Upon nine crimson platforms, stained a ghastly red, stood nine grim figures. No woman graced their ranks, only weathered men of cultivation. Seven were elders, etched with the passage of time, while the remaining two appeared to be in their fourth decade. A palpable miasma of malice hung in the air, their gazes like daggers, promising swift and brutal demise.

The stench of spilled blood wafted with their arrival, tainting even this ancient, sealed realm. The platforms beneath them were awash in crimson, slick with gore. Even more unsettling was the multitude of spectral souls that writhed and wailed above each platform, trapped in an eternal torment.

These nine were no mere novices, for their cultivation reached heights unseen by most. Five among them exuded the power of the Fourth Heavenly Tribulation, paragons of celestial might. Two had ascended even further, their bodies shimmering with the essence of the Fifth Tribulation. Yet, it was one elder whose presence commanded the most attention.

His mien was unforgettable: a tangled mane of crimson hair, the color of fresh blood, crowned a visage carved with age and authority. A faint aura of incense clung to him, a testament to the ephemeral power of mortal worship, for he stood upon the threshold of the Third Step, a realm of near-godhood. Yet, some unseen force held him back, some external constraint that prevented his final ascent. Without a constant infusion of sacred incense, he remained tethered, unable to break the bonds of mortality. His bearing spoke of immense authority within the ancient celestial domains, a being rarely deigning to grace the world with his presence.

The last of the nine was a scholarly man of middle age, a feathered fan clutched in his hand. His eyes, narrow slits, twinkled with an inner light, hinting at arcane knowledge. Though his cultivation only reached the Third Heavenly Tribulation, his presence among these titans suggested a hidden prowess.

But what truly captured the gazes of all those present was not the cultivators themselves, but the platforms upon which they stood. The scattered stone platforms of this ancient tomb generally measured a thousand fathoms across. Yet, one of these, the platform beneath the red-haired elder, dwarfed the others. It spanned two thousand fathoms, a testament to his power and ambition, a clear indication that he sought the greatest treasures this burial ground offered.

“To covet the treasures of this tomb before even achieving a Second-Tier altar…” The red-haired elder, his voice like the grinding of stone, swept his gaze over Wang Lin and his companions.

Wang Lin’s eyes narrowed, fixated on the elder’s oversized platform. He remained silent, as did the other cultivators around him, each recognizing the immense power the elder possessed. They instinctively coalesced, drawing together around Wang Lin, as if he were their unspoken leader.

The elder’s gaze locked onto Wang Lin, piercing and intense. His companions, from their respective crimson perches, turned their own gazes, radiating a palpable hostility, as if a bloody conflict were imminent.

Just then, the scholarly man, the one of the Third Heavenly Tribulation, stepped forward and whispered a few words into the elder’s ear. The elder’s eyes hardened, and he glanced down at the earth, then back at the shattered platform carried upon the back of the colossal Ancient God. Finally, his gaze returned to Wang Lin and his companions.

“You… step forth!” The elder barked, raising a hand and pointing at a cultivator standing near Wang Lin. The unfortunate soul was one of the few who had managed to claim a platform, one of the more ruthless individuals. His face paled at the elder’s command.

Hesitation battled with fear, but he dared not disobey. With a reluctant step, he moved forward, clasped his hands in a respectful bow, and stammered, “Junior greets Spirit Lord Ling Dong.”

“Oh? So you recognize this old one?” The elder’s expression remained impassive.

“Spirit Lord Ling Dong’s name echoes throughout the Ancient Domains,” the cultivator quickly replied, “it is only natural that Junior should know it.”

“Then prove your knowledge,” Spirit Lord Ling Dong commanded. “Break the seal upon the Ancient God’s back. Succeed in even one-tenth, and I shall spare your life.” His words brooked no argument.

The cultivator’s face contorted with internal conflict. After a moment of agonizing deliberation, he nodded and took a deep breath. He began to weave a series of hand seals, arcane energies swirling around him. Then, he launched himself towards the shattered platform on the Ancient God’s back.

In the blink of an eye, he stood before the platform, gazing at the crimson mists that roiled mere fathoms away. After a prolonged moment of intense scrutiny, he gritted his teeth and initiated a series of hand seals. An ethereal projection of his hand materialized, hurtling towards the red mists.

The moment the ethereal hand touched the mists, a thunderous roar echoed from within. The mists surged outwards, transforming into a gaping maw of crimson energy, swallowing the ethereal hand with incredible speed.

With no time to react, a horrifying scream erupted as the cultivator was engulfed by the mists, dragged kicking and screaming into their depths. Echoes of his torment reverberated through the sealed realm.

“It’s a Dao Spirit!” Spirit Lord Ling Dong exclaimed, a flicker of excitement igniting his eyes. “The question is, what grade is it?” He stepped forward, his form blurring as he appeared directly before the swirling mists, raising his hand to strike.

Just as his hand was about to descend, the mists roared again, coalescing into a monstrous shadow. The shadow exhaled a wave of crimson mist, which surged towards the approaching elder. The attack was swift and unavoidable.

The elder’s expression shifted, his eyes widening as he recoiled, retreating several dozen fathoms before finally stopping.

“At least Sixth Grade! A pity it is burdened with a binding!”

“It is an Ancient Soul Binding,” the scholarly man of the Third Heavenly Tribulation commented softly, his eyes gleaming with knowledge. Beside him, one of the other elders, clad in azure robes, narrowed his eyes, seemingly recognizing something as well.

“Ancient Soul Binding…” Spirit Lord Ling Dong muttered, his gaze never leaving the crimson platform. “My knowledge of bindings is limited. How confident are you in your ability to unravel it?”

“Perhaps… perhaps a mere two-tenths of confidence,” the scholarly man admitted after a pause.

“Two-tenths!” Spirit Lord Ling Dong frowned.

Wang Lin had remained a silent observer, studying the scene with calculated detachment. He had sensed the complex nature of the binding within the crimson mists from the moment he had arrived. It was indeed an Ancient Soul Binding, but it was interwoven with other layers of arcane techniques, making it exceedingly difficult for an outsider to decipher and dismantle. He would bide his time, watch, and learn from the attempts of these ambitious cultivators.

As Spirit Lord Ling Dong pondered the matter, the azure-robed elder stepped forward, clasping his hands in a respectful bow. “Spirit Lord, I have some confidence in my ability to dismantle this binding, but there is a condition…” He paused, glancing at Spirit Lord Ling Dong.

“Succeed in dismantling the binding, and all the treasures within, save for the Dao Spirit, are yours. Moreover, you shall claim the lion’s share of the tomb treasures found by the smaller cultivators here!” Spirit Lord Ling Dong declared without hesitation.

A surge of elation washed over the azure-robed elder’s face. “Fear not, Spirit Lord!” he exclaimed, his voice brimming with confidence. “I have studied the art of bindings since childhood. I dare say, there is no binding in all of creation that I cannot unravel! Even Master Xiao Jing cannot compare to me in this art!”

He cast a sidelong glance at the scholarly man, who simply smiled and clasped his hands together. “Senior Gao speaks the truth. I am but a novice in the art of bindings.”

The azure-robed elder guffawed, his arrogance palpable. “The art of bindings is the foundation of all formations. I have devoted nearly ten thousand years to its study, and I dare say I have glimpsed the very essence of the Dao. I have even created my own incantation for breaking any binding, the Ten Thousand Binding Shattering Chant! It will surely pierce this mist! And besides, this binding is no Ancient Soul Binding. I have studied bindings for millennia and have never even heard of such a thing!” With that, he strode towards the red mists. Reaching a distance of several fathoms, his eyes flashed with arcane power. He raised his hand and summoned a swirling vortex of energy, a glyph of immense power, crafted from countless interwoven bindings.

The glyph pulsed with raw energy, radiating a force that seemed to push back the crimson mists. Even the roars from within seemed to momentarily cease as the glyph appeared.

The elder, emboldened by his apparent success, roared and thrust his hand forward. “Begone!” The glyph surged towards the red mists.

But before he could finish his declaration, the crimson mists swiftly coalesced into that ever-present gaping maw, swallowing the glyph whole. The azure-robed elder did not even have time to react as he was dragged into the crimson depths, along with his shattered incantation.

His unfinished sentence became a chilling scream, echoing through the ancient tomb.

Spirit Lord Ling Dong’s face darkened, his features contorting in displeasure. He had not anticipated such a dismal failure from someone so boastful.

A snicker broke the tense silence, coming from one of the cultivators standing near Wang Lin. It was the stout, rotund man dressed in the robes of a wealthy merchant. His laughter immediately drew Spirit Lord Ling Dong’s sinister gaze.

The rotund man quickly stepped forward, away from Wang Lin’s group. With an obsequious smile plastered on his face, he clasped his hands together and bowed deeply. “Junior Xu Fu greets Spirit Lord. I believe I possess the key to unraveling the binding within these red mists. I have no association with these individuals; I was merely transported here by chance. Furthermore, I possess a secret that I must share with you, Spirit Lord. One among these cultivators is a…”

“If you can dismantle these red mists, this Spirit Lord will spare your life, grant you treasures, and allow you to serve by my side!” Spirit Lord Ling Dong interrupted, cutting off the rotund man’s whispered secret. He cared little for clandestine information; his only desire was to claim the Dao Spirit within the mist.

“Spirit Lord, your words bring me joy!” the rotund man exclaimed, turning his head to cast a venomous glare at Wang Lin. A smug smile twisted his lips as he turned back towards the red mists. He stopped ten fathoms away, his face etched with caution. He began to manipulate an abacus with feverish speed, the beads clicking and clacking. Suddenly, the abacus shattered, the beads scattering in the air, coalescing into a swirling vortex of energy. The rotund man inhaled deeply and thrust the vortex toward the mists.

“Seeking death!” Wang Lin muttered under his breath, a cold smile playing on his lips. His gaze swept across the ranks of the enemy cultivators, settling on the scholarly man with the feathered fan. He caught a fleeting glimpse of mockery in the man’s eyes.

“Though his cultivation is only at the Third Heavenly Tribulation, his presence among these figures speaks of a cunning mind and deep calculation. Perhaps he too, seeks to claim the Dao Spirit…” Wang Lin’s mind was as sharp as a razor, piecing together the threads of their deceit. As he pondered, a subtle formation quietly materialized beneath his feet.