From the yawning maw of a bygone graveyard, a swirling vortex of spectral energies erupted, laden with the thick pall of millennia-old sacrifices. The lingering wrath of fallen gods, ancient demons, and forgotten fiends, now naught but disembodied heads upon desolate altars, coalesced into a furious tempest. It raged forth from the rift, as if to tear asunder the leagues-wide shroud of mist that veiled the star-strewn firmament. Struck by its force, the nebulous expanse roared in defiance, a sentient entity of boundless rage, unleashing a tempest that threatened to devour the very constellations.

The swirling mists surged outwards, a ravenous tide consuming all in its path. Those who had dared to observe from beyond its edge, mighty figures who had even ventured within, now fled in terror before the storm. The opening of the Ancient Tomb had drawn the attention of the most powerful cultivators in the primeval star system. All other concerns were cast aside as they hastened towards the unfolding enigma.

Yet, the onrushing mists forced even these paragons to retreat in trepidation. From the heavens above, the scene resembled a catastrophic implosion, a colossal whirlpool of vaporous destruction, driven by an unseen force.

A wizened elder, barely skirting the grasp of the fourth stage of Celestial Decay, found himself engulfed by the vortex. His agonized screams echoed through the void as his flesh withered and peeled away, leaving behind a skeletal husk. His vacant eyes, once windows to a long and eventful life, faded into oblivion. Such gruesome fates were commonplace as the mist advanced.

But amidst the carnage, a peculiar anomaly emerged. For every ten souls consumed, one would remain unscathed. Instead, an uncanny vigor coursed through their veins, rejuvenating them as if the years had been reversed. A strange sigil would then manifest upon their brow, resembling a numbered mark. These chosen few were instantly seized by an irresistible force, pulled towards the epicenter of the storm, towards the very fissure from whence it spawned.

Within that maelstrom, the avatar of the esteemed Taoist of Wonderful Sound, a youthful visage of composure, retreated in haste. Though he had traversed countless leagues, unease gnawed at him.

“The Ancient Tomb…it must be,” he muttered, “Legend whispers of its emergence only once since the dawn of creation. Within lies untold power, miraculous elixirs, arcane arts, and, it is said, the very path for a third-step cultivator to transcend into the realm of Emptiness!”

His features contorted with indecision, he ceased his retreat. With a surge of willpower, he summoned forth a legion of apparitions, spirits born of incense offerings, yet unseen to mortal eyes. They swarmed around him, each a vision of beauty and virility, numbering in the billions. “Advance!” he commanded, and plunged into the encroaching mist.

Upon contact, the wraiths shrieked in torment as a force of unimaginable potency tore through them. Four-tenths of the spirits were instantly annihilated. The Taoist staggered, his face paling. Yet, he pressed onward, uttering arcane incantations and summoning further protections. But as he took his fourth step, the full might of the mist slammed into him. The remaining spirits were extinguished.

The Taoist coughed blood, his body reeling. “I cannot force my way through!” he realized, “A gamble must be made.”

“Even if it means the loss of an avatar, my true self will seize this opportunity!” With renewed resolve, he cast aside all defenses and hurled himself into the churning vapors.

The mist seized him, his essence violently quaking. His cultivation, once solid at the mid-stage of Emptiness, plummeted – early Emptiness, Perfection of Nirvana, late Nirvana, mid…early! Nine-tenths of his power was stripped away in an instant. He spat blood as his body withered, his handsome features fading into decay. Yet, in that moment, a numbered sigil appeared upon his brow. The irresistible force descended, dragging him towards the heart of the storm. “I understand now,” he gasped, “A third-step cultivator can withstand the miasma, but the Tomb itself only allows entry to those whose cultivation is at the nascent Nirvana stage!”

Elsewhere within the leagues-wide tempest, the immense, mountain-sized beast known as the Moonhowler sensed a similar opportunity. The ancient being upon its back, marked by the two faces of Yin and Yang, recognized the properties of the mist. A plan formed in his mind. With rapid hand gestures, he split his soul into three fragments and plunged them into the minds of his disciples. He whispered the names of his students before the winds could take him, “Wu Dongchan, Ji Xiantian, Moonhowler beast, you three must enter the Ancient Tomb!”

The mists descended, marking both the disciples and the gargantuan hound with the tell-tale numeral. They hurtled towards the center of the maelstrom as the old man retreated, vanishing into the depths of a distant star, where he meditated in anticipation.

The ancient cultivator known as the Great Wilderness Hermit saw his opportunity too, taking the hand of every retreating cultivator to see if they would survive the misty maelstrom that they had entered in. After seven were brutally slain, there was one who’s life would not be extinguished, an old cultivator who was weak. The hermit pulled his soul into the man, and saw his body was thrown into the mist and the ancient tomb.

As the great powers maneuvered, the mists continued their relentless expansion, consuming all. Wang Lin, having traversed across the cosmos, suddenly materialized. He immediately sprinted forward but felt a shiver in his mind, he had to look around and notice the ever growing fog growing and spreading with every second. At the same moment, the void behind him fractured, revealing a hulking figure – the Wolfkin warrior. But upon his shoulder, where once rested the ethereal maiden, now lay a faint, gray sigil etched into his flesh.

The warrior, recognizing the storm, hesitated before charging towards Wang Lin. “Eightfold Path of the Dire Wolves!” he roared, as ethereal wolves of immense size materialized, snarling and eager to devour Wang Lin.

Wang Lin accelerated, yet the approaching mists were faster. Like a ravenous tide, they engulfed him and crashed into the phantasmal wolves. The beasts were instantly obliterated, and the storm swept over the Wolfkin warrior. Unfamiliar with the mist’s power, he attempted to retreat, yet was too slow. His cultivation, merely at the nascent stage of Nirvana, ensured he would be spared the weakening effect. A numeral sigil appeared upon his brow, and at the same time, from his right shoulder a shriek rang out.