“The Sword Spirit’s Seal…” Lord Ling Tian, clad in a Taoist robe, lifted his gaze, his eyes filled with an unfathomable depth.

“This old one sealed the Sword Spirit in a place of utmost secrecy. How could it be discovered? Yet, if the Sword Spirit harbors a death wish, the seal remains unbreakable.” Ling Tian Hou mused, then closed his eyes, seemingly satisfied.

Within the abyssal Tides of Despair, in the fissure that imprisoned Zhou Yi, Wang Lin stood amidst a whirlwind. His robes snapped and billowed, long hair flying about his face, his eyes glinting with icy resolve. He staggered backward, taking several hasty steps.

His previous assault had dissolved Ling Tian Hou’s third wave of divine will, but at a steep price. The Thunder Beast had dissipated, its essence retreating into the God-Slaying Chariot.

However, Wang Lin had managed to tear a momentary rift in Ling Tian Hou’s formidable divine presence. A fleeting gap, already shrinking, threatening to vanish entirely.

Wang Lin’s Qi and blood surged within him, several meridians constricted, hampering the flow of his Celestial Power. He drew a deep breath, foregoing immediate restoration. Instead, he stamped his foot upon the ground, and like a shooting star, he plunged through the weakening breach in Ling Tian Hou’s spiritual barrier, heading into the abyss.

He unleashed his full speed, a sonic boom chasing after him!

The fissure proved to be less extensive than he anticipated. With that single thrust, Wang Lin burst into the cavern’s heart. In this place, the essence of Zhou Yi emanated, a faint aura of power.

“Intruder, die!” Ling Tian Hou’s divine will descended once more, this time a voice of overwhelming dominance reverberating in Wang Lin’s very soul, forcing him back.

The entire fissure groaned and cracked under the strain of the descending will. Spiderwebs of fissures spread along the damp cavern walls.

Wang Lin’s nascent soul reeled under the impact, its glow dimming, a mouthful of blood spurting from his lips, leaving him pale.

“Ling Tian Hou is far too powerful!” Wang Lin gasped. If a mere fragment of his spirit, left to guard Zhou Yi, possessed such might, what would be his true form in this place?

A flicker of decision crossed Wang Lin’s eyes. He reached into his pouch, withdrawing a crystalline brush. Holding the Celestial Brush, he swiftly inscribed upon the air, a single stroke of pure gold.

As the sigil shimmered into existence, the darkness of the cavern briefly gave way.

Wang Lin did not hesitate. Again and again, his hand moved. A second, third, fourth, until seven strokes shone.

This marked the first time Wang Lin had layered sigils with the Celestial Brush. Before, he had only inscribed single strokes to attract insects. While he created dozens of marks, each one was a simple line.

With each stroke, Wang Lin could feel a part of his nascent soul flowing through the brush, coalescing into the sigil. Seven strokes, seven fragments of his soul.

Seven was his limit. Since he’d obtained the brush within the Soul Refining Tribe, he had attempted to exceed it. He could not execute the eighth, for his soul could not be divided into nine pieces.

One portion resided within his flesh. Seven flowed into the sigils. No further separation was possible, unless he relinquished his mortal coil, and merged his soul wholly into the glyphs. Only then could the eighth appear.

As the seventh stroke finished, the Celestial Power within him erupted like a dam giving way, surging into the seven sigils.

The seven strokes merged into a single, circular sigil. Its form defied simple description, as if the cosmos itself were contained within its strokes. Its appearance was akin to the sun falling from the sky, descending into the fissure. Rays of golden light, not merely blinding, but searing to the soul.

A Celestial Brush, combined with arcane words. These seven strokes were wholly the work of Immortals! Its light pierced the wall of the abyss, cutting through the darkness like countless blades.

From outside the fissure, the golden light was clearly visible, emanating from deep within the cavern. Gradually, it spread, illuminating the perpetual gloom that had shrouded the Tides of Despair within Water Sprite County for millennia.

The seven strokes contained seven slivers of Wang Lin’s consciousness, granting him control of the sigil as if it were an extension of his very self. He sent it drifting deeper into the fissure.

The golden light of the sigil seemed to erode Ling Tian Hou’s divine will. Yet, the dissolution faltered. Ling Tian Hou’s will roared in defiance, coalescing into a humanoid form: a mirror of Ling Tian Hou himself.

The Taoist robed figure fixed his gaze, filled with tyrannical intent. With each step, his form wavered, until he transformed into a single, searing beam of sword Qi, heading toward the sigil.

The clash of sigil and sword Qi reverberated with such force, that the entire Tides of Despair seemed to quiver and convulse. Cracks spread everywhere, and countless stalactites collapsed. This shockwave was so powerful that the entire Water Sprite County shuddered, unsettling its countless demons and spirits.

Wang Lin reeled, expelling six mouthfuls of blood. The blood was infused with Celestial Power, scorching the earth on which it fell.

The sigil shattered, six of the seven soul fragments disintegrated. The last fragment fled into Wang Lin’s body.

The sword Qi, forged by Ling Tian Hou, dimmed, but its lethal edge remained. Despite its impending collapse, the sigil, being a true power of immortals, unleashed myriad golden sparks, thoroughly engulfing the sword Qi, forming a cage of light.

While it would not hold the sword Qi for long, it would allow Wang Lin a brief respite!

A damaged soul was a grievous wound to a cultivator!

Wang Lin’s eyes blazed red with the lust for battle. He had come too far to retreat now. He surged forward, past the trapped divine will, deeper into the fissure!

One step brought him closer!

Before him, hovering in the air, pulsed a violet form. It was Zhou Yi!

Zhou Yi’s eyes were closed, his face an expression of distant confusion. His entire body, except for his brow, was suffused with purple. This aura seemed to writhe across his flesh, crawling like strands of violet silk, attempting to devour the golden light at the center of his brow.
Beneath Zhou Yi, inscribed upon the very earth, pulsed a grand array, thrice a man’s height in reach. Wisps of violet vapor coiled from its etched lines, coalescing into shimmering runes that dissolved into Zhou Yi’s form.

At each cardinal point – east, south, west, and north – stood a celestial blade, their hilts plunged deep within the soil. Tendrils of raw lightning crackled from their tempered steel, sinking into the earth like hungry roots.

Above three of these dread swords, orbs of pure light, each the size of a clenched fist, hovered in silent majesty. From these incandescent spheres emanated a vast and ancient will, a godlike presence that chilled the very air.

“Zhou Yi, old friend,” Wang Lin murmured, his heart heavy with the passage of years. He beheld Zhou Yi once more, but now the elder was wreathed in suffocating violet miasma. Should the golden light at the heart of his brow flicker and die, he would be utterly consumed, a mere puppet in the hands of Ling Tianhou, forever devoid of his own will.

This prison, this artifice designed to both seal and devour Zhou Yi, was the creation of Ling Tianhou himself. He called it the Great Immortal-Subjugating, Demon-Shaping Array. While formidable in its own right, its true power lay rooted in the four swords that anchored its corners.

Ling Tianhou had long ago forged these swords, infusing them with the essence of four minor realms. The blades standing sentinel here were but projections of those primordial weapons. To further amplify their potency, Ling Tianhou had fractured his own divine spirit, imbuing each with a fragment of his being.

The violet miasma that swirled within the array was no ordinary power, but a taint of raw, untamed demon energy, drawn from the withered husk of an ancient demon lord residing within the Water Demon Prefecture.

It was no accident that Ling Tianhou had spirited Zhou Yi away to this desolate corner of the Demon Spirit Land so many years ago. He had long ago bargained with the shade of the Water Demon, striking a delicate and unholy accord.

This hidden rift opened upon a ley line, a vein of arcane power buried deep beneath the surface, directly linked to the Ancient Demon Shrine within the Water Demon Prefecture’s capital. Through this conduit, the demon’s withered essence flowed unceasingly, its foul aura channeled into the array, corrupting Zhou Yi’s spirit with each passing moment.

Ling Tianhou and the ancient demon lord of the Water Demon Prefecture had forged a pact, sealed when Zhou Yi was imprisoned within this forsaken place.

The nine Prefectures of the Demon Spirit Land held within them the lingering echoes of ancient demon gods, each with its own sinister design. The demon lord of the Water Demon Prefecture craved a vessel, a spiritual body capable of withstanding its corrupting power, allowing it to once again walk the mortal realm. The process was slow, agonizingly so, but its progress was inevitable.

Should the golden light within Zhou Yi’s brow be consumed, he would become the demon lord’s perfect host.

Ling Tianhou’s actions were not born of foresight, but of desperation. Zhou Yi, relentless in his pursuit from the Celestial Realm, had proven a formidable foe. He had been forcibly elevated to a spirit of the Celestial Rain Sword by the white-clad corpse, granting him immense power. Moreover, Ling Tianhou was weakened by the mark of the corpse’s Celestial Finger, a wound that festered and refused to heal. Their confrontations had been frequent and brutal, leaving Ling Tianhou battered and humiliated.

In Ling Tianhou’s eyes, the sword spirit was desperate for oblivion, recklessly expending his limited essence. For the Rain Sword was the greatest treasure of the Rain Celestial Realm. Ling Tianhou, though he possessed a fragment of its power, dared not draw it in Zhou Yi’s presence, knowing the spirit would instantly command it.

Ling Tianhou, though mighty, was crippled by the celestial finger. The mark was too potent, its reputation too fearsome. He could surmise, after careful consideration, that this celestial art was beyond the grasp of a mere celestial lord, but could only be wielded by a celestial emperor!

That single touch had wounded him. Coupled with Zhou Yi’s relentless onslaught, his willingness to sacrifice himself to unleash the sword’s essence, Ling Tianhou had been driven to the brink.

But Ling Tianhou’s strength was undeniable. He was merely pushed to his limit, and in time, he had lured Zhou Yi into the Demon Spirit Land, exploiting its unique properties to finally capture him and forge the pact with the Water Demon Lord.

A stroke of fortune, it seemed. But what Ling Tianhou could not have foreseen was the arrival of Wang Lin, centuries later, to unravel it all.

Within the rift, Wang Lin gazed upon Zhou Yi trapped within the array. An aura of death clung to the elder, a reflection of the emptiness that had consumed his heart when Ting’er was lost.