With a stride that defied gravity, Wang Lin descended, his dark hair streaming behind him like the tattered banners of a fallen god. An aura of ruthless indifference clung to him, as if he were a demon made flesh. Seven Crumbles had passed, and the distance between him and the Left Wing General was now but five paces!

The Left Wing General, a formidable figure named Yun Lihai, regarded Wang Lin with narrowed eyes, his expression hardening.

Now, the Eighth Crumble roared forth, a cataclysmic wave unleashed from the void, merging with the very essence of the heavens and earth.

Unprecedented in its raw power, the Eighth Crumble solidified from the ethereal realm, taking the form of a veritable deluge, poised to engulf all in its path.

Wang Lin, wreathed in swirling demonic energies, met the onslaught head-on. With a defiant step, the moment his form collided with the Eighth Crumble’s force, the demonic flames that enveloped him erupted in a furious conflagration. A pillar of malevolent energy pierced the heavens, a testament to the chaotic power that now surged within him, as if all the world were consumed by demonic intent.

Though the Eighth Crumble held its form, it did not break Wang Lin. But the Ninth Crumble emerged, a silent specter of destruction, appearing as if from nowhere.

A flicker of concern crossed Wang Lin’s brow. Though empowered by the demonic transformation, his heart, his very Dao, remained steadfast, uncorrupted by the dark energies. Yet, he knew that with each deepening foray into the abyss of demonic power, that inviolable core risked being eroded.

The perils of succumbing to demonic influence were well known to Wang Lin.

With the simultaneous assault of the Eighth and Ninth Crumbles, Wang Lin weighed his options with lightning speed. He glanced at the Left Wing General, now a mere three paces distant!

With a silent curse, Wang Lin defied expectations. He retreated with the swiftness of a lightning bolt, vanishing from his position to reappear a thousand paces away.

The Left Wing General, Yun Lihai, paused, then a hearty laugh erupted from his chest. “To know when to advance and when to retreat, to understand the art of sacrifice! Well done!” He swept his hand before him, and with a thunderous echo, the energies of the Ten Crumble Fist vanished, leaving the heavens and earth still once more.

“Though you did not break my Ten Crumble Fist, your strength is undeniable. You are worthy of command!” The Left Wing General declared. “I, Yun Lihai, Left Wing General, name you a Commander of the Ancient Demon City, with dominion over ten thousand demon soldiers!” As he spoke, Yun Lihai summoned a bronze token, and with a flick of his wrist, sent it spinning towards Wang Lin.

Wang Lin, his face unreadable, accepted the token and offered a respectful bow. “I thank you, General!”

“Rest within the city. In seven days, you will be escorted to your barracks!” Yun Lihai bestowed a final, appraising gaze upon Wang Lin before vanishing into thin air, leaving no trace.

Having witnessed this exchange, Yao Xixue, waited until the Left Wing General had left, and was about to speak. But Wang Lin, without so much as a glance, turned and walked away.

Yao Xixue, her brow furrowed, let out a soft huff and followed suit, departing in the opposite direction.

Wang Lin’s pace was unhurried as he ventured into the distance. With each step, the demonic energies within him gradually subsided. He was now in the heart of the Ancient Demon City, and within half an hour, he found himself immersed in a vibrant tapestry of bustling streets and towering structures.

He settled in a quiet chamber within an inn, where he sat in silent contemplation, his legs crossed.

Four days and four nights he remained, unmoving.

His dark hair began to recede, returning to its natural state. Although the demonic transformation had amplified his abilities, propelling him to unprecedented heights of power, the associated side effects were equally perilous.

Wang Lin’s path was not that of the demon. As such, the demonic energy that now coursed through his veins clashed with his Dao. If allowed to fester, the demonic intent would erode his resolve, twisting him into a mindless, savage demon, bereft of reason and compassion.

Unless he devoted himself entirely to the way of the demon, as Situ Nan had done, he could not hope to retain his sanity.

With his keen mind, Wang Lin would not make such a mistake. During the heat of battle, he had constantly calculated the duration of his demonic transformation, seeking to maximize its potential while preserving the integrity of his Dao. This was his primary concern.

Therefore, as the Eighth and Ninth Crumbles descended, he had made the difficult choice to retreat. It was not that he lacked the power to fight, but to continue would have risked irreparable damage to his very soul.

Furthermore, Wang Lin’s decision to embrace the demonic transformation was not solely driven by his desire to comprehend its mysteries. He sought a position of power within the city. Even though he had not conquered the Eighth Crumble, he believed he had demonstrated sufficient strength to warrant a command. The Left Wing General would give him no less.

Should Yun Lihai prove blind to his worth, Wang Lin had resolved to depart the Ancient Demon City, return to the desolate lands, and build his own power. He would bide his time, and when the moment was right, he would tear down the walls of the Ancient Demon City himself.

Within his chamber, over four days and four nights, Wang Lin had managed to condense the remaining demonic energies into a single, potent point, which he then sealed within his body. He could not, nor did he intend to, eradicate the demonic energy. If harnessed correctly, it could serve as a formidable weapon.

Thirteen and Hu Pao had arrived at the inn a day prior, taking up residence in the chamber adjacent to Wang Lin’s. They had been drawn to this location by Wang Lin’s mental summons.

After days of meditation, on the fifth day, Wang Lin emerged from the inn, Thirteen and Hu Pao close behind.

As he traversed the streets of the Ancient Demon City, Wang Lin felt as though he had awakened in another world. Everything here differed greatly from the lands of cultivators, from the very architecture of the buildings, to the surrounding flora.

“This Eastern Sea Demon Spirit Land is a world unto itself. It is quite fascinating. But how was it created? Could it truly be the former outer mansion of an all-powerful immortal emperor when the Immortal Realm was not broken?” Wang Lin found it hard to believe. If the rumors were true, the Immortal Emperor’s cultivation would be hard to even imagine.

“Though it’s only a rumor, there must be some truth to it. If it’s truly some immortal emperor’s estate, then why did the immortal emperor create so many natives within his estate?” Wang Lin walked on the streets as he pondered.

“Perhaps…” Wang Lin’s expression flickered. He thought of an absurd answer. When he was young, in the village he lived in, neighbors would often use fences to divide a piece of land to raise livestock.
Wang Lin gazed upon the world before him, then lifted his eyes to the heavens. A strange and unsettling notion took root within his heart – that this city, this sprawling expanse, was no different than a penned-in yard, and the bustling townsfolk, mere livestock within its boundaries.

He shook his head with a wry smile, chiding himself for such morbid fancies. Yet, the thought lingered, a persistent shadow clinging to the edges of his mind.

Thirteen and Hu Pao trailed behind Wang Lin. Thirteen, ever vigilant, his cold gaze swept the surroundings, searching for any hint of threat, ready to unleash swift retribution.

Hu Pao, less burdened by such anxieties, feasted his eyes upon the myriad towers and stalls. A flicker of wonder sparked within his gaze as he beheld objects of desire, treasures promising untold delight.

The wonders of this ancient demon city held little allure for Wang Lin. After two hours of aimless wandering, his attention was caught by a bustling tavern, a veritable river of humanity flowing in and out. Since embarking on the path of cultivation, Wang Lin had gradually shed his earthly desires, food among them, reaching a state of near-asceticism. Sustenance now came not from lavish feasts, but from the rhythmic cadence of his breath, a constant exchange with the vital energies of the world.

Though mere food held no charm, a colossal cask before the tavern sparked his interest. The cask stood three *zhang* wide and two *zhang* tall, surrounded by ladders. Tavern servants, nimble as squirrels, ascended these wooden rungs, drawing forth amber liquid with ladles of prodigious size.

Wang Lin’s steps faltered. He raised his gaze to the sign above the door.

“Bamboo Green Tavern!”

Flanking the tavern’s entrance were couplets inscribed in elegant calligraphy:

“Bamboo’s verdant grace greets ancient guests,”
“Plum’s fragrant breath escorts celestial lords.”

Wang Lin studied them with newfound interest. A tavern keeper, quick to perceive a potential patron, hastened forward with a jovial smile. “Esteemed guest,” he boomed, “our Bamboo Green Wine is the most renowned vintage within nine counties, a brew aged over a thousand years! Why not step within and sample its exquisite flavor? The cask is newly tapped today, and the owner has declared that any who can quaff ten small casks without succumbing to intoxication shall drink for free! Such an opportunity is rare indeed. Were I you, I would not hesitate to enter!” The man’s keen eyes had noted the bearing of Thirteen and Hu Pao. Their manner suggested that of bodyguards, implying that their charge must be a person of considerable importance.

Wang Lin, amused by the tavern keeper’s earnest entreaty, offered a slight smile. “Then I shall taste this Bamboo Green Wine and discern its particular charm!” With that, he crossed the threshold.

Thirteen and Hu Pao followed close behind.

The tavern’s interior was tastefully adorned, neither excessively large nor uncomfortably cramped. It teemed with patrons, each engaged in lively conversation.

As Wang Lin entered, the tavern keeper scurried ahead, announcing, “Three esteemed guests!”

A waiter hastened forward, a towel slung jauntily over his shoulder. “Honored guests, please, this way. We have a superior table by the window. Allow me.” With a flourish, he cleared the table with his towel.

Wang Lin seated himself. Thirteen and Hu Pao hesitated, but, upon receiving a nod from Wang Lin, settled into the seats opposite him.

“What shall you have, honored guest?” the waiter inquired, his eyes trained on Wang Lin.

“Bring three small casks of your Bamboo Green Wine,” Wang Lin replied gently.

“At once!” The waiter tossed the towel over his shoulder and hurried away. Soon, he returned with three small casks, accompanied by several wine cups.

Thirteen swiftly lifted one of the casks and shattered its clay seal with a deft tap. He poured a generous measure into Wang Lin’s cup, yet refrained from filling his own. Hu Pao swallowed hard, but, seeing Thirteen’s abstemiousness, dared not partake himself. He grumbled inwardly, yet kept his thoughts hidden behind a mask of indifference.

Wang Lin lifted the cup to his lips and took a delicate sip. A familiar sensation washed over him, stirring memories long dormant. In all his days, Wang Lin had tasted but one other wine of such profound character – that which had been gifted to him by the ancestors of Da Niu, during his mortal sojourn on Suzaku.

For decades, Da Niu had shared the ancestral brew, gradually fostering within Wang Lin a deep and lingering fondness.

“Times change,” Wang Lin mused, “but I know not if Suzaku fares well. Da Niu, a mortal man, must have long since returned to the earth. I wonder if his descendants yet live?”

He held the cup aloft, his gaze lost in the mists of remembrance.