Scarce a breath had passed when the Four Generals, and the disciples of the long-lost Seven Dao Sect, strode into that forsaken place. With them came a clutch of Celestial Consorts, their faces etched with a tapestry of emotions as they crossed the threshold.

One among them, an immortal from a distant, primeval realm beyond the borders, sighed a silent lament and subtly shifted his form, avoiding any disturbance to the ancient wards. He moved with purpose, drawing nearer to the colossal cauldron that dominated the space.

Behind him, those who had followed cast their gazes upon the ruins below. Several, their eyes sharp with foreboding, halted in their tracks, sensing some unseen peril.

Yet others, blinded by arrogance or ignorance, pressed onward, like the ancient immortal before them. As they stepped into the void above the crumbling remains, their expressions twisted in horror. Crimson tendrils, fine as gossamer, erupted before them, blazing with a searing light. These strands ensnared them utterly, weaving a cage of blood.

A deafening roar echoed through the desolate space as a web of crimson threads thickened, choking the air. Within this macabre tapestry, the trapped wailed in agony, desperately retreating.

The ancient immortal, having safely navigated the treacherous path, spun around in astonishment. He beheld the crimson curtain, now a wall obscuring his vision. A shiver of dread coursed through him. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned and plunged into the depths of the great cauldron.

Hidden within the shadows, the Lord of the Palm watched, a cold smile playing upon his lips.

Ignoring, for now, that unfolding drama, the ancient immortal, spared by fortune and now within the cauldron, was a weathered soul, a disciple of the Seven Dao Sect whose cultivation was but modest. He found himself in a dim and cavernous realm where three hundred dewdrops clung to a colossal flower.

The three, Lan Meng and her companions, who had entered before him, had vanished without a trace. The disciple, ever cautious, lingered by the flower, studying it for what seemed an age, before choosing a single dewdrop and allowing it to seep into his essence.

At that very instant, upon the summit of a distant peak, Wang Lin, sitting in meditation, lifted his head to the heavens.

“He comes, the first. Alas, his power is but meager. He seeks to stir these waters, heedless of my warnings. Let him serve as a test for the rules I have laid down.” A chilling light flickered in Wang Lin’s eyes. His divine sense unfurled, reaching into the star-strewn void, towards a swirling vortex.

The vortex spun with increasing fury, gradually revealing a blurred silhouette within. As the figure solidified, the vortex dissipated.

It was the elderly disciple of the Seven Dao Sect, he who had been so fortunate. He appeared, his eyes darting with wariness, his spiritual sense sweeping outwards. But his meager power could not pierce the veil that concealed Wang Lin.

The old man frowned. After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped forward, preparing to flee. But as his foot descended, his face contorted in shock. He found no ground beneath him, plummeting downwards into the abyss.

Utter bewilderment gave way to raw terror. All power of flight had deserted him. Even the eruption of his inner energies could not halt his descent.

Upon the mountain peak, Wang Lin’s eyes shone with understanding.

“It works! This broken realm holds its own secrets. Alas, of the many rules I have attempted, only this prohibition of flight has taken true form. Even so, it cannot affect enchanted objects, and its duration fades with the power of the one it afflicts.”

Wang Lin raised his right hand and with a flourish, the Blood Sword flashed into existence. It shot into the heavens, piercing the celestial vault, a scarlet streak aimed at the falling disciple.

With the speed of the Blood Sword, enhanced by Wang Lin’s power and the art of Spatial Contraction, it appeared in mere moments alongside the plummeting old man.

The old man, his face a mask of panic, found himself hurtling through the void at such a speed that it had created a vortex of wind about him, tearing at his very being.

He forced down the terror, seizing control of himself. He raised a trembling hand, and a horsetail whisk appeared. He thrust it beneath his feet, allowing it to bear his weight.

The old man’s face was ashen. He could not fathom the loss of his ability to fly, but there was no time for contemplation. A crimson flash drew his gaze. An instant later, as the whisk caught him, the Blood Sword pierced him through the brow!

The old man coughed blood. A cloud of red erupted from his forehead. His body convulsed, then shattered. Even his nascent soul was pulverized by the blade, ending his existence.

As he died, Wang Lin weaved his hands in arcane gestures, lifting them towards the sky. His Third Soul detached from him, embracing the hand seals.

“I offer this flesh, blood, and spirit, to that which dwells beyond!”

As the words left his lips, a black arm, wreathed in dark vapors, appeared next to the broken corpse in the star-strewn sky. With a ghostly grasp, it gathered the fragments of flesh, spirit, and soul, then vanished into the void.

The Blood Sword returned to Wang Lin, humming softly. Wang Lin lowered his hands, reabsorbing his Third Soul, and his eyes flickered with cold fire.

“I can sense the restrictive formation. Only three have perished, and now a fourth. It is not enough…” Wang Lin fell silent, then closed his eyes. He extended his senses into the cosmos, awaiting the next to arrive.

“If no one enters within seven days, I shall seek another realm.”

Within the first flower of the cavern’s core, containing its three hundred dewdrops, each a world, Wang Lin stood guard, awaiting the next soul foolish enough to step into his trap.

Time flowed like a river. Five days passed, days spent in waiting and in immersing himself in the memories flooding his Third Soul.

He remained ever vigilant, poised to flee should the next arrival be Qi Cai or the Old Ghost of War. The rule he had set in place, forbidding flight, granted him the precious moments he would need to escape.

“Alas, I cannot impose a rule against immortal bloodlines. Were I able, I could fight them head on! Yet these three hundred broken realms are not strong enough to bear such power.” Wang Lin sighed inwardly.

On the sixth day, as midday approached, Wang Lin stiffened. He lifted his gaze to the heavens, and through the tendrils of his spiritual sense, he spied a new vortex forming in a distant eastern sector of the void.

“He comes! Who will it be?” Wang Lin rose swiftly, his body melting into the void.

Though the rule against flight remained, its duration had long passed, and he was free to move.

Beyond the nascent vortex, Wang Lin stepped from the shadows, his Blood Sword trembling, yearning for the taste of blood, yet wise enough to remain silent. Wang Lin watched the vortex, his right hand sweeping outwards, shrouding himself and the blade in invisibility.

He stood ready to flee should Qi Cai or the Old Ghost of War appear.

The vortex roared into existence, spinning with violent speed, blurring to the point of being indistinct. Within its depths, three blurred forms began to coalesce.

As the figures took shape, Wang Lin knew that these were likely neither Qi Cai nor the Old Ghost of War. Yet he held back, his senses sharp, and waited for the forms to solidify.

At last, the vortex dissipated, and the three within became clear. A murderous glint ignited within Wang Lin’s eyes. He recognized them!

They wore the robes of the Seven Dao Sect, from the primeval realm beyond. The robes were identical to the one worn by the old man he had slain.

Immortal cultivators from the Seven Dao Sect, of varying strength. One had reached the Initial Void Nirvana stage, but the other two were only at the Fifth衰 of the Heaven-Human stage, far from transcending into the Third Step.

The instant the vortex vanished and the three emerged, Wang Lin struck. His Blood Sword flashed, hurtling towards them, followed by Wang Lin himself.

His timing was impeccable. The three had barely registered their surroundings, their spiritual senses still unfurling, when the Blood Sword severed the head of one of the Heaven-Human immortals.

The other, splattered with the blood of his comrade, recoiled in horror, but a white shadow filled his vision. Wang Lin’s finger struck him on the brow, and he collapsed, his essence shattered.

It was all so swift. In a heartbeat, two were dead! The Void Nirvana immortal, without hesitation, leapt backwards, reaching for an incense stick, intent on igniting it.

But he cried out in dismay. Before he could strike the flame, he plunged downwards! The sudden shift threw him into a panic.

The Blood Sword flashed, and Wang Lin unleashed a palm strike.

With a thunderous blast, the immortal was pierced through the chest by the sword and struck by Wang Lin’s palm. He coughed blood and his body burst.

Three slain in less than three breaths! Wang Lin turned to leave, but a new sensation stopped him. Surprise flickered across his face, followed by renewed killing intent.

“Another comes!?”

His spiritual sense expanded, reaching outwards to a vortex that had appeared ten thousand leagues away. A figure emerged within, a figure that was, unmistakably, feminine.