Wang Lin, a soul sculpted by vengeance, seethed. To be ambushed upon entry was an insult he could not suffer. This ancient tomb, a crucible of peril, demanded respect earned through strength. To show weakness was to invite a ravenous pack, a coalition of opportunists eager to claim his life.

Thus, a ruthless display of power was paramount. Icy resolve solidified in his gaze as he locked onto the retreating form of the middle-aged man. With a stride that blurred into a thunderous strike, he lunged forward like a falling star.

This cultivator, his opponent, was not of exceptional power. He had not yet weathered the Fifth Calamity of the Celestial Man, clinging only to the strength of the Third. His ambush, a carefully orchestrated strike the instant Wang Lin materialized, was born of overconfidence.

He believed that such a maneuver would wound even a superior opponent. For all who were drawn into this tomb were momentarily disoriented, paralyzed by fear. That fleeting instant was an opening to deliver a mortal blow, or at the very least, a crippling injury.

Once wounded, the lurking scavengers would descend. These ambushers had made a pact, a fragile agreement that held only until a true threat emerged.

Of course, a mighty being, one who had attained the Third Step of cultivation, might also be ensnared by the rift. Yet such beings were rare, and to forsake the chance of plunder out of fear of such an encounter was an unacceptable loss.

Furthermore, the aura of a Third Step cultivator was unmistakable, a palpable wave of power that would announce their arrival even through the veil of the rift. There would be no mistaking their presence.

But the middle-aged man had miscalculated. Wang Lin, though not a Third Step entity, had not been dragged here by the rift’s hunger. He had stepped into this tomb with purpose, unshaken and alert.

His spell, intended to cripple Wang Lin, was instead reflected back upon its caster with ferocious intensity. He coughed blood, thrown back, his mind reeling in terror. His scalp prickled, his very soul recoiled in horror. He cried out in silent desperation, abandoning all pretense of attack. Backpedaling with furious speed, he risked a glance and met Wang Lin’s gaze, a promise of death burning within. His face drained of color, and he veered sharply toward the shrouded depths below.

His reaction was swift, the mark of a seasoned survivor. He recognized the overwhelming power of his foe. Even at his maximum speed, he could not outrun the looming doom. So, he chose a desperate plunge, a gamble into the heart of the mysterious mists.

To enter the mist was to court oblivion, but to remain was certain death. The choice was simple, yet agonizing. Wang Lin, a wraith of righteous fury, gave chase, his speed a whirlwind of destruction. As the man plummeted toward the mist, madness ignited in his eyes. He slammed a hand against his chest, expelling a mouthful of vital spirit-blood. Fueled by this sacrifice, he invoked the forbidden art of Blood Escape, trading a fragment of his life force for an explosion of speed. He surged downward, poised to pierce the veil of mist.

“A resourceful wretch!” Wang Lin mused. The man’s rapid assessment and decisive action were testament to the cunning and experience of a cultivator who had reached the Third Calamity. Yet he had chosen the wrong prey. He was about to face the wrath of Wang Lin. Wang Lin had not yet unleashed his Binding Art, nor drawn forth the Blood Sword to deliver a swift demise. Those weapons would remain concealed, for now.

Wang Lin raised his right hand, and with a single, decisive gesture, unleashed a torrent of power towards the diving man. Heaven and earth trembled as the Servant Seal materialized. A gargantuan echo of a palm print, vast and ethereal, hurtled towards the middle-aged cultivator with impossible speed, drawing the attention of most of the tomb’s unwilling residents.

The doomed man, propelled by his blood-fueled escape, plunged into the mist. As he sought to drive deeper, he felt the surrounding vapors churn and writhe. A power akin to divine judgment rained down from above. The massive palm print, as if tearing through the very fabric of reality, slammed into the mist. The vapors convulsed, radiating outwards, revealing a gargantuan depression in their surface, a clear imprint of the hand. A desperate scream, drowned out by the thunder of the descending palm, marked the final moment of the middle-aged cultivator. The hand continued to press down into the mist, leaving a dark abyss in its wake. A small cloud of blood and the fading echoes of a shattered soul were all that remained of him.

All of this transpired in mere moments. A gesture of death, leaving behind a scar upon the mist that slowly began to heal. Though the mark faded, the power of that single act was etched into the minds of those who witnessed it.

Many stared, their eyes gleaming, not with fear, but with calculating caution. Some examined Wang Lin, a glimmer of recognition in their eyes, as if they had seen his face before, somewhere lost in the tides of time. In the distance, hidden behind a floating platform, a young woman in red trembled. She was the last surviving member of the Sealed Extinction Clan. She had been separated from the Feng Tian Wolf Clan brute when they were pulled into the tomb. The brute had been flung to some unknown region, but the woman now stood in Wang Lin’s sphere of influence.

Wang Lin, his face a serene mask, stepped forward, approaching a floating platform of a thousand fathoms. Upon it rested a monstrous head, its eyes wide with fury and despair. A gaping, bloody hole marred its brow, the mark it once bore brutally gouged out.

He did not need to see the mark to know that the head belonged to an ancient god. Before the head, a tattered banner, ten feet tall, stood silent and lifeless.

As he approached, Wang Lin felt the platform’s resistance, a protective aura that forbade entry.

As he studied it, Wang Lin’s senses sharpened. He spun around, facing the heavens, just as another soul was dragged into the tomb, delivered through a shimmering rift. The dozen or so cultivators who had witnessed Wang Lin’s lethal response to the failed ambush now trembled and dared not attempt another strike.

A woman clad in white materialized. Her hair, black as midnight, cascaded down her back to her hips. Her beauty was absolute, yet it was framed by an icy coldness.

Her appearance sent a jolt through Wang Lin. Her face was undeniably similar to the middle-aged scholar he had seen outside the rift.

The white-robed woman saw him as well. Their eyes met, and in that instant, chaos erupted within the tomb. A deep, guttural rumble echoed through the darkened sky, growing in intensity, like the roar of a furious beast. The mist-laden ground surged and convulsed as if a thousand dragons thrashed beneath its surface, churning the vapors into raging waves.

The entire realm seemed to suffocate, as if a chamber that had accidentally found a window to breathe suddenly sealed shut.

The rift, a pathway carved by the Tai Gu Star Beast, began to collapse with terrifying speed, disappearing entirely in the blink of an eye. Only the eternal mist remained.

With the closing of the Ancient Tomb, a powerful wave of dread washed over Wang Lin. He sensed a deadly peril rising from below. A vortex of mist, a pillar ten fathoms wide, shot upwards, devouring a hapless cultivator. His numbers turned into a rune, flickering in the air.

The sudden event shocked hundreds of cultivators. A number of platforms, including one beneath Wang Lin, lost their protection. As the mist pillars rose to meet the sky, those who were hit by the pillars turned into nothing, leaving behind nothing but a number.

Without hesitation, Wang Lin stepped onto the platform, which had lost it’s protection.

As his feet touched the platform, the mist passed him by.

Wang Lin wasn’t the only one who had figured it out. There were many others, that quickly raced towards any platforms they could get to.

However, there were only ninety nine platforms. Wang Lin watched in horror as two people ended up on the same platform, as they crashed into the platform, the entire world was swallowed by mist.

The scene that had passed was a destructive power that would ruin the people who were inside. And it would also mean death to a Third Step cultivator as well. With that happened, dozens of cultivators were killed from sharing platforms. Wang Lin’s eyes shrunken, and with a wave of his hands, a gust of air came from his body, protecting anyone from climbing onto his platform. Since there were 200 cultivators, and 43 free platforms, they would have to fight for their lives. Wang Lin had 10 different cultivators running up to him, ready to die for their lives.

Like a lover’s promise, this felt wrong.