The valley within this desolate star held salvation. “It is here… he is here.”

The ninth barb, a sliver of malevolence, lay embedded within Qing Shui’s spine, cleaving through its very core. No hint of its presence marred the surface, no wound betrayed its intrusion; it was as if it had sprouted from within.

Though unconscious, Qing Shui’s face bore the mask of agony, yet mingled with it was a fleeting trace of solace, a flicker of joy. This comfort stemmed from Wang Lin, this happiness too was his doing. After a brief respite, the weariness etched upon Wang Lin’s features lessened. He drew a deep breath and gently raised the limp form of Qing Shui, positioning him so his back faced him. His eyes, now like chips of flint, focused on the emaciated expanse of his friend’s back.

There, the vertebrae stood out in stark relief, a ghastly landscape of bone.

Long moments passed, then, with grim resolve, Wang Lin slowly raised his right hand. His index finger traced a deliberate path across Qing Shui’s exposed spine, as if seeking a hidden key. His brow furrowed in concentration, a labyrinth of thought etched upon his face.

“Fortunate it is, that it has not yet fully merged with his bone. If more time passed, if the fusion was complete, this barb would be forever beyond our reach… It seals not only the flesh, but Qing Shui’s very soul. Even in a new vessel, the curse would persist…” He muttered, then, with sudden decisiveness, his index finger plunged into the flesh above the first vertebra.

Qing Shui’s body shuddered, his eyes snapping open, his teeth clenched tight against the mounting pain.

“Brother, the pain from this ninth barb will eclipse even the suffering of the previous eight…” Wang Lin spoke softly.

“I have known pain my entire life,” Qing Shui rasped, his voice devoid of inflection, yet strangely calm. “I am accustomed to it.”

Sorrow flickered in Wang Lin’s eyes. With a sigh, he steeled himself. “Endure,” he murmured. His right hand plunged deeper, tearing through flesh and muscle, until it reached the unyielding bone of the spine. With the speed of lightning, his fingers closed around the intruder.

He felt it then: a delicate barb, trapped between his fingers.

Qing Shui’s face paled, a sheen of cold sweat erupted across his skin. Yet he held firm, his teeth grinding together, transforming the agony into a burning hatred that blazed in his eyes.

Wang Lin grasped the frail barb and began to slowly withdraw it. It was a sensation akin to drawing marrow from the bone, a torment few could withstand.

His expression was one of intense focus, his fingers unwavering. As he drew the barb inch by agonizing inch, Qing Shui trembled and emitted a strangled moan. His hands clawed at the earth, leaving deep furrows in the ground.

Wang Lin could not see Qing Shui’s face; all his attention was focused on his fingers. He maintained a deliberate, measured pace, wary of sudden movements. Though the barb had not completely fused with Qing Shui’s spine, the assimilation was well underway. Caution was paramount.

Time trickled by. The ninth barb was long, and it took half a joss stick of time to draw it forth, past the halfway point. Wang Lin’s brow dripped sweat, but he was oblivious, his gaze fixed on the emerging barb.

The barb was black, a nightmarish obsidian, dripping with a dark ichor that hissed and sizzled as it touched the ground.

“Draw it out… now!” Qing Shui’s voice, strained and guttural, reached Wang Lin’s ears.

Wang Lin said nothing. In a heartbeat, he yanked with all his might. With a sickening *rip,* the barb tore free of Qing Shui’s spine. Black blood sprayed, and Qing Shui coughed forth a mouthful of crimson. The grotesquely protruding vertebrae writhed and slowly receded, returning to their natural alignment.

Rasped, agonizing breaths escaped Qing Shui’s lips. His eyes, bloodshot and burning, slowly calmed. He formed a hand seal, and began to meditate and draw upon his reserves of strength.

Wang Lin’s face was ashen. He cast aside the barb and closed his eyes, sinking into meditation. Drawing this ninth barb felt as though he had ripped out his own soul. The pain, though less than that endured by Qing Shui, was intense.

Half an hour later, Wang Lin opened his eyes.

“Brother, the last one remains…” he whispered.

Qing Shui drew a slow, deep breath. He turned to face Wang Lin, gazing at the man who had been his younger brother, seeing the exhaustion etched on his features, the dried blood staining his clothes. A gentle expression crossed his face.

“You have grown…” A faint smile touched Qing Shui’s lips. This brother was no longer the fledgling cultivator he had once shielded from the storms. He had become a force capable of shaking the very heavens.

Wang Lin met Qing Shui’s gaze and smiled in return. A weary smile, yet one that radiated genuine happiness.

“Is there wine?” Qing Shui moved his hands, testing them, feeling the strange unfamiliarity of movement after years of imprisonment.

Wang Lin nodded. He raised his right hand and tore open a spatial rift, from which a wineskin emerged.

Qing Shui laughed, seized the skin, and drained a long draught. The potent liquid coursed through him, a fiery awakening. He exhaled deeply and passed the skin to Wang Lin.

Wang Lin took the skin and drank deeply as well, the same fire igniting within him. He exchanged a glance with Qing Shui, and they both burst into laughter.

Their mirth was unrestrained, the easy camaraderie of men long separated. It was a sound rarely heard from Qing Shui, and equally uncommon for Wang Lin.

“With this barb removed, my power will return… and will be greater than before! The origin of Slaughter, the origin of Slaughter…” As he spoke, a shadow of sorrow flitted across Qing Shui’s face, but he quickly banished it, taking another swig from the wineskin Wang Lin offered.

“Come then, let us draw out this final barb!” Qing Shui said, setting down the skin, his eyes blazing with determination. For a moment, Wang Lin saw a glimpse of the Qing Shui of old.

“This last barb resides within your veins! It may well be the longest of them all!” Wang Lin said slowly, his gaze drawn to the throbbing network of veins beneath Qing Shui’s skin.

“It begins here… I recall it entering here, all those years ago.” Qing Shui’s eyes narrowed in concentration. He raised his right hand and stabbed a finger into the center of his chest, over his heart. At his touch, a bloody gash appeared. The flesh parted, revealing the pulsing blue veins beneath.
A gasp escaped his lips, but without hesitation, Clear Water seized the throbbing vein. With a brutal yank, he tore it free, dragging it gruesomely from the wound. His face remained a mask of serenity, seemingly impervious to pain, yet the frantic contraction of his pupils betrayed the torment within.

Wang Lin’s eyes flashed with concern. He raised a hand, severing the exposed vein with a precise cut. As blood threatened to erupt, Wang Lin wove a quick seal, staunching the flow. Then, with unwavering resolve, he plunged two fingers into the opened vessel, widening the passage and reaching deep within.

As if grasping a phantom, Wang Lin pulled sharply outward. Clear Water’s body convulsed violently, his color draining to a ghastly pallor. Yet, he remained steadfast, eyes locked on the gruesome task at his chest, as the half-extracted form of a sinister, violet barb emerged.

The barb pulsed with a life of its own, writhing like a venomous serpent, each undulation eliciting fresh beads of icy sweat on Clear Water’s brow. Seizing a flagon of potent spirits, he threw back his head, swilling a generous draught.

The moment the fiery liquid hit his throat, Wang Lin, with unwavering force, yanked the violet intruder. The barb, twisting in protest, was dragged forth, now stretching seven feet in length. Clear Water’s face took on a deathly hue, lips trembling, a guttural growl escaping his clenched teeth. His gaze remained fixed on the heavens, rekindling the flames of wrath. In his agony, he crushed the flagon in his grip, scattering the remaining brew upon the ground.

“Wang Lin… Have you any stronger liquor?” he rasped.

Wang Lin, without a word, extended his left hand, summoning a jade-green flask. It held not mortal wine, but the searing blood of the ancient Vermillion Bird.

“This blood burns,” Wang Lin warned.

Clear Water snatched the flask, tilting it to his lips. “A putrid stink, yet… sweet,” he declared, inhaling deeply. “This is no wine, but pure essence of life! And lifeblood it is! Pull it free, Wang Lin, tear it all out!”

Wang Lin, his face etched with grim determination, tightened his grip on the writhing barb. With a final surge, he hauled the creature forth, drawing most of it from Clear Water’s ravaged flesh. Beneath the surface of his skin, veins thickened and pulsed, writhing toward the gaping wound.

As Wang Lin continued his grim task, the frozen chains binding Clear Water’s power began to weaken. A terrifying aura ripped free, boiling into the sky, transforming into rolling black clouds that blotted out the sun. A palpable aura of slaughter filled the air, thickening with each passing moment.

From the heart of the swirling darkness, flakes of ebony snow began to fall, blanketing the land.

“Rest. I will finish it myself,” Clear Water said, his eyes flashing with sudden, chilling resolve. He rose unsteadily, bringing the Vermillion Bird’s blood back to his mouth for another drink. Then, with a savage cry, he seized the remaining length of the violet barb in his left hand, and with a Herculean effort, wrenched it free.

A deafening boom echoed through the air as the veins beneath his skin strained and shuddered. A significant portion of the violet scourge was ripped away.

“You have imprisoned the Immortal Sovereign for far too long,” Clear Water roared, his voice dripping with icy contempt. “Today, you will be purged!” He grasped the remaining fragment, and with one final, cataclysmic heave, tore the barb in two.

The severed piece, still connected to his veins, recoiled, desperate to retreat into its hiding place. Clear Water spared it not a glance. He cast aside the writhing fragment, now resembling a grotesque serpent, and formed his fingers into a sword-like gesture. An earth-shattering wave of pure, unadulterated slaughter erupted from him, his fingers plunging directly into the opened vein.

“Since you refuse to emerge, then die within me!” Clear Water proclaimed, his voice a chilling command. As his fingers sank deeper, the falling black snow intensified, rushing towards the wound. The very essence of slaughter, a force so potent it made Wang Lin recoil, surged from Clear Water’s fingertips, flooding into the depths of his veins.

A cacophony of sickening cracks and pops echoed from within his body. The veins that had been writhing in the surface of his skin seemed to emit pained cries before falling silent. The monstrous barb, as if alive, was being annihilated by Clear Water’s implacable killing intent.

Clear Water staggered, spewing a torrent of black blood. His gaunt frame began to swell, flesh and muscle returning to his bones, restoring him to the formidable figure he once was.

In that same instant, the slaughterous essence within him exploded outward, ripping into the heavens. The world was plunged into absolute darkness. As the black snowflakes swirled in a mesmerizing dance, a spectral gate began to manifest in the furthest reaches of the sky.

The Gate of Emptiness!