Chapter 48
And when the pressure reached its peak, Ling Xu's body began to react in the most human way—subtle tremors at his fingertips, a breath that tightened painfully in his chest, and a trembling gaze that betrayed the weight of a leader desperately trying to preserve his dignity.
He knew that if he faltered, even for a heartbeat, they would read his weakness like an open scripture.
So he lifted his head, letting his eyes face forward, as though this world was still not vast enough to bring down a name called Ling Xu.
Yet behind his steadfast posture, clearer calculations began to fill his mind.
He finally understood why the masters always emphasized the distance between one floor and the next in the Foundation of Stars.
It was not merely a rise in energy, but a leap of existence—each level altering the way the soul breathes, altering how the world treats a being's very presence.
He, with two complete crystals within his body, was like a small candle daring to stare into the sun.
Each aura radiating from the Twelfth Level General Stars was already enough to extinguish him completely, let alone the three figures of the Supernatural Stars who now stood as pillars maintaining the balance of the world.
He would not die instantly, but death for him was only a matter of time.
In silence, he could only hope that the power he possessed would be enough to delay fate—long enough for the storm to find its reason to leave.
And amid the thick fog that swallowed the light of lanterns, Ling Xu stood tall, as if defying the laws written long before his birth.
The mist at Xuelan's border seemed to thicken, following the anger growing within his chest, creating an atmosphere where heaven and earth pressed against each other under a tension words could never explain.
In the most suspended silence, the air writhed, as though every particle within it carried vibrations of tension ready to explode the moment someone lost control.
Amid the scent of iron and the freezing wind that cut through skin, there pulsed a faint rhythm of human will—one that refused to bow to reality.
Someone there stood unflinching, facing a cluster of auras that could terrify even the most steadfast of spirits.
Yet beneath that calm, there burned an ember that logic could never extinguish—a primeval conviction that destruction was a fair price to prove existence.
Ling Xu felt that presence without the need to look directly.
He knew that amid the mist and the trembling air, there was something that did not submit to the order of the world.
His mind weighed between the will to survive and the duty to protect.
But the longer he tried to comprehend the flow of spiritual energy, the clearer it became that this storm was not merely a test of power, but a trial of will.
He knew that true fear did not always come from greater strength, but from the awareness that someone nearby was ready to die without hesitation.
In his inner sight, Huan Zheng was that spark of fire—the source of light that threatened to burn all who came too close, even himself.
The arrogance radiating from Huan Zheng's body was not the arrogance of vanity, but a belief forged through a long path of suffering.
His weakening body was no longer a reason to fear—it was a reminder that pain and loss had turned him into a being who no longer knew the boundaries of terror.
His gaze was hollow, yet within it flowed the history of countless inner wars.
With every passing second, the energy around him grew denser, the earth beneath his feet trembling to the rhythm of his wrath.
When the cultivators nearby channeled their aura into the air, Huan Zheng's energy refused to merge, creating a current that pierced through the space itself.
He was a wound that refused to heal—and that wound was what kept him alive.
The world around them still trembled in silence, as if holding its breath before the collision of two wills equally unyielding.
Huan Zheng stood at the eye of that storm, his body a shadow that would not bend to any pressure.
There was something ancient in his eyes, something that had forgotten what submission meant.
Every vein in his body carried the story of long suffering—of fires once extinguished but rekindled by unbearable humiliation.
He looked at the foreign noble not with anger alone, but with disgust born from the belief that no exalted being deserved worship.
In his mind, the heads of nobles—be they from the mortal realm or the heavens—were nothing more than toys he could grasp, break, and cast to the ground without worth.
On the other side, Ling Xu still struggled to steady his thoughts amidst the increasingly chaotic spiritual current.
He understood how fierce Huan Zheng's nature was, how impossible it was to expect submission from someone who had once challenged gods just to prove his existence.
Though he did not know how far that defiance would reach.
Yet logic and tactics tried to bind him within cold calculation, for Ling Xu knew this battle was no longer balanced.
He felt himself caught between two extremes—one representing destruction ready to devour all, and the other, caution that restrained his hand from acting rashly.
Every time he looked at Huan Zheng, something trembled inside him, a mixture of admiration and an unspoken fear.
He knew that such power could never be commanded—it could only be followed, or perished alongside.
Huan Zheng, with all his invisible wounds, stood as a remnant of history refusing to be forgotten.
He was proof that hell itself could be forged into strength, that suffering could transform into the highest form of defiance.
The praises he once received were not pride, but a curse reminding him of every soul he left behind.
He had crossed the abyss where many lost themselves, and now stood as one of the Three Wheels of Cultivation—a position he seized with blood, bone, and repeatedly shattered honor.
To him, apologizing to beings who were nothing but symbols of arrogance was an unforgivable disgrace.
He had done it once, and from the depths of his soul, he swore never to do it again—even if the world forced him to kneel.
The air at Xuelan's border suddenly stirred, marking that the world itself could feel the turmoil blazing within Huan Zheng's chest.
The emotions he had long suppressed now pulsed between his veins and the cold air, pressing against his chest until it nearly burst.
Each breath was a spark seeking escape, each heartbeat a drum of war ready to shake the heavens.
He stood in silence, but everything around him trembled from the intent on the verge of release.
The world seemed to wait for just one of his steps—to turn into calamity.
And amid that rumble, tension reached the point where the line between control and madness nearly disappeared.
To be continued…