A shudder wracked Qing Shui’s frame as the barbed spine, embedded deep within his breast, was wrenched forth by Wang Lin’s hand. With a sickening grind, it yielded inches from the flesh, and a perverse suction emanated from the wound, gripping the cruel spike with unseen tendrils. Wang Lin felt it all too clearly as he struggled to pull.

Even as he exerted his strength, a chilling aura pulsed from the heart of the barb, piercing directly into Wang Lin’s own heart. In that instant, his pulse hammered with impossible speed, a thunderous drumming that threatened to burst his ribs. *Thump-thump… thump-thump…* the sound grew frantic, merging into a searing pain that coursed through his very being.

“This first thorn… it seals his heart!” A spectral voice whispered from behind him, its sound like the rustling of grave shrouds.

Wang Lin froze. He had sensed nothing, no hint of presence, yet now this voice sent a shiver of dread down his spine. His pupils contracted to pinpricks as he slowly turned, his gaze drawn to the source of the sound.

The peak upon which Qing Shui lay, once fused to the gargantuan, seven-hued finger, now floated free. As Qing Shui’s spirit began its release from the petrified Xuanwu, the spectral digit began to wane. But as Wang Lin turned, the dissolving light reformed, not into a void, but into a shimmering, indistinct figure woven of the seven colors. Though veiled in ambiguity, its eyes burned with chilling clarity, fixed upon Wang Lin.

Wang Lin remained silent, the ancient god stars upon his brow spun into a maelstrom, mirroring the chaotic dance of the ancient demon star within his right eye. His left hand formed a mystic seal, while his right released its grip on the barb, a subtle gesture of warding against the unknown.

“Do not be alarmed. Continue your task of healing, I shall not interfere…” the nebulous, multicolored being intoned, its voice echoing from an unseen realm.

Wang Lin’s vigilance did not waver. The gaze of this spectral entity struck a chord of recognition within him – the seven-colored figure he had witnessed within the blood-soaked visions!

He possessed fragments of knowledge regarding the Seven-Colored One. He owned the seven-colored statue, and had witnessed the Seven-Colored Daoist refining the Dao Spirit. He had even glimpsed the same figure within the illusory halls of the Ancient Tomb.

As he beheld this wavering effigy, he could not be certain if it was truly the being that haunted his nightmares. Yet, the aura emanating from it possessed an unsettling stillness, devoid of any discernable malicious intent.

“Dao-Ancient Legacy… Immortal Clan Unbroken Physique… Five Paths of Origin… the secrets you bear are indeed numerous,” the Seven-Colored phantom murmured, its voice a spectral sigh that resonated with the emptiness of space.

“Who are you, truly?” Wang Lin’s spirit trembled, but his countenance remained impassive. If this being was indeed who he feared, then its ability to perceive his hidden power was hardly surprising.

“These secrets you hold, any single one would be considered a supreme blessing in another… but to me, they are, for the moment,… inconsequential.” The Seven-Colored figure tilted its head, then raised its hand, pointing towards Qing Shui. Fixing its gaze on Wang Lin, it uttered, “Continue. This is an opportunity I offer you. If you can save him, then take him and be gone. If you fail, then depart this place… This is the sole chance you shall receive.”

Wang Lin remained silent. He released the seal he had formed, yet did not turn away. Instead, he grasped the barb protruding from Qing Shui’s chest. As his fingers closed around it, the same chilling aura that had assaulted his heart surged back, engulfing him in its embrace.

The pain erupted anew, but Wang Lin suppressed the agony. He gripped the cruel spike with unwavering determination, slowly, painstakingly, drawing it forth.

The deeper he pulled, the sharper the pain became. It felt as if a clawed hand were rending his heart apart. Yet, his flesh, being that of an ancient god, possessed astonishing restorative power. With each searing wave of agony, his body raced to mend the damage.

“The physique of a Dao-Ancient inheritor, quite remarkable… Yemo’s sacrifice of three thousand drops of blood, to preserve the seed of legacy, was not in vain…” the Seven-Colored figure observed, its voice a disembodied whisper.

As the pain within his heart reached its zenith, golden light flashed within Wang Lin’s eyes. With a mighty heave, he wrenched the first barb from Qing Shui’s breast! Qing Shui gritted his teeth, his body convulsing, yet he remained silent. Only the knotted muscles and distorted grimace on his face, partially obscured by wild locks, betrayed the agony he endured.

Blood welled upon Qing Shui’s chest, threatening to erupt in a torrent. But Wang Lin’s left hand flashed, forming a seal that he pressed upon the wound. With a mystical sigil imprinted upon his flesh, the flow of blood ceased.

Wang Lin remained impassive. The conflicting forces of his immortal and Dao-Ancient power churned within him, tearing at his very being. The spikes that remained protruding from his flesh were crumbling from his body from this immense force.

Only the barbs deeply embedded within his flesh, those that had taken root as if grafted to his bones, remained unyielding.

For Wang Lin had called upon the Shield of Radiance and the Blessing of the Ancient God when the petrified shell of Xuanwu had fractured, unleashing the ten thousand barbs. All this had been concealed within the chaotic barrage, unseen by any observer.

Yet, even these measures could not entirely deflect the impact. It had only bought him a moment’s respite.

After a pause to catch his breath, the pain in his heart slowly subsiding, Wang Lin glanced at the Seven-Colored figure. He then discarded the first barb and pressed his hand upon the second, lodged within Qing Shui’s throat. He grasped it firmly. “This second spine… it seals his tendons!”

A flicker of barely perceptible emotion flashed across Wang Lin’s face as he spoke, his voice low and resonant, “Dao-Ancient Yemo’s three thousand drops of blood… what, might I ask, is the meaning of your words?”

The Seven-Colored figure seemed to chuckle, shaking its head slightly. “If you can draw forth three barbs, I will reveal to you a secret concerning the Dao-Ancient…”

Wang Lin could not fathom the intentions of this Seven-Colored entity. From Qing Shui’s very birth, when he was yet a mortal, this being had schemed and manipulated, shaping his life through suffering and despair. And now, a complex array had been woven, all for the sake of… the source of slaughter.
Yet, with the arrival of this being, and the cadence of its words, coupled with its apparent indifference, Wang Lin found the foundation of his earlier conjectures crumbling to dust.

The disinterest within the Seven-Colored One’s divine sense felt authentic, not a facade, but genuine apathy. “…What is its purpose?” Wang Lin pondered, his silence punctuated by the agonizing act of wrenching the second barb from Clear Water’s throat. With each pull, every sinew in Wang Lin’s body screamed in protest, as if his very form were being stretched to its breaking point. He had tasted this torment before, during his initial attempts, and though the pain was excruciating, he endured.

With a final, desperate heave, the second barb yielded, ejected with a sickening ‘crack’.

Clear Water, jaw clenched tight, emitted a muffled groan, his entire body slick with sweat as he battled the indescribable agony. Wang Lin, his face pale, placed his hand upon the third barb embedded in Clear Water’s left arm.

“The third and fourth barbs, the ones upon his right arm, they seal his divine sense,” the Seven-Colored One proclaimed, its voice even and unhurried.

A guttural roar escaped Wang Lin as he grasped the third barb, tearing it free with brutal force. A surge of power, unleashed from within the barb, slammed into Wang Lin’s divine sense, battering it as if a tempest had struck.

With a spray of crimson, Wang Lin, his features contorted in pain, ripped out the third barb. Without hesitation, he seized the fourth barb, embedded in Clear Water’s right arm, and pulled once more, with a force born of desperation.

Again, the power within the barb crashed against Wang Lin’s already wounded divine sense, a deafening roar echoing within his mind. His body trembled, convulsing with violent shudders, and a fresh gout of blood escaped his lips as the forces of rejection tore at his very being.

Clear Water’s arms fell limp at his sides. He raised his head, his gaze fixed upon Wang Lin, seemingly blind to the presence of the Seven-Colored One. His eyes held a mixture of sorrow, gratitude, and a feverish excitement.

Wang Lin wiped the blood from his mouth, offering Clear Water a weak smile. But his expression hardened as he noticed the reflection in Clear Water’s pupils, reflecting the world around him, but within that world, Wang Lin could only see himself, devoid of the Seven-Colored One’s presence.

“He cannot see me… Only you possess that sight. You are a fascinating spirit cultivator, much like that small cultivator who, long ago, amazed me with his devotion to the Source of War. You are both anomalies within this place… Were I not utterly certain you held no connection to me, I would be hard-pressed to believe the exquisite wonders of creation,” the Seven-Colored One mused, a hint of wonder in its voice.

“It says I am not connected… What is the meaning of this? Devotion to the Source of War? Could it be speaking of the fallen Zhan Konglie… or perhaps the Key… Zhan the Old Devil!” Wang Lin, unable to decipher the enigmatic nature of the Seven-Colored One, his gaze narrowed as he spoke, “The blood of the Three Thousand Daogu, what is its significance?”

The Seven-Colored One smiled, its eyes resting upon Wang Lin, a touch of reminiscence entering its voice. It began to speak, softly, a tale of forgotten ages.

“In the beginning, there were no cultivators of the Ancient Kingdoms, nor any Daogu. But it came, regardless. Before its demise, it scattered the blood of its race into three thousand fragments, one thousand becoming Ancient Gods, one thousand Ancient Devils, and one thousand Ancient Demons. As the ages passed, these fragments either mingled or diluted. This, then, is the genesis of your Ancient Three Races.”

Wang Lin’s heart pounded within his chest. He would not blindly accept the words of this being, but the tale echoed the words spoken by the remnant spirit of the Ancient Demon within the War Drum, so long ago, during his Ascension in the Demon Spirit Land!

The Ancient Demon, Beiluo, had said that the Ancient One was the first defy-Heaven cultivator, falling in battle against the Heavens. After its death, the Ancient Race fragmented, slowly giving rise to the Ancient Gods, Ancient Demons, and Ancient Devils.

The Ancient Three Races were the second generation of defy-Heaven cultivators!

This explanation, though different from the Seven-Colored One’s words, intertwined to form a clearer truth!

“The Daogu Yemo was drawn here by the Immortal Sovereign, or perhaps by this Seven-Colored One before me. The great battle… it was the battle against the Heavens, as spoken of by the Ancient Demon, Beiluo!”

“Those three thousand fragments of blood, they ultimately became the Ancient Three Races. Those with a greater concentration of mingled blood became royalty! But… is this the truth?” Wang Lin took a deep breath.