“Mark well, only in direst need may you unleash this forbidden art!” The ancient Vermilion Bird’s visage was grave, his words laden with an immense weight. He drew a deep breath, and his right hand wove a series of archaic sigils before him.

As the sigils shimmered into existence, ethereal flames, born from the very heart of the Vermilion Bird, erupted from his brow, merging with the arcane patterns. In a heartbeat, the sigils coalesced, forming a length of fiery bone, a staff of pure, incandescent energy, stretching a fathom’s length.

To call it merely “bone” was to diminish its essence. This fiery construct was straight and unyielding, a stark rod of raw power.

The Vermilion Bird’s eyes, usually pools of warm light, now held the chill of glacial ice as the fiery bone solidified. Once more, his hands danced, weaving a second set of incantations. These new patterns, ethereal threads of magic, did not coil around the bone, but rather linked directly to its apex, unfurling outward in radiating lines.

From afar, the Vermilion Bird’s creation was a strange and wondrous sight. Were one to stretch a sheet of oiled parchment across its frame, it would bear a striking resemblance to the humble rain parasols of the mortal realm.

Wang Lin watched with unwavering focus. He observed the Vermilion Bird’s deliberate actions, the first set of nine hundred and ninety-nine sigils assembling in an instant, the second, far more complex, a staggering nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, appearing with blinding speed. Yet, despite the raw power unleashed, not a single mote of ambient energy stirred, nor did the winds themselves howl in protest. The world around remained unnervingly still, even the lake’s surface unmoved, its waters placid as a mirror.

It was as if nothing had changed.

His two incantations now complete, the Vermilion Bird’s expression grew more solemn. He inhaled deeply, a peculiar light blazing in his eyes, and with a mighty sweep, he cast forth his hands, weaving yet another incantation with both, a blinding light erupting and piercing through the lake’s confines, spreading into the infinite beyond.

Faster and faster, the Vermilion Bird’s hands moved, without pause, each gesture birthing countless sigils, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands… his movements so swift that they defied mortal eyes, and even the most potent divine senses struggled to penetrate the veil of arcane energy.

With a guttural cry that shook the very heavens, the Vermilion Bird unleashed millions upon millions of sigils simultaneously. They coalesced into a furious tempest, roaring forth and engulfing the fiery bone. The bone was drawn into the heart of the storm, pulled skyward in a vortex of incandescent power. Wang Lin gasped, lifting his gaze. His pupils contracted, his breath caught in his throat.

In the heavens, the tempest churned, swirling into the shape of a colossal parasol, still furled. Phantom flames danced along its edges, birthing countless fiery dragons that coiled and roared, their incandescent forms dominating the firmament. The sight was visible from every corner of the Grand Emperor Star. “The World-Burning Ancient Parasol!” the Vermilion Bird bellowed, his voice echoing with a thunderous resonance. The tempest stilled, frozen in the sky, unmoving. A suffocating pressure descended, the land groaning beneath its weight. Flora bowed low, releasing a mist of suppressed moisture. In the lake, aquatic creatures darted frantically, the water roiling as if brought to a boil.

Cracks appeared in the earth, a spiderweb of fissures spreading across the land.

Those who witnessed the unfolding spectacle, their very blood seemed to writhe, threatened with imminent incineration.

Across the starry sky, the fabric of reality twisted and buckled under the strain. The static tempest threatened to unravel all of existence, and the distortion spread like a contagion, engulfing a significant portion of the Fallen Land. Every planet caught within its reach displayed the telltale signs of impending doom, as if ravaged by a millennia-long drought.

The Vermilion Bird’s breathing was labored, his chest heaving. The invocation of this forbidden art was clearly taxing him to his limits.

“Nine hundred and ninety-nine sigils in the first invocation, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine in the second, and in the third and fourth, no less than ninety-nine myriad each! They require that I imbue each sigil with the essence of my own soul’s Yang, the totality of my cultivated strength, all interwoven with a specific incantation. Only then can the ultimate technique of my Vermilion Bird lineage be manifested – The World-Burning Ancient Parasol!”

“Should even a single sigil falter, the backlash would be unimaginable! Even with my mid-stage Emptiness Profound cultivation, I would suffer grievous wounds. Were one to attempt this who is not a master of flame, obliteration would be certain!”

“This art was passed down from an ancient Celestial Sovereign. I once overheard the Ancestor speak of how, in the Sovereign’s homeland, he used this very technique to annihilate a world teeming with trillions of souls, thus earning it the title of ‘World-Burning’!”

“In the hands of the ancient Celestial Sovereign, this was a formidable art. Whether it still falls within the bounds of Daoist techniques, I cannot say. But the First Ancestor once recounted that the World-Burning Ancient Parasol, when unfurled nine times, each opening brings annihilation!”

“The ancient Celestial Sovereign annihilated a world, opening the Parasol eight times! Even he dared not open it a ninth! The First Ancestor, whose cultivation pierced the heavens, having reached the early stage of Emptiness Tribulation, could only open it five times! As for myself, having preserved the essence of my soul’s Yang for tens of thousands of years, and using my own vitality to fuel it, I might, at my current stage, open it twice!”

“This art should never have been taught to you, for its dangers are too great, its potential for calamity too immense! The First Ancestor even claimed it was incomplete, seemingly pilfered by the Celestial Sovereign long ago. Yet, your comprehension is astonishing; the choice is yours alone.”

The Vermilion Bird’s words came in a torrent, as Wang Lin’s gaze remained fixed on the furled storm that dominated the heavens. The Vermilion Bird’s revelations stunned him. He had thought that the art he was to be taught was, at best, a profound Daoist technique, never imagining it to be a power of such unimaginable magnitude. “To unfurl it eight times, and annihilate a world of trillions… How can this even be considered a technique?!”

The Vermilion Bird’s breathing quickened as his right hand snapped, causing the silent storm above to shudder, as if on the verge of unraveling.

“I can only instruct you to this point. It cannot be carelessly opened, for such an act would cause unimaginable damage to this place!” The Vermilion Bird bit his tongue, spitting forth a mouthful of blood, cultivated over his mid-stage Emptiness Profound existence. The blood transformed into a burning mist, enveloping the tempest and causing it to gradually dissipate.

Only after a quarter of an incense stick had burned away did the tempest finally vanish, leaving behind an empty sky. The Grand Emperor Star slowly returned to normal, and the twisting of the starry sky faded into nothingness.

Though brief, the spectacle had sent shivers down Wang Lin’s spine, filling his eyes with a burning light. The sheer power of the art, even in its furled state, was palpable. His heart pounded within his chest, an accelerated rhythm of awe and anticipation.

Only when the world had fully returned to equilibrium did the Vermilion Bird sigh in relief, his complexion regaining its color. With a wave of his right hand, a jade scroll appeared, floating towards Wang Lin.

“Within this scroll lies every sigil, and the art of opening the Parasol. Memorize them flawlessly, then destroy this scroll!” With those words, the Vermilion Bird settled into a meditative pose, drawing upon his vital essence.

Wang Lin took the scroll, his gaze transfixed. The images of the Vermilion Bird performing the art played vividly in his mind, igniting an undeniable desire. Rarely in his life had he been moved by a desire for an object or a skill, but now, his heart stirred with an unfamiliar and profound longing. He had dedicated his life to the art of restriction, becoming a master of its intricate complexities. For others, weaving nearly two million sigils in nine breaths would be an insurmountable task.

Indeed, it was a formidable challenge. Nine breaths were fleeting, yet even as a Core Formation cultivator, Wang Lin was forced to weave sigils with incredible speed, burdened by the need to construct and unravel complex restrictions. Some of these restrictions required the execution of a torrent of sigils in a mere instant.

Therefore, while the first hurdle was challenging, it was not insurmountable for Wang Lin! What truly shook Wang Lin to his core were the words spoken by the Vermilion Bird, and the very origin of the World-Burning Ancient Parasol. “Seemingly pilfered by the ancient Celestial Sovereign, also known as the Celestial Emperor, and incomplete…” Wang Lin inhaled sharply, his eyes widened in disbelief.

The word “seemingly” left room for doubt, yet the implications were staggering.

“Who truly created this art…? And from where did the ancient Celestial Emperor steal it…? If this is true, then merely a stolen, incomplete art is enough to annihilate a world. Were the true art to be completed…” Wang Lin fell silent, looking up at the sky. He felt a familiar sense of insignificance, the same he had felt as a mortal gazing at the vast expanse of the heavens.

“What is my cultivation worth in the face of this…? How vast are the heavens? What lies beyond the stars…?” After a long silence, Wang Lin exhaled, a new fire burning in his eyes.

The more one knew, the more insignificant one felt. Yet, Wang Lin did not succumb to despair. Rather, it ignited his indomitable will, as he had declared to the Vermilion Bird. *What about me, Wang Lin? Why can’t I reach such heights?* There are those of common birth, and those who are celestial; those who are beneath, and those who are above. The world is born with disparities, with injustices, yet it is also just. *If someone could create such an art, if someone could cultivate to such unimaginable heights, then so can Wang Lin! Perhaps I lack natural talent, but that shall not become the stone that halts my advance! Today, I shall learn this World-Burning art, created by another, stolen by an Emperor, and passed down through time. And tomorrow… I will make them study my art, the art of Wang Lin!* Wang Lin’s gaze hardened, his will unwavering. He let out no cry, voiced no oath, but spoke the words in his heart, as if etching a permanent mark. Wang Lin’s consciousness immersed itself within the jade scroll, engraving the countless sigils upon his mind, forever imprinted with the sigils of the Umbrella’s opening. The jade in his hand, cracked and faded away; the ashes danced towards the sky, signifying Wang Lin’s pledge flying towards the great beyond. The world’s stage is set, and I wish to make sure I am the one in the leading roll.