that echoed within Wang Lin’s heart.

Two millennia he had walked the path of solitude. He had long grown accustomed to isolation, his expression frozen in a mask of indifference, born not of deliberate affectation, but of countless years spent in desolate isolation.

He knew only coldness… even smiles were rare. The one constant was a deep, indelible sorrow that lurked beneath the surface, forever haunting him, denying him true joy.

Bitterly, Wang Lin’s injuries intensified. He stumbled forward, employing the magic of dimensional stride, covering immense distances to finally reach a desolate, forgotten cultivation star in the primordial starfield.

This star may have once known glory, perhaps even birthed legendary cultivators, but now, all traces of that splendor were swept away, leaving only desolate sands and lifeless city ruins.

Like an aged elder at the brink of death, it gasped for breath, unwilling to yield its final sigh. In the eastern reaches of this star, autumn’s chill held sway, the wind carrying fallen leaves in a mournful dance. Their withered hues resembled the age spots on an ancient face, radiating a palpable sense of desolation.

Through the scattering of fallen leaves, one could see a meandering river flowing northward. And beside the river, a solitary figure in white sat silently, allowing the withered foliage to swirl around him.

Wang Lin gazed into the water. A few leaves, caught by a mischievous breeze, had landed upon its surface, darkening with moisture as they drifted downstream.

Though rooted in the earth, carried by the wind to this watery grave, they would never return to their origins, destined for an unknown fate. Perhaps, in seasons to come, they would become part of the riverbed’s silt. If they possessed souls, those souls, perhaps, would carry their longing back to their native home.

The river mirrored Wang Lin’s image, revealing his pale face, his cold expression, and the sorrow in his eyes. These, too, seemed to seep into the flowing water, carried away on its ceaseless journey.

“Time… to go home…” Wang Lin whispered.

The path home offered two choices beyond the Great Sealing Array: the dimensional rift in the Cloud Sea Nine Domain, and the jade slip offered by the mysterious woman.

The woman had requested Wang Lin’s aid in exploring a certain location and offered him the slip, informing him that activating it outside the sealed realm would bypass the array and return him to the rift.

Wang Lin had studied the jade slip extensively. It contained layers of restrictions, some of which even he could not fully comprehend.

Many of the restrictions appeared to originate from a world beyond his understanding. Despite this, his mastery of enchantments allowed him to discern a sevenfold chance that the slip could indeed transport him back to the rift. He held the jade slip in his hand, but did not activate it. Instead, he returned it to his storage pouch. Activating it required a certain level of cultivation, but more importantly, in his current state, he would not willingly appear before the mysterious woman, whose intentions remained shrouded in mystery.

After a moment of silence, Wang Lin gazed at the azure sky, murmuring to himself.

“Was he… truly the Palm Sovereign?”

He had severely wounded the middle-aged man wreathed in the seven-colored flames, and the man had confessed to being the Sovereign. But in the calm that followed, doubts arose in Wang Lin’s mind.

The man’s power had fluctuated erratically. He could contend with the Vermillion Bird source spirit, perform the ‘Moon in the Well’ technique, knew the secrets of Si Mozi, and even knew Wang Lin’s name. Logically, this pointed to the Palm Sovereign, a master of intricate schemes.

“He cultivated fire, and manifested the seven-colored Vermillion Bird, likely the Third Generation Cursed Sparrow… But was he truly the Sovereign?” Wang Lin had previously identified the Cursed Sparrow as the Sovereign because he believed the Sovereign’s origins to be the most mysterious in the Primordial Starfield, unknown to any race. Furthermore, in the Demon Spirit Land, Wang Lin had encountered a man he later discovered to be the Sovereign’s disciple. This disciple wielded fire techniques, honed to a degree far beyond the reach of ordinary cultivators, clearly approaching the very essence of fire.

All of this had led Wang Lin to a bold conjecture. Combined with other clues, he had concluded that the Third Generation Cursed Sparrow was the Sovereign, and that was why the Sovereign Council knew the truth of the Fallen Land and dared not act rashly. But now, having seen the Palm Sovereign with his own eyes, Wang Lin was filled with doubt.

“Qing Lin claimed that the Sovereign cultivated the power of the Primordial Beginning! But this man never once displayed any ability related to it… And most importantly, the Sovereign, who has cultivated for tens of thousands of years, possesses a cunning mind and has plotted against the Realm on numerous occasions. The middle-aged man who claimed to be the Sovereign did not exude that feeling of a scheming overlord… and didn’t seem that strong…” Wang Lin frowned, unable to find an answer. He sighed softly, and pushed the matter aside, withdrawing the few remaining pills from his storage bag. He swallowed them all, then sat down to meditate.

The autumn wind stirred, slowly blurring Wang Lin’s form, until he seemed to blend into the river, the leaves, and the surrounding landscape. Even if a cultivator were to pass by, they would not notice the lone figure beside the river.

Time slipped away, and three days passed. The injuries to Wang Lin’s primordial spirit did not improve, but at least they did not worsen. His physical wounds, however, had largely healed.

Even without relying on his supernatural abilities, the power he could wield as a Six-Star Ancient God was roughly equivalent to five-tenths of his full strength. Wang Lin knew time was short. By severely injuring the man who claimed to be the Sovereign, he had undoubtedly stirred a hornet’s nest in the Primordial Starfield. Especially since he bore the Ancient Summons and had left the Fallen Land, someone would soon come seeking his life.

As for the Fallen Land, it was likely that interested parties had placed seals around its perimeter as soon as he left. If he were to rashly return, he would be walking into a trap. Therefore, he would seize every moment to recover his cultivation as quickly as possible.

But on this day, while Wang Lin was in meditation, he suddenly opened his eyes, a flash of cold light passing through them. He felt a strange premonition, a chilling sense of unease. This feeling was a warning, a sense that had grown stronger as his cultivation advanced. “Something’s not right!” Wang Lin rose to his feet, scanning his surroundings. His expression grew darker. The surroundings had become eerily silent. Even the autumn wind had vanished.

It was night, and a bright moon hung in the sky, its light illuminating the ground. Wang Lin could clearly see fine ripples across the surface of the river, like trembling shivers, sending out circular disturbances.

The fallen leaves, which had been scattered upon the water, had begun to swirl slowly in circles.

Without hesitation, Wang Lin stepped forward. Space twisted, ripples surged, and Wang Lin’s body began to dissipate. But in that instant, as his form was about to merge with the fabric of reality, the sky boomed. The heavens and earth shifted as a massive rift suddenly tore open.

An overwhelming pressure descended upon the desolate, forgotten cultivation star. From the rift, a gigantic hand reached out, swiftly grasping towards Wang Lin, who was on the verge of disappearing.