The finger fell, and the earth trembled!

Before Wang Lin’s very eyes, the stone dais and the land surrounding it for leagues shook with a thunderous roar. A cacophony of screams rent the air as tens of thousands of warriors surged forward, a whirlwind of desperate fervor, intent on reaching the dais.

Behind that initial wave, legions more, easily numbering ten times their ranks, charged with a bestial fury, uncaring of death.

Further still, colossal war chariots rumbled ever closer, each a beacon of blinding light, poised to unleash beams capable of obliterating all.

Then, the very fabric of reality tore asunder above the palace. A colossal rift opened, and from within it descended nearly a hundred ancients, each of the Three Clans towering a thousand fathoms high. Their arrival threatened to shatter the very heavens, their roars drowning out the screams of the countless mortals below.

With deafening crashes, these behemoths of old struck the earth. Spells, raw physical strength, and enchanted artifacts were unleashed in a furious assault, the hundred ancients standing against the tide of hundreds of thousands of warriors.

The scene was eerily real, as if Wang Lin had been cast adrift in the river of time, witnessing the battle as it unfolded ages ago. He sat serenely, mirroring one who had occupied that seat long before him, gazing with a glacial indifference upon the carnage.

A potent aura of confidence and domineering might swelled within him, transforming Wang Lin into something, someone, more.

The heavens boomed once more as eight figures of gargantuan stature emerged from the tear above. These titans, crashing upon the land, unleashed a wave of pandemonium.

Their raw physical power was legendary; a mere flick of their arms conjured storms and lightning. Warriors were hurled aside, coughing blood, while others were crushed outright, their very forms disintegrating.

But as the titans emerged, the hooded sorcerer who sheltered beneath the parasol chanted in a low, guttural tongue. The air shimmered, twisting into a mirror-like surface. From within, a chorus of roars echoed, and eight serpentine dragons, each ten thousand fathoms long, erupted forth. They coiled in the skies, their countenances twisted in savage rage, their draconic heads turned towards the stone dais, unleashing deafening roars.

They seemed poised to shatter any barrier, to devour the dais whole.

An inexplicable sensation washed over Wang Lin. Perhaps the illusion was too vivid, or perhaps the power he borrowed was coalescing within him. Whatever the cause, Wang Lin was becoming the warrior who had once sat upon that very chair, the man who had defied the heavens.

Slowly, he raised his arm, clenching it into a fist. Then, across the void, he unleashed a single, devastating blow.

“God-Quake, Battle-Formations!”

As the punch flew forth, the illusory realm trembled, a world-shattering tremor emanating from the fist. Before the throne, the thousands of warriors who had charged with such ferocity were suddenly jolted, their bodies contorting.

With sickening cracks, they coughed up blood, their limbs twisting unnaturally. It was as if invisible whirlpools had materialized around them, dragging them from their scattered rush and forcing them into neat, orderly ranks.

And it wasn’t just there. Across the eight directions of the dais, the front ranks of tens of thousands of warriors spewed crimson as their bodies were forced into rigid formations.

A palpable aura of death descended. Within the ranks, every warrior was being shattered internally, their vital organs crushed, their souls extinguished, their very life force destroyed.

Wang Lin’s fist, once extended, retracted slowly. His fist unfolded into an open palm, which he waved casually forward.

“Demonic Arts, Beacon Pyres Rise!”

As he gestured, noxious green flames erupted from the heads of the neatly ranked warriors. This eldritch fire belched forth thick plumes of smoke, which spiraled into the sky, resembling towering signal pyres.

With another sweep of his hand, the rising smoke was seized by an invisible hurricane. The wind whipped the smoke downwards toward the hordes of soldiers behind the pyres, the smoke passing right through their bodies. It took shape within the eight directions of the Dais, forming eight mountains of pure smoke.

The mountains thundered with a terrifying suction force, irresistable, that tore and pulled at the hundreds of thousands of warriors that filled the plain.

Despite their struggles they could not resist its grasp, and with terrible screams the legions were swept into those eight mountains, consumed by the smoke. As the smoke faded away, the mountains remained, mountains of corpses.

One fist, one hand, and then the other came to rest in the air. He extended one finger, aiming toward the heart of the enemy host.

“Diabolic Path, Life-Death Inversion!”

The ancient words rolled from Wang Lin’s tongue. As he pointed, the colossal war chariots behind the fallen ranks jolted violently. A ripple of energy, born from Wang Lin’s finger, raced across the heavens. As it passed, the vital energy within each chariot was reversed, replaced with the chill of death. Their advance halted, frozen in place.

The ripple continued its inexorable expansion, and the eight serpentine dragons that had been charging with such ferocity were hit. Utterly defenseless against the Diabolic Arts, their vitality was twisted into the death that claimed all.

Life inverted to death, the living turning to the dead, in the blink of an eye!

The eight dragons remained suspended, motionless in the air, frozen mid-roar.

And it wasn’t just them. Every warrior touched by the ripple suffered the same fate, their life force replaced with the chill of the grave.

“God, Demon, and Devil, Ancient Path Without Immortals!” Wang Lin murmured, his extended finger curling into a palm. As he gently struck the air, the divine star between his brows began to spin with impossible speed, morphing from a six-pointed star to a nine-pointed beacon. Within his eyes, the twelve stellar points multiplied, reaching eighteen.

Nine-Star Ancient God!

Nine-Star Ancient Demon!

Nine-Star Ancient Devil!
The power of three ancient bloodlines converged, a nascent unity birthing a force primordial, a lineage known as the Dao-Ancient. This power surged into Wang Lin’s right hand, and as he struck the stone platform, a colossal phantom erupted before him.

Only a head, yet its size dwarfed mountains, its crown touched the very heavens. It radiated an aura of time immemorial, an age that echoed the stars themselves. Though its features were shrouded in a veil of mist, its presence commanded the very air.

The head opened its jaws, unleashing a torrent of breath upon the desolate field. This exhalation swept forward like a tempest, petrifying the fallen warriors in its path. Their bodies turned to stone, monuments to a fleeting mortality.

Across the platform, from within a shifting panorama, the Scholar with the Umbrella sighed, a whisper lost in the coming storm. His right hand tightened upon the ebony wood, and the umbrella blossomed forth a cascade of iridescent light, a rainbow captured and unleashed. Seven hues intertwined, a celestial sun born in that instant, casting its luminous essence outwards.

The Dao-Ancient power met the seven-colored radiance in a cataclysmic clash, the very foundations of existence trembled. But then, a sound shattered the struggle – a hawk’s scream that pierced the heavens!

Behind the Scholar stood the Archer, his eyes closed until now. Within his hands, he held a bow of ancient make, adorned with nine seals of binding. Its limbs were wrought of bone, its head marked with the sun and moon, its tail branded with the constellations. The string, of unknown origin, pulsed with forgotten ages.

Now drawn back in a perfect crescent, it held an arrow of obsidian, fletched with nine feathers of shadow.

The shaft of the arrow bore the scars of countless battles, a testament to ages of strife and vanquished foes. An overwhelming aura of death and destruction clung to it, hungering for release.

With eyes still closed, the Archer drew the string taut. Then, with a whisper of release, his eyes snapped open!

The arrow roared forth, a force beyond description, a weapon born of shattered worlds. Its passage tore the sky asunder, cleaving the earth with a gaping chasm that mirrored its flight.

Like a sun-spear aimed at oblivion, it drowned out all other sounds, its passage thundering with the echoes of dying stars.

It pierced the Scholar’s seven-hued defense, it cleaved through the Dao-Ancient head’s destructive breath, it defied all that dared stand in its path. Under the reign of this arrow, the stars themselves would offer no respite, time itself would yield.

With a cacophony of explosions and screaming winds, the arrow plunged into the Dao-Ancient essence, igniting the phantom head from within. In a flicker of impossible speed, it struck true, piercing the head’s left eye!

Straight through.

Upon the arrow’s tip, a single, bloodied eye became visible. It was torn free and blasted through the heavens, through the palace, and out into the unutterable void, lost to all.

A searing pain ripped through Wang Lin’s mind, tearing at his memories, threatening to shatter his very being. As the arrow flew, blood streamed from Wang Lin’s left eye, and within it, the nine borrowed Demonic Stars imploded.

“Dao-Ji Li Guang, you have shot out my left eye, an eye that held within it half my memories, and the longing for my home…”

The words echoed within Wang Lin’s mind, a voice he had heard before. Overwhelmed by the agony, he forgot himself, becoming but a vessel for the Dao-Ancient Ye Mo!

“Return my eye to me!” The roar shook the heavens, and with it, the phantom head’s breath surged forth once more, crushing the Scholar’s colorful defenses. The Scholar, a hint of sorrow etched on his face, slowly transformed into a statue, his life force extinguished. Even his umbrella turned to stone.

The storm of power swept past the Scholar and crashed into the Archer behind him. The Archer closed his eyes, and in an instant, he too became a statue, frozen in the moment of his final act.

“I have fulfilled my promise…” he whispered, his first and final words.