The Emissary Lington, prone and seemingly lifeless, snapped awake. A cruel glint flashed in his eyes as he rose, legs crossed, settling into a meditative posture. His gaze, grim and unwavering, pierced through the confines of the Heavenly Furnace, seeking to unravel the form of Wang Lin, the one who now sought to consume him. Yet, he appeared as a spent ember, his face pale and drawn.

“To be brought so low… you are no mere fledgling,” the Emissary rasped, his voice laced with an unbridled hatred. “Tell me, who *are* you?”

Wang Lin, his expression placid, answered with a surge of ancient god-power. The Furnace roared, its inner workings grinding with renewed vigor, and a chorus of tormented screams echoed within its swirling depths.

“You presume to devour me? An impossible feat!” The Emissary scoffed. “Though I was ensnared by your deceit, the unwavering spirit forged through millennia of cultivation will not be so easily extinguished.” He closed his eyes, focusing inward, seeking to mend his ravaged spirit.

He knew that the interloper could not break him swiftly. Once even a fraction of his strength returned, he would tear through this infernal device. Such a feat was beyond the abilities of one of Wang Lin’s cultivation level. Even armed with the Heavenly Furnace, the process would demand a vast expanse of time, time he was certain that Wang Lin simply didn’t possess within this ancient tomb.

“Can I not devour him?” A flicker of amusement touched Wang Lin’s eyes. He poured in more of the ancient god-power. The Furnace churned with a maddening frenzy, an increasing number of tormented souls coalescing into a tempestuous vortex. This swirling maelstrom took form – a colossal phantom, the embodiment of an ancient god. The deity was a horrifying crimson, clutching a gargantuan axe. As soon as it materialized, the phantom god lifted the axe, bringing it crashing down towards the Emissary.

“Heavenly Furnace, ten-fold axing for servitude!” Wang Lin chanted, ancient words resonating with godlike power, forming ephemeral runes that slammed against the Furnace’s outer shell.

The Furnace shook violently. The crimson phantom brought its axe down, cleaving through the vortex of souls, striking directly towards the Emissary’s crown.

“We shall see if you can break me!” the Emissary snarled. His eyes flew open, fixed on the descending axe. With a guttural cry, he wove a hand seal. Behind him, a towering effigy materialized – the demonic guardian he had summoned before.

The axe struck with thunderous force, colliding with the guardian’s spectral aura. The impact reverberated, shattering the axe in a burst of divine energy, and causing the guardian to shudder violently before dissolving into nothingness.

The Emissary coughed up blood, but even as it spilled forth, the blood itself transformed, reforming into a protective shell around his weakened form.

Wang Lin’s face grew pale, but his gaze remained sharp. Without hesitation, he raised his right hand, pointing into the Furnace. Instantly, the crimson god materialized another axe, ready to deliver a second blow. Even as it descended, more souls gathered, the vortex intensifying, coalescing into *another* god. This second deity mirrored the first, axe raised, ready to strike. Nor did it end there. Souls were consumed, power given, until *eight* such crimson gods stood arrayed, each wielding a massive axe. They moved as one, a cascade of blinding strikes, all aimed at the beleaguered Emissary. “Be consumed!” Wang Lin roared, his eyes burning with murderous intent.

*BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!* The deafening explosions echoed within the Furnace. The Emissary’s outer shell absorbed the first onslaught, the first axe blow causing tremors within the protective structure, but it held.

The second axe fell swiftly after.

Then the third, the fourth… until the eighth strike converged with the others, unleashing a devastating wave of power. The guardian shield finally buckled, shattering into shards of light. Fragments of the axe blow pierced through, slamming into the Emissary with terrifying force.

Moving at impossible speed, they landed upon his crown, cleaving straight through, until only the echo of their passing remained.

The Furnace groaned. The Emissary coughed blood. A fleeting moment of confusion clouded his eyes.

Wang Lin had awaited just such an opening. A strange light bloomed in his eyes as he swiftly made a series of hand seals. Pressing them to his forehead, he whispered: “Esoteric Art… *Dreamweave*!”

Within the Furnace, the Emissary lurched, his eyes widening with greater confusion. Flickering images of his past, his very life, flashed before him.

“You possess a rare gift. I shall guide you to the Lington clan, where cultivation awaits. Should you prove worthy, it shall be your salvation. Remember my name… I am Wang Lin!” a shadowy young man said to the youth kneeling before him.

“I shall not forget! Not until my last breath!” The boy answered, his eyes full of gratitude.

“Although you were not born into my family, your devotion and rare talent will see you through. I shall give you my family’s birth mark. I beg that you’ll… be careful!” An old man with black robes and a pale face bled from his chest. The wound had all but destroyed his spirit, and he was near death.

Before him kneeled a middle aged man. This man was Emissary Lington.

“My true name is not what you know it to be… but Wang Lin!”

“Wang Lin…” The man stilled. He knew that name.

Far among the ancient stars, an old man stumbled as he fled, his face ashen, spitting blood. Three figures pursued him relentlessly.

“Will I, Lington, fall here?” The man shouted in despair.

His three pursuers drew closer, their spells taking the form of dragons, consuming him with all the hunger of the beasts. He prepared to take them with him.

Just then, a gentle light spread across the stars as a large, ethereal hand appeared. It swatted away the pursuers, and they were sent flying.

“The one who saves you is Wang Lin!”

The old man had narrowly survived, but as soon as he heard the name, his face became twisted by terror and profound confusion.
Here is a rewritten version in a fantasy style:

“Then came an echo, faint but insistent: Wang Lin… Wang Lin…”

Eons had drifted past, yet within the Spirit Clan’s hidden enclave, an elder, his white hair thin and brittle, was consumed by decay. The stench of rot clung to him, a grim herald of his impending demise.

“The Fifth Heavenly Tribulation… the Fifth… After a lifetime of pursuing the Dao, must I truly halt my journey here?” The elder chuckled, a sound laced with despair, as a final gout of black blood stained his lips. He closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

But as his eyelids fell, he found himself adrift in a realm of impossible vistas, a swirling void where all was obscured. One figure stood apart, bathed in an ethereal light, its back turned towards him, yet its form burned clearly into his mind.

“Become my thrall, and I shall grant you ascendance!” A voice, cold as glacial ice, resonated through the void.

“Who are you?” The elder’s eyes snapped open, a spark of defiance flickering within.

The figure turned. His gaze, sharp as lightning, pierced the elder’s soul. The visage was unmistakable: Wang Lin. The elder’s features contorted in a mask of shock. His composure, forged over centuries of cultivation, shattered. The name Wang Lin had been etched into the very fabric of his being. From his days as a fledgling initiate within the Spirit Clan, to the bestowal of the Clan Mark by his mentor, his true name, Wang Lin, was whispered in sacred tones.

Time and again, in the face of mortal peril, a figure claiming to be Wang Lin had emerged to snatch him from the jaws of oblivion. These encounters had become the stuff of dreams, a tapestry woven into the heart of his existence. “If you consent, you shall no longer be Ling Dong. You shall bear the name… Gu Nu Zi!”

As the words echoed, the ethereal realm imploded, shattering into countless shards that ripped through Ling Dong’s memories. Within the Heavenly Furnace, his body convulsed violently, tearing him back to the waking world.

Though his eyes were open, confusion reigned.

In that instant of awakening, the eight spectral forms of the Ancient Gods that haunted the Furnace coalesced, merging into a ninth, a titan of immeasurable power. This being raised a colossal axe, its edge glinting with celestial fire, and brought it down upon Ling Dong, unleashing the Tenth Strike. The axe’s roar tore through the heavens, hurtling towards Ling Dong’s fragile form. Dazed, he looked up, a flicker of resistance kindling within his soul, a desperate urge to fight back.

But then, a chilling voice reverberated through the Heavenly Furnace. “Are you Ling Dong… or Gu Nu Zi…?”

Ling Dong’s body seized, his eyes widening with abject terror. He threw back his head and roared, “Who in the name of the Heavens are you?!”

“I am Wang Lin!” From beyond the Heavenly Furnace, Wang Lin’s voice, weary yet triumphant, carried into the crucible. It crashed against Ling Dong’s mind like a thunderbolt, leaving him paralyzed, the name Wang Lin echoing through the chambers of his soul.

The axe fell. The Tenth Strike landed upon Ling Dong’s brow, leaving behind a circular mark, an arcane sigil seared into his flesh. His eyes lost their light, and he toppled backward, caught in a vortex of spectral winds, swept away to a fate unknown.

Outside the Heavenly Furnace, Wang Lin’s exhaustion deepened, but a glimmer of elation shone in his eyes. Through the Furnace’s power, his Dream Dao had successfully ravaged Ling Dong’s mind, planting the seed of his influence within. A period of nurturing and binding was still needed, reinforced with layers of prohibitions, before his thrall could be truly and completely his.

“Alas, imperfections remain… but time is a relentless enemy. This will have to suffice.” Wang Lin’s gaze hardened. With a flick of his sleeve, the Heavenly Furnace shimmered, the chaos faded, revealing a separate, sealed realm within. Here, a creature, resembling a Qilin wreathed in flame, roared in defiance. Its wounds were closing at an impossible rate.

Wang Lin narrowed his eyes. He had never seen such a creature before, its healing prowess an anomaly that piqued his interest.

“I will unveil your secrets, Spirit of the Dao!” Wang Lin wove his fingers into a series of complex seals, and with a resounding boom, a colossal stone gate materialized before the Dao Spirit. It was the Gate of Flowing Moon, the embodiment of ages past.

He unleashed the Flowing Moon, reversing the flow of time. Wang Lin’s gaze pierced the stone gate, watching as the Dao Spirit was stripped bare of its mysteries, layer by layer, through the unrelenting passage of ages.

A moment later, Wang Lin’s face drained of color, and he staggered back, instinctively retreating.

“This… This is… Impossible…”

“I am losing my mind, tearing at my scalp, endlessly beating my head against the wall. A whole day has passed, but I cannot weave the tale. The plot is there, but the words evade me. I write and I delete, I delete and I write. I am without inspiration today. I am without inspiration. I am without inspiration. Forgive me, fellow Daoists, I will make haste and replenish this missing chapter.”