The fall of the Ancestral Emperor’s Palace, the demise of the Celestial Emperor, were stifled in their birthing by the iron grip of the Eternal Emperor. The ruined palace, once a beacon of power, was swiftly restored, as if no cataclysm had ever occurred, a phantom echo in the grand tapestry of time.

The Celestial Emperor, once more, retreated into seclusion. Lian Daozhen, the current Emperor of the Celestial Clan, was no stranger to these absences, his disappearances as unpredictable as the winds. Thus, the cultivators of the Celestial Clan paid little mind to this latest withdrawal, unaware of the storm brewing beneath the surface.

Wu Feng, the battle-scarred warrior, returned to the frozen wastes of North Continent. He entombed himself within the glacial heart of that land, drawing upon the unyielding cold to purge the dark curse that festered within.

Having resisted the urge to unleash his power while afflicted, his task was less arduous than that of Dao Yi or the Eternal Emperor. Furthermore, the ancestral ears he had claimed as spoils would amplify his power, elevating his mastery to new heights once the curse was vanquished.

Dao Yi, his body ravaged and spirit fractured, dragged himself back to Dao Yi Sect, a den of his own making. He was engulfed by agonizing pain, suppressing the urge to scream, containing the burning humiliation within his soul. He immediately chose to retreat into seclusion.

However, within his veins, the curse raged, defying any conventional remedy. Yet, Dao Yi was a Grand Empyrean, a master of deception, as the Twin Maidens had once declared.

In a desperate attempt to expunge the curse without crippling his restoration, he summoned his Empyrean and Transcendent Empyrean lieutenants, and even rallied the Gold Exalts under his command. He cruelly forced them to share the burden of the curse, splitting the darkness and distributing it among his loyal, and soon to be broken, followers.

Such was the potency of the curse that it meant instant death to any Gold Exalt it touched. Even the Empyreans could only endure a fleeting respite before their bodies succumbed to decay, and the agonizing cries would break the air with pain. Only the Transcendent Empyreans, wielding formidable power, possessed the strength to withstand the divided curse, but at a terrible cost.

Once all of Dao Yi’s lieutenants were burdened, he, in his madness, began a desperate search for Third Step cultivators, hoping to find any soul capable of bearing even a sliver of the encroaching darkness.

Under such a brutal scheme, Dao Yi Sect was well on its way to becoming a dead sect.

The Eternal Emperor, accompanied by Hai Zi, returned to帝山 Imperial Mountain. He also retreated to seclusion, as his power was already formidable, and though shrouded in the encroaching darkness, he believed that he could rely on his own abilities to gradually dispel the curse. Hai Zi, with her art from the Mourning Clan, lent her aid, and with the passage of time, the curse’s grip on the Eternal Emperor would weaken.

Only the Twin Maidens, the Grand Empyreans, remained untouched, their lack of greed having spared them the affliction. They retreated into the depths of the Violet Sun Sect, their objective to fuse with the ancestral eyes. Their emergence would herald the complete restoration of the powers weakened from their reincarnation.

The Celestial Clan still boasted five Grand Empyreans, but the fifth slumbered beneath the palace, in a subterranean sanctuary that mirrored the Imperial seat of power. Within that sacred chamber, he was a golden mountain, unyielding in its form, standing over and suppressing the spirits of the seventy-two continents.

At the mountain’s base, the Madman remained in his ageless slumber, seemingly awaiting the return of Wang Lin.

Half a year passed.

The East Continent of the Celestial Clan, the Skybull Continent.

The Skybull Continent, a land of soaring mountains, had been scarred by its war with the Green Devil Continent, its peaks shattered and its landscape forever changed.

Yet, the power dynamics of the continent remained largely unchanged. The Great Soul Sect and the Returning Unity Sect still held sway, with numerous smaller sects clustered around them.

The disciples dispatched to the Ancestral City had long since returned to their respective sects, bearing diverse fortunes, destined to become the pillars of their orders.

Within the Great Soul Sect, the Azure Ox Daoist, since the departure of Wang Lin, had secluded himself, turning his back on the mundane affairs of the sect. The elders managed the day-to-day tasks, he only stipulated that the mountain once granted to Wang Lin be preserved and declared a forbidden sanctuary.

This decision was met with bewilderment until Wang Lin’s name resounded across the heavens as a Transcendent Empyrean. Then, the elders of the Great Soul Sect, pondering the identity of the white-haired cultivator, slowly realized that the enigmatic figure was, in truth, Wang Lin. Only then did they grasp the significance of the Azure Ox Daoist’s decree.

Yan Qin, once an elder, now held a high position within the Great Soul Sect, with the power to influence crucial decisions. She could have relocated to a superior dwelling within the heart of the sect, but she chose to remain on her mountain. From its peak, she could glimpse Wang Lin’s former abode. Whenever the memories of the past resurfaced, she would stand alone on the summit, gazing at Wang Lin’s mountain, cloaked in silence.

Fan Shanbao and Fan Shanmeng remained her disciples. The old grievances with Wang Lin had long faded, obscured by the mists of time.

Over the years, a new face had appeared among the elders of the Great Soul Sect. This was Du Qing, his body not of flesh and blood, but carved from wood, animated by his nascent soul.

Appointed by the sect’s Patriarch, Du Qing had ascended to the rank of elder without the necessary cultivation, a life of comfort and ease far exceeding his previous existence.

As the years trickled by, the Great Soul Sect, amidst the countless sunrises and sunsets, appeared unchanged. The mountains were still the mountains, the pavilions still the pavilions.

Wang Lin stood outside the Great Soul Sect, gazing upon the familiar scene. When he first arrived, his understanding of the sect was hazy and incomplete. As time passed, he thought that he had finally gained a grasp. Yet, after his experiences in the palace, the revelation of the deep connection between the remote Great Soul Sect and the imperial court, he realized that there were still mysteries that remained to be solved.

“The Mourning Clan…a lineage of unrivaled prodigies…The Patriarch of the Great Soul Sect may already be dead, or perhaps not…but his plan has spanned countless epochs, a calculation initiated long ago, anticipating the changes of this very day. His scheme has ensnared everyone, making them mere pawns in his grand design.”
The final, calculated act succeeded, unraveling the ancient ward that had bound his kin, severing the line of the Immortal Ancestor and granting freedom to the last scion of a forgotten people.

Wang Lin gazed upon the Grand Soul Gate, a storm of emotions brewing within him. His sojourn to the Immortal Astral Continent had spanned countless seasons, yet only now did the truth dawn. This unassuming gate, nestled in the remote reaches of the Celestial Bull Continent, dismissed by the powerful as a mere trifle, held secrets that stretched back across eons.

With a sigh heavy with understanding, Wang Lin stepped forward, his power now far eclipsing that of the Azure Bull Realist, exceeding even the combined might of the gate’s inhabitants. His arrival was a whisper unseen, unheard by mortal ears.

Within the Grand Soul Gate, he saw familiar faces: Du Qing, and the fiery Yan Luan standing atop a distant peak in her crimson robes. He saw also Fan Shan Meng and Fan Shan Ban.

Without pause, Wang Lin ventured deeper, toward the forbidden heart of the gate – the Soul Repository where he had once trod.

In years past, the Repository could only be reached with the aid of the Azure Bull Realist. Now, a single stride was enough, and he stood before its shadowed doors.

A seven-storied pagoda, shrouded in ethereal mist. Two colossal, stone beasts guarded the entrance, their forms so lifelike they seemed poised to spring into motion.

The heavy doors stood closed, the silence profound. Above them, etched in ancient script, were three formidable words:

*Soul Repository!*

Though the pagoda appeared to have but seven stories, it concealed hidden depths – an eighth, a ninth… and the tenth, which the Azure Bull Realist claimed was inaccessible, a sanctuary where the Grand Soul Gate’s ancestor had met his final rest.

Wang Lin, his expression serene, raised his eyes to the pagoda’s peak. He had come seeking answers, searching for the legacy left to him by the fallen champion of the Mourning Clan.

With a heave, he pushed open the ancient doors and stepped inside. The familiar surroundings greeted him, and with measured steps, he ascended the winding stairs.

The creaking of the aged wood echoed through the silent halls as he climbed to the second story, then the third, until at last, he reached the eighth.

The seals and enchantments that had once barred his way were now as mist before the wind, dissolving with his passing.

He turned his gaze toward the stairs leading to the ninth story and continued his ascent. Upon this level, countless jade slips drifted, each containing the secrets to the Grand Soul Gate’s most powerful spells.

It was here, long ago, that Wang Lin had sought the complete Illusionary Arts.

His eyes scanned the countless slips, taking in their ancient wisdom. Then, he turned and walked toward the archaic staircase that led onward.

*This* was the path to the tenth floor!

Thirteen steps stood between him and the summit. He raised his foot and crossed each one, until he stood at the threshold of the Soul Repository’s highest chamber.

The instant he entered the tenth story, a vision struck him silent. He gazed upon it, his heart heavy, a labyrinth of emotions swirling within. At long last, he sighed, a sound filled with sorrow and acceptance.

“So, this is the legacy you left for me… the scene you wished for me to witness. Champion of the Mourning Clan, let the debt for your use of me be absolved with my promise to Hai Zi!” He turned from the tenth floor, his form dissolving into the shadows.

As Wang Lin departed, the full tableau of the tenth floor was revealed.

It was a small space, no more than ten yards across. Within it stood three statues and a single, harrowing skeleton.

One statue was of a man, standing tall and proud, his gaze fixed upon the supplicant before him. His eyes burned with a power to shatter the heavens, and an aura of cold command emanated from his form.

The skeleton knelt before the statue, his posture one of utter anguish and despair. A gaping wound rent his skull, devoid of a brain. A ragged hole pierced his chest, empty of a heart.

His skeletal hands reached upward, one holding the withered remains of his brain, the other his still heart. He gazed at the statue, as though pleading for forgiveness, kneeling there for endless ages.

This was no ordinary skeleton, but a soul trapped within a cage of bone, a wisp of existence forever bound by the thought of atonement.

And the statue before whom he knelt? It was a likeness of Wang Lin himself.

The skeleton was that of the Grand Soul Gate’s ancestor, the very champion of the Mourning Clan!