Below, the roaring Mist Sea churned, erupting in pillars of vapor that pierced the heavens, a palpable aura of death shrouding the land. Upon this expanse, forty-three platforms offered precarious sanctuary, each now occupied by a solitary cultivator.

Those who had, in that initial surge, secured a platform unchallenged were, save for a few graced by fortune’s fickle hand, individuals of profound cultivation and ruthless disposition.

Indeed, five or six amongst them possessed a more sinister cunning. Though they had not foreseen the perils of this realm, their inherent caution had driven them to preemptively slay any who might contest their claim, leaving a crimson stain upon their ascent.

Now, as the grim truth unfolded – that survival hinged upon solitary occupation – the hundreds of dispossessed cultivators, their eyes bloodshot with desperation, were poised to unleash a maelstrom of violence. Even brothers would turn upon brothers, driven by the primal urge to endure.

In a heartbeat, this desperate throng surged towards the remaining platforms. Amidst the chaos, Wang Lin could not spare a glance for those who held the other forty-two. He wove arcane signs with his hands, summoning a swirling vortex of power that formed an ethereal barrier around his domain, warding off the ravenous tide.

A dozen figures bore down upon him, led by an aged man who had weathered four cycles of celestial decay. The rest, while not paragons of might, were no less driven by the specter of annihilation. The weakest among them possessed the power of one who had transcended the tribulations of rebirth.

Though their individual power was not absolute, the confluence of their desperation ignited a furious potential, focused as it was upon claiming Wang Lin’s platform.

With a deafening boom, their combined arts crashed against Wang Lin’s shimmering veil. The barrier buckled and twisted under the onslaught, as the desperate cultivators poured forth their most potent magics and unleashed forgotten artifacts, each moment a precious shard of time to be seized.

A flicker of lethal intent ignited in Wang Lin’s eyes. With a chilling snort, he swept his hand outwards, summoning a gargantuan palm of energy that carved a path of destruction through the air. The rotating palm became a vortex, consuming the attacks and crushing the will of his attackers.

The Mist Sea thundered, unleashing a furious barrage of vaporous spouts. Dozens of cultivators, including those outside Wang Lin’s domain, and those attempting to seize other platforms, were engulfed, their agonized cries echoing across the desolate landscape before they were silenced.

The stench of blood hung heavy in the air, the lingering echo of screams fueling a renewed frenzy amongst the platform-less rabble. They descended upon the remaining sanctuaries with renewed savagery.

Of the dozen who had assailed Wang Lin, nine remained, their eyes gleaming with bloodlust, their bodies wreathed in the glow of desperate magic.

Ice hardened in Wang Lin’s gaze. With a step, he closed the distance to a middle-aged cultivator, whose face was contorted into a mask of desperate rage. As Wang Lin approached, the man spat forth a miniature sword of spectral light, aimed straight for his heart.

The middle-aged man, possessing the meager power of one celestial cycle, unleashed his hidden weapon. But Wang Lin’s fingers, moving with impossible speed, pierced the man’s brow even before the blade could bite.

Astral energy surged into the man’s body, causing it to rupture and shatter, his soul annihilated in a burst of raw power. But the essence did not disperse; instead, it coalesced into a crimson mist that Wang Lin greedily absorbed.

With a fluid motion, Wang Lin sidestepped the spectral blade and strode past the remains of his foe. He arrived behind a white-haired elder, and without hesitation, delivered a casual blow to the old man’s back. The elder gasped, his body collapsing into a cloud of blood to be consumed by Wang Lin’s insatiable hunger.

Licking his lips, Wang Lin moved again, appearing beside a young cultivator whose face was ashen with terror. The youth recoiled, spitting a mouthful of blood that formed into a massive, spectral skull that roared silently towards Wang Lin.

Rather than evade, Wang Lin charged towards the terrifying visage. As the skull prepared to engulf him, a strange light flickered in his eyes, and he unleashed a single, earth-shattering roar.

Though the air was thick with the rumble of the Mist Sea and the clamor of combat, Wang Lin’s roar dominated all, eclipsing every other sound with its terrifying power. The spectral skull shuddered violently, swept away by the irresistible force, and shattered into nothingness. The shockwave slammed into the fleeing youth, causing his body to crumble into a fine, bloody dust that was scattered by the wind.

Three lives extinguished with ruthless efficiency. But the carnage was far from over. The remaining six attackers, witnessing Wang Lin’s deadly dance, knew that retreat was death. They grit their teeth and, as Wang Lin hovered above his platform, surged to claim it for themselves.

“Fools courting death!” Wang Lin’s voice was as cold as the void between stars. Had they withdrawn, he might have spared them. But their stubborn defiance ignited his wrath. With a step, he raised his hand and unleashed three lightning-fast strikes.

Instantly, the air crackled with the power of a thousand swords. From Wang Lin’s fingertips, millions of tiny blades erupted, coalescing into three focused beams of searing energy, each aimed at the fastest of the would-be usurpers.

Among them were two men and a woman. The blades were too fast, closing the distance in an instant. One of the men, seized by desperate inspiration, bent low and performed a bizarre gesture, his hands drooping as if grasping the very air. As the blades approached, he roared and thrust his hands upwards.

With a deafening crash, a violet barrier shimmered into existence, summoned from the ether. The man’s desperate strength transformed it into a shield against the onslaught.

The man spat blood, his body flung backwards as the barrier shattered. The blades continued their inexorable advance, piercing his body and obliterating him.

The woman, her face ashen, frantically tried to dodge. Though her cultivation was not high, she was swift, else she would never have come so far.

By a hair’s breadth, she managed to shift her body just enough to avoid a direct hit. With a roar, the energy ripped away her shoulder, but she lived.

The wayward blade continued, striking the man behind her. His body was torn apart.

The last of the group, the elderly man who had mastered four celestial decays, frantically wove arcane signs. Nine shadowy dragons coiled around him, roaring and swirling. With each impact of the swords, the old man staggered backward, his body on the verge of collapse. Then, reaching out, he seized a nearby cultivator and hurled him in front of the swords.

The blades pierced the captive, tearing his body asunder.

In the blink of an eye, Wang Lin had slain three, and then another three. Now, only three remained, hovering in the air beside the platform. Wang Lin landed where he began, and swept his gaze across them, his voice like winter winds through a barren land, “Begone!”

The woman, her arm destroyed, was pale. Death was terrifying, but she felt something more profound. The white haired man was untouchable. She wanted to live. She turned to retreat, to find some other sanctuary to despoil.

The other, the elderly man, without pause turned away.

The last, weak and slow, had only narrowly avoided the worst of the carnage. He fled, too.

The deafening roar returned, a pillar of fog that pierced the sky, destroying one of the platforms and killing all who stood there.

The horror continued, as the next pillar of fog descended upon another platform.

In a scant few moments, forty-three platforms became twenty-eight. The number of dispossessed cultivators dwindled from hundreds to eighty.

Wang Lin stood upon his platform, a lone sentinel. None dared approach him, for the carnage he had wrought was enough to frighten the boldest of hearts.

As he scanned the landscape, his gaze fell upon the young woman of the Sealed Clan. She occupied a platform, and a gentle light surrounded her, emanating from the mark upon her brow. This power protected her platform, which resisted the assault of others.

Besides this young woman, Wang Lin was drawn to five others.

The first was the white-robed woman with hair that cascaded down her back, her beauty otherworldly. She stood silently, gazing towards the distant horizon. Any who neared her platform screamed in agony, black blood flowing from their eyes, their bodies writhing with invisible poison.

Another was a middle-aged man, clad in simple cloth, holding a wine flask in his left hand and a seven-foot sword in his right. “As the ancients said…” He took a sip of wine. His sword flashed. A cultivator died, blood flowing from a single point on his brow and spreading across the platform like a crimson plum blossom.

Ten bloody plum blossoms bloomed.

There was a purple-robed man. He was brooding, and an aura of darkness surrounded him. Behind him swam a monstrous, thousand-foot fish that devoured all who dared approach.

The final two were a gaunt figure, abnormally tall, dressed in black, whose eyes remained closed. He moved too fast to be seen, his afterimage still lingering where he had been. His victims died, their souls ripped from their bodies and their corpses tossed into the mist.

(To be continued)