Squeezing the strand of azure hair, imbued with the faintest whisper of her divine sense, Wang Lin’s eyes narrowed with… recognition. The concealment was masterful, a subtle veil draped so expertly that even he, with his honed senses, might have overlooked it had he not been previously wary of the woman known as Xu Fei.

“Truly, the sorceries of the Corpse Yin Sect are formidable,” he murmured, more to himself than any present listener. “Such masterful concealment of the divine sense… I must remain vigilant. This Xu Fei, to weave her essence into a mere strand of hair… It suggests she is the true vessel, and the woman known as Zhao Yixuan, a mere corpse-puppet.”

A flicker of contemplation crossed his gaze. His ability to discern Xu Fei’s true nature held a faint echo of his past, a distant memory of Sun Tai, the thrall thrust upon him by the capricious Zhou Yi.

Sun Tai had possessed a corpse-puppet, a mere child yet imbued with surprising vitality and a potent cultivation. The bond between Sun Tai and the puppet was peculiar, not merely that of master and thrall, but two distinct entities intertwined.

The memory of Sun Tai’s puppet stirred within Wang Lin a recollection of Situ Nan, whose spirit had once inhabited such a small, lifeless shell.

“Situ… I wonder where he wanders now,” Wang Lin mused, a wistful air softening his features. “Upon some mortal star, perhaps, living the life of a petty king…” For a fleeting moment, the aura of a ruthless killer receded, replaced by the gentle melancholy of a friend longing for absent company.

“And Sun Tai himself… once a Grand Elder of the Corpse Yin Sect upon the Vermillion Bird Star… He was cast into the void by the Grand Magus Clan’s ancestral power. His fate remains unknown.”

Wang Lin drew a deep breath, banishing the encroaching nostalgia. His gaze, now sharp and resolute, swept across the myriad fissures that scarred the abyssal depths. Scores of these rifts rent the earth, yet none bore the faintest trace of Zhou Yi’s presence. He would have to seek him out, fissure by fissure, alone.

“Zhou Yi was imprisoned here within the Demon Spirit Land by the Sword Sovereign, Ling Tianhou. Thus, within the fissure that holds him captive, I should find the lingering essence of Ling Tianhou himself!” With a focused intensity, Wang Lin unfurled his divine sense, probing each chasm with meticulous care.

As time trickled by, a furrow deepened between his brows.

He had scoured every fissure, yet discovered not a single sign of Zhou Yi’s confinement.

His face shadowed with displeasure, Wang Lin retrieved an object from his storage pouch: the crystal bestowed upon him by the Ancient Demon, Luo. He plunged his divine sense within, but emerged moments later, his brow now drawn even tighter.

“If Luo speaks true, then this *is* the place he divined Zhou Yi’s presence!” A flicker of doubt danced within Wang Lin’s eyes.

“Luo has little to gain from deceiving me in such a trivial matter… To lie about this serves him no purpose. If he sought my demise, he would simply strike outright, for his foremost goal is to consume the other seven demons…”

“Unless… Unless this deception is a ploy, a subtle lure to draw me here, to serve as a pawn in a larger game!” A cold glint ignited within Wang Lin’s eyes. Yet, as he scanned the area once more, his expression softened, his doubts diminishing.

“If Luo claimed Zhou Yi lay within the deepest abyss, then the possibility of a trap would be greater. But this location… it is utterly unremarkable.”

Wang Lin sank into contemplation, his divine sense weaving and probing, each crevice and cranny meticulously examined. Yet, the results remained unchanged.

He paused, and then retrieved from his storage pouch the Soul Summoning Banner. With a flick of his wrist, a thousand potent souls surged forth, their spectral forms eager to obey his will. Wang Lin directed them towards the myriad fissures, each soul delving deep into the darkness, becoming extensions of his own senses.

He closed his eyes, his spirit riding upon the spectral wings of the souls, witnessing the barren depths with their ethereal eyes, leaving no stone unturned, no shadow unexplored.

A bell chime later, the thousand souls returned, and Wang Lin opened his eyes, his face grim.

“Every crevice, every nook, every corner… I have searched with painstaking detail. Yet I find no trace of Zhou Yi! Could the Ancient Demon, Luo, truly have misled me in this?” He flicked his sleeve, his eyes flashing with a hint of anger, but abruptly, his gaze stilled, a new thought taking root.

“No! Were I Ling Tianhou, I would not simply imprison a captive within a readily accessible fissure. Were I Ling Tianhou…” His eyes narrowed, his mind delving into the power that roiled within him – the Sword Sovereign’s lingering sword aura.

The contemplation faded, replaced by a gaze of commanding authority.

The very essence of Ling Tianhou was tyranny, a defiant spirit that challenged the very heavens. To live by one’s own iron will. The sword aura coursed within him, and the domineering aura within Wang Lin’s gaze grew heavier.

“If I were to imprison a troublesome sword spirit… I would not seek mere confinement. I would seek to *break* it, to force it to kneel before my indomitable will. Should it refuse, I would imprison it for a millennium. Should it still resist, then ten thousand years. If, even then, it remained defiant, I would shatter its very essence, forge its spirit into a tool, anything to force it to submit!”

“These obvious fissures, I would scorn. If I chose to imprison someone here, it would be for a reason… a purpose. I would choose…” Wang Lin’s gaze, now imbued with tyrannical power, swept across the landscape, ignoring the obvious rifts, focusing instead on the blank spaces between, …searching.

The domineering air began to dissipate, replaced by beads of sweat that trickled down his brow. As the final vestiges of the Sword Sovereign’s spirit receded, Wang Lin staggered, his complexion turning ashen.

“The Sword Sovereign’s presence within the sword aura… It is overwhelming. To merely graze its surface is enough to wound one.” He inhaled deeply, circulating his celestial energy to fortify himself. He then retrieved from his pouch his celestial sword and his curved saber.

Grasping the sword tightly, Wang Lin stepped forward, spun, and unleashed the sword, scattering waves of turbulent sword qi. A vortex of razor-sharp energy formed around him, centered on his very being.

“Rend!” Wang Lin’s voice was a low roar. He stopped, and in that moment, the vortex of sword qi burst outwards in a devastating explosion of power. The fissures around him were instantly covered with countless cracks. The sound of rock grinding on rock filled the air as the cracks spread.

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“Shatter!” Wang Lin’s thunderous voice crashed through the abyss as the walls exploded, sending earth and stone tumbling into the darkness below.
Before him yawned an abyss, a chasm so profound its depths were lost to shadow. With a tempestuous flourish, Wang Lin channeled his very life force into a blade of pure spiritual energy. He lashed out, the ethereal sword cleaving through the oppressive air, and with each strike, a fragment of the chasm’s lip crumbled, a single inch surrendering to his will.

His eyes gleamed with renewed purpose. Again, he conjured the celestial blade, its power blooming in a whirlwind of light. The dance of his sword was relentless, each revolution chipping away at the ancient stone, and after what felt like half a candle’s burning, a sliver of darkness, a hairline fracture, appeared within the exposed rock. From this chink, a whisper of power escaped, a force both subtle and commanding.

This was not the essence of Zhou Yi. This held a wild, untamed arrogance.

Wang Lin’s hand flashed with a complex sign, and his celestial sword, now a hungry spirit, hurtled toward the fissure, the curved blade of his own will snapping at its heels. They spun and tore, a whirlwind of celestial steel and indomitable spirit. Stone rained down, revealing a hidden passage, a clandestine vein buried three fathoms deep within the abyss’s embrace.

The opening was meager, barely half a man’s height. Pitch blackness swallowed the eye. Wang Lin, heedless of the warning signs, cast his spiritual senses into the void. Instantly, a tidal wave of raw, untamed consciousness slammed into him, a force so potent it threw him bodily back.

The impact hurled him against the opposite wall of the abyss. The stone cracked and spider-webbed beneath him, his form imprinted in the rock. A crimson tide welled within him, staining the corner of his lips.

With a ragged breath, Wang Lin peeled himself from the stone, his eyes burning with icy resolve. The assault on his spirit had left him weakened, his face ashen. He could feel the echo of the blow still reverberating, threatening to shatter his very soul.

“Such power!” He stared at the hidden entrance, its depths still a mystery. Yet he knew with a certainty that chilled him to the bone: Zhou Yi lay hidden within.

The consciousness that had assaulted him could belong to but one being: the Skyward Marquis.

“A mere echo of his spirit, and it can slay even those who have achieved the Ascendant realm! What heights of cultivation did the Skyward Marquis attain?”

Ascension marked the end of the first stage of cultivation. Only by surviving the trials of Yin and Yang, of Illusion and Reality, could one even hope to tread the path of the second stage: the three realms of Nirvana.

The three realms of Nirvana—Peering Nirvana, Cleansing Nirvana, Shattered Nirvana—each divided into four stages of progress. Skyreach had spoken of himself as standing at the very end of the second stage. That placed him at Shattered Nirvana’s nascent stage. The Skyward Marquis, Skyreach’s ancient foe, could be no less than the Zenith of Cleansing Nirvana.

A spark of fierce determination ignited within Wang Lin. He was a mere speck of dust compared to the Skyward Marquis and Skyreach. He had yet to complete the first step of cultivation. Yet, within his spirit, he felt a fire that could not be quenched. He had carved his path from nothing, from the humblest of beginnings, ascending to the ranks of an Ascendant cultivator.

Though those who had achieved the second step of cultivation looked upon Ascendants as insects, within the first step, to reach Ascension was to become a lord of the land.

Wang Lin inhaled deeply, his fingers tracing a sigil upon his brow. Instantly, the aura of ten thousand slaughters transformed, becoming the mark of life itself, spreading across his skin. Not the full ten thousand, mind you, for Wang Lin had severed the last, drawing it into the core of his very being.

This was his safeguard, the key to eternal rebirth. For the Mark of Life to be vanquished, his opponent had to be capable of obliterating not only his body but the very fragment of the Mark that rested within his soul.

He reached into his satchel, and the Demonic Armor unfolded like a silken shadow, clinging to his form. It pulsed with dark energy, transforming into a formidable shell, ensnaring him in its protective embrace.

A swarm of golden charms, each guarded by a cloud of humming insects, floated around him, adding another layer of defense.

He paused, his brow furrowed in thought. From his satchel, he withdrew the Soul Banner. The dark cloth billowed, forming a shroud of shadow around him, the roars of a billion trapped souls echoing in his wake.

Resolve hardened his features. Wang Lin moved forward, launching himself into the oppressive darkness of the narrow fissure!