Drawn into the illusion once more, much like the Seven-Colored Realm of old, Wang Lin employed the Ghostly Sail, using the purest water as his guide, to dive into the mirror’s depths. He sought to uncover the truth hidden within the mists of ancient ages.

Within this illusionary domain, the sky bled crimson, and the earth below was a desolate brown, as if drenched in blood, reeking with a pungent, metallic stench. The reek was so overpowering that Wang Lin felt an immediate pressure upon his chest, as though a massive stone weighed down his lungs, stealing his breath.

His gaze swept across a landscape of fragmented corpses. The earth was a macabre tapestry of skeletal remains, few whole, mostly broken and torn apart. He saw shattered limbs and scattered skulls.

In those few intact skulls, the eyes held remnants of mortal terror, their pupils forever frozen, reflecting a blurred figure in the throes of death.

It seemed this was once a mortal emperor’s palace, a place of resplendent glory, now defiled by blood, a ghastly monument to death’s dominion.

A thunderous roar echoed in the distance, and a cloud of dust billowed as Wang Lin witnessed a palace crumble into ruin. From the wreckage emerged a man clad in crimson armor, dragging an elder garbed in imperial robes. His face was a mask of icy fury, a madness burning behind his eyes.

“For the chaos your clan wrought upon my bloodline, today, Qingshui repays the debt in full!” the man roared. With a clenched fist, he crushed the emperor, the old man exploding in a shower of blood that splattered upon Qingshui’s face.

At that moment, hundreds of streaks of radiant light erupted from the horizon, a host of ancient cultivators descending with earth-shattering speed upon the desecrated palace.

But as they arrived, the blood-soaked warrior lifted his head, his eyes glowing with an eerie crimson light. These red beams shot forth like bolts of lightning, piercing through the ranks of the approaching warriors.

In an instant, the crimson lightning crackled, and the bodies of the hundreds of cultivators convulsed, then shattered into oblivion.

“The Zenith Realm…” Wang Lin murmured, gazing at the carnage, at the crimson-clad figure, a spark of realization igniting in his eyes.

“This is but the first layer of the illusion, set in the ancient kingdom of Jingshui…” Wang Lin spoke, his feet began to move. He stepped onto the ground, his boots staining with thickened blood, his strides taking him towards the man soaked in gore.

With each step, he painted the ground red, as the bitter scent of blood carried Qingshui’s hatred, a vengeful miasma refusing to dissipate.

“If the heavens obstruct me, I shall shatter them! If the immortals hinder me, I shall slay them!” Qingshui bellowed, his face contorted with murderous rage, staring towards the ruined sky. A torrent of murderous intent erupted from his being.

“I will drown this world in blood! I will subject all who have wronged me to endless cycles of death and rebirth!” Qingshui’s voice reverberated across the ravaged land, reflecting the madness consuming his soul.

As Wang Lin drew closer, he beheld Qingshui’s blood-soaked back, and the image mirrored a vision of himself in the Teng family’s courtyard. The figure radiated sorrow, loneliness, and despair. Despite the attainment of vengeance, there was no joy to be found, only grief, lamentation, and a consuming hatred for the heavens, the earth, and all living things.

“Brother…” Wang Lin whispered.

At the sound of his voice, Qingshui spun around, bloodshot eyes filled with rage and a savage glare, fixed upon Wang Lin. Such a gaze, coupled with the all-pervading stench and relentless slaughter, would have sent any other being reeling back in terror.

But Wang Lin stood firm. Qingshui’s capacity for slaughter was immense, yet Wang Lin’s was equally profound. At their core, they were kindred souls.

It was this shared darkness, this mutual understanding, that forged their profound connection, their willingness to die for one another.

Qingshui’s murderous eyes held no power over Wang Lin, who saw beyond the carnage, beyond the wrath. He saw the pain, the sorrow, and the unfulfilled longing within those eyes.

They were the echoes of his own torment, reflected in the face of another.

“This is an illusion, real and yet unreal. But this is not our end, brother. Sit, and let us enter the second layer…” Wang Lin spoke softly, advancing slowly towards Qingshui.

Qingshui hesitated, his eyes flickering across the scene before him. Wang Lin reached him, his hand gently landed on the shoulder, and Qingshui closed his eyes. Two streaks of water trickled through the blood. The tears became red as it merged and splattered on the ground.

“Sit, please.” Wang Lin asked.

After a long silence, Qingshui nodded, a shadow of bitterness crossing his face, and hesitantly lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs in a meditative posture. He exhaled slowly, then opened his eyes.

“Wang Lin, this is merely the first layer?”

“Yes, only the first.” Wang Lin replied, mirroring Qingshui’s posture, their eyes meeting.

“Such a…realistic illusion.” Qingshui muttered, his gaze sweeping over the ravaged landscape, finally settling upon a lone, gnarled locust tree standing within the ruined palace. It was a relic of ages past, withered and struggling to survive.

As he gazed upon the ancient tree, the murderous fire in Qingshui’s eyes slowly began to wane, replaced by a sigh.

“Let us enter the second layer.”

Wang Lin extended his arms, his sleeves billowing as he channeled his power. The landscape of the first layer began to warp and twist, accompanied by deep, rumbling echoes. Wisps of black smoke rose from the bloody ground, swirling around the countless corpses.

In the end, everything within the first layer released its black essence, which surged upward, converging above Wang Lin and Qingshui, coalescing into a grotesque, spectral face.

The face emitted a silent roar as it lunged, swallowing the two figures whole.

In that instant, Wang Lin and Qingshui felt their minds reel once more, as if caught in a colossal vortex. Their consciousnesses, their very souls, were violently ripped free, drawn into the swirling chaos, carried back to the ages beyond memory.
In the nascent dawn of existence, amidst a swirling chaos, lay the heart of the Tearful Realm. Here, the nexus of all that was, stood the Tearful Gate, passage to the Immortal Astral Domain itself!

Now, within this core, in the true mansion of the Tearful Realm, the Celestial Dao roared, its maw agape, devouring Lian Dao Fei. A thunderous din echoed throughout the entirety of the Tearful Realm as, at that very instant, Wang Lin materialized.

This scene, he saw, mirrored exactly the illusion within the Seven-Colored Daoist’s realm, a place by the Splitting Sea!

Lian Dao Fei’s furious roars reverberated as the Celestial Dao, gravely wounded, fractured and dissolved. Concurrently, the Seven-Colored Immortal, clad in a Daoist robe of shifting hues, revealed a sorrowful visage as his form abruptly shattered and crumbled!

His flesh was torn asunder, his essence and spirit interwoven, becoming the very elements of his soul, the three spirits and seven souls. These, in the instant of his demise, scattered in all directions!

Unlike his venture into the Seven-Colored Daoist’s illusion, this time Wang Lin was the instigator, the very wellspring of the illusion. Therefore, what he perceived was far clearer!

First, he beheld the seven souls!

Each soul blazed with the seven colors, a spectrum of crimson, orange, yellow, green, azure, indigo, and violet. These seven souls scattered rapidly, bound for the cycle of reincarnation!

One soul, a blaze of crimson, embodied his lust for blood. It held within it the Seven-Colored Immortal’s lifetime of shocking carnage. A miasma of wronged spirits swirled about the crimson soul, each a victim of the Seven-Colored One. As his flesh crumbled and his soul fractured, these vengeful wraiths were consumed by the crimson soul, transforming into a blinding crimson light that shot forth into the distant cosmos.

Within this very soul, Wang Lin sensed the familiar aura of Clear Water. As the crimson soul faded into the starry void, entering the cycle of rebirth, Wang Lin beheld, within its heart, the vague form of a figure… Clear Water himself!

Another soul, this one a verdant green, contained the Seven-Colored Immortal’s very aptitude for cultivation. That he could ascend to the rank of Immortal Venerate, that he could possess the power of the Sky Tribulation, spoke to an astonishing talent, a celestial genius!

This green soul hurtled onward, yet upon it, Wang Lin felt once again that deeply familiar presence, a presence that sent a tremor through his very being, a sensation that nearly stole his breath.

As the green soul faded, nearing the cycle of reincarnation, Wang Lin beheld, within its verdant core, the shadowy form… none other than Situ Nan!

“No wonder Situ Nan possesses such astounding gifts, his cultivation ever shifting. He is, in truth, a shard of the Seven-Colored Immortal’s very talent!” Wang Lin murmured, as his gaze moved to the third soul!

The third soul shimmered with an orange hue, gentle yet imbued with an innate righteousness. Its very radiance would cause any with a crooked heart to tremble. It was the Seven-Colored Immortal’s conscience, however large or small.

This conscience, formed into the third soul, carried within it a lifelong devotion to righteousness. He would protect someone or something that he cherished, some idea that resonated with his soul. No temptation, no matter how seductive, could sway him.

As this soul vanished into the cycle of reincarnation, Wang Lin beheld, in shock, a vague figure within… Qing Lin!

Qing Lin, the Immortal Emperor of the Rain Realm, shielded his realm from the temptations of the Palm Sovereign. Even on the brink of death, he stood defiant, guarding the Rain Realm with a heart of pure righteousness! This, because he was the third soul!

Then came the fourth soul!

This soul blazed with a golden light, illuminating the starry expanse, almost rivalling the three spirits in its intensity. This golden soul represented the Seven-Colored Immortal’s lifetime of fortune and destiny. Whoever was reborn of this soul would surely be blessed, a being envied by the very heavens!

Such a being was as if forged by the very fabric of creation itself. Wherever he went, treasures would materialize. Those who dared to oppose him would meet with untimely demise.

As the fourth soul, born of the Seven-Colored One’s gathered fortune, faded into the cycle of reincarnation, Wang Lin beheld within it, the blurry form of… Greed Wolf!