Xiaopeng obeyed instantly, braking on a dime. "Father, what's wrong?"
Lin Moyu didn't answer him; he lifted his eyes to the Insect Stele. Xiaopeng followed his gaze—saw the lifelike, countless insect carvings—and then he saw it.
"Someone!"
A person was seated on the stele. Against that colossal monument he was like a mote of dust, infinitesimal—yet the moment Xiaopeng saw him, a chill ran down his spine. He couldn't look away. The stele itself seemed to vanish; that figure became the center of the world.
"A Supreme!" Xiaopeng blurted. At his current level, only a Supreme could make him feel that way. Against ordinary peak-perfection experts, he might lose, but he wouldn't fear. Only a Supreme inspired fear.
Lin Moyu said evenly, "The Jin Supreme of the Antarctic."
He didn't feel what Xiaopeng felt. His soul was so strong that Supremes no longer seemed unfathomable to him; he'd dealt with Supremes before and was past being impressed. The Antarctic's Jin Supreme wore a gold robe—cut the same as other Supremes' robes, only the color differed.
The Jin Supreme turned and met Lin Moyu's eyes. In an instant he loomed vast in Lin Moyu's vision, and an invisible force wrapped around Lin Moyu. Lin didn't resist—he sensed no threat, and his soul gave no warning. Trusting that instinct, he allowed it.
Space seemed to twist; his vision blurred. In the blink of an eye he stood before the Supreme—one step, across a cosmic gulf—now upon the stele itself. Lin Moyu flipped his hand, stowed Xiaopeng, and cupped his fists.
"Lin Moyu of the Central Domain's human race pays respects to Jin Supreme."
His voice was respectful without servility—almost as if speaking to a peer.
"No need for formality. Sit." The Jin Supreme didn't mind such niceties and gestured for Lin to sit. There was no tea table, nothing—just the stele beneath them. He seemed fused to it, inseparable. Lin felt he had sat here for ages.
Remembering Little Tree and Chaos Seed's speculation, a thought rose in Lin's mind: could this Jin Supreme be the Jinri God-Lord of old? If so, how had he escaped Dao's pursuit—and even become a Supreme?
Holding the question, Lin sat and probed gently: "Have you been waiting here… for me?"
He couldn't ask outright; he tested the waters, hoping the man's words or expression would give him something.
"I have waited for the inheritor of the Calamity Supreme's will," the Jin Supreme said. "Is that you?"
"In that case, yes," Lin said. "Are you his enemy or ally?"
"An enemy, not an ally," the Supreme replied, face unreadable.
"Then are you planning to kill me?" Lin asked.
"His game is set. Kill you, and there will be another," the Supreme said. "Besides, I need you to do something. If you succeed, he and I will be neither foes nor friends. If you fail, I will kill you."
Lin said nothing, as if weighing the truth of it. Beneath the Supreme's flat tone, Lin heard a thread of killing intent—real killing intent. This was no joke.
"Do not mistake me for jesting," the Jin Supreme went on. "And do not think I have scruples. I know there are Supremes behind you—more than one. So what? I am here. Do they dare come here?"
"If not for one promise from that 'Calamity brat,' he could never have laid an array here," he added, and for the first time a flicker of emotion crossed his voice. He did not hold the Calamity Supreme in reverence; even that apex among Supremes, in his eyes, was merely so-so. Most telling: he called him "Calamity brat." Supremes normally address each other as peers; for him to speak so could only mean his seniority exceeded the Calamity Supreme's. That wasn't just longevity; it meant they were of different generations.
Lin studied him, hesitated a moment, then tried a single word: "God-Lord?"
The Jin Supreme's aura roiled. A chorus of insect-cry rang through the void, piercing. Lin's soul flashed a warning—danger.
Jin Supreme was indeed Jinri God-Lord. Lin was now certain.
Suppressing the jolt in his heart, Lin held the Supreme's gaze and kept his tone mild. "No need to get worked up. Are you… afraid?"
The Supreme's expression shifted, countless insects seeming to crawl across his eyes. He was a Spirit-Insect Person, half insect, half human; as a Supreme he was the Insect Stele and the swarms' master. If he raged, the whole Antarctic would drown in catastrophe; an insect host could dye the four Poles and three Domains red.
Lin stared back without yielding, no fear at all. A few words shouldn't rattle a Supreme's dao-heart—if it did, that dao-heart would be cheap indeed. His overreaction meant only one thing: he was acting, trying to make Lin think he was easy to handle. Fine—Lin would act with him, all while staying ice-calm. The calmer he was, the less the Supreme could read him—and the more Lin could learn.
After a while, the Jin Supreme calmed. "How did you know?"
"I guessed," Lin said. "I've heard your tale. To live until now and become a Supreme—you are extraordinary."
"You don't know the price I paid," the Supreme said.
"Perhaps," Lin said. "But what you gained was greater. Say it: what do you want from me? And while we're at it—what promise did the Calamity Supreme give you back then?"
"You are worthy of being the inheritor of that 'Calamity brat's' will," the Supreme said. "His power was great, but I did not admire him. I have seen greater than he. What I did admire was his scheming—his will, his control of the board. He said an heir to his will would come here—and that heir would also be my chance."
Then the Jin Supreme spoke of what the Calamity Supreme had done, and what he wanted Lin to do—and Lin finally saw the whole picture.
The Jin Supreme was ancient—survivor of a remote era. Master of the Insect Stele, his strength was no less than the Calamity Supreme's. Without his consent, no array would ever have been set here—much less bound to the stele. But he was shackled.
Back when he was Jinri God-Lord, he slew the Ancient-Wild Progenitor Worm and the Chaos Heaven Worm, fused their bloodlines and corpses, and refined a treasure. Its purpose: using the two as the root, with rare auxiliaries and his own bloodline, to evolve an insect race—to create a lineage and command an unimaginable army that could sweep the Chaos Ancient Wilds. In that era, the conditions existed.
But at the final moment, enemies came and killed him. Dying, he cast his soul, bloodline—everything—into the almost-finished stele and, with his last strength, fled with it. He blacked out. The stele drifted who-knew-how long through unknown void. He was lucky; no one found it. Had a strong one discovered it, they could have refined him, and he would have been finished.
When he awoke, he used soul as flame and blood as primer to complete the refinement. The stele succeeded; he became its master and took form from it. And then he discovered the rules of heaven and earth had changed: a hidden overlord now ruled from the shadows. He was the first to realize Dao existed. He knew his era had ended—the ancient war was over; all had perished. No strong remained; only he, half-ruined, survived.
Perhaps because he had taken form through a treasure, Dao did not notice him. He gave himself the surname Jin and grew stronger through the stele, slaughtering many and folding their bloodlines into it. As he'd designed, the stele evolved and birthed the insect race. He himself became the Jin Supreme.
Later, others discovered Dao as well—and without exception, they died. Dao hid ever in the dark; no one knew what it was doing; none dared pry. Least of all Jinri God-Lord—he kept his head down, terrified of being noticed.
Until the Calamity Supreme discovered Dao. Even then, he didn't strike at once; he laid out a grand plan over endless years. He came to the Antarctic and sought to borrow the stele's power for his array. Naturally, Jin refused—even fought him. On the stele's home ground, Jin edged out a half-win; the Calamity Supreme couldn't help it. But Jin couldn't easily kill him, either.
Then came an offer he couldn't refuse: once the array was complete, in the future an heir to the Calamity Supreme's will would come—someone who could free Jin from the stele.
After becoming a Supreme, Jin's greatest wish was to be rid of the stele. It had made and saved him—but also stole his freedom. The Calamity Supreme wasn't bluffing; he had the then–foremost Quasi-Supreme of Fate divine it—and that Fate Quasi-Supreme would pay a calamity for it. Jin believed. He agreed to let the array be laid.
Ages passed, and at last Lin Moyu arrived. If Lin failed the promise, Jin would kill him—why keep the useless? That was his true thought. He hadn't expected Lin to pierce his identity; for a moment he had panicked—but less than he showed. He was acting, to test whether Lin feared death; fear would give him leverage. But Lin didn't react; all that acting was wasted.
Lin asked, "Did he say how I'm supposed to free you from the stele?"
"He did not," the Supreme said. "Only that his heir would have a way."
"You believed that?" Lin was surprised. Empty words, even with divination—fate changes, and what's a sure thing millions of years hence?
"I did not believe the 'Calamity brat,' I believed the Fate Quasi-Supreme," Jin said. "If anyone could have sensed my identity then, it was him. And the brat's layout was impressive. I wanted to see if he could create a chance… to kill that one."
"Freedom—perhaps true freedom—" he murmured. "There are many kinds of freedom. Leaving the stele is one. But Dao's presence is a blade overhead. Only when Dao falls is there true, great freedom."
That was the result he sought, and why he agreed to the array.
"What I can tell you now," he said, "is this: if you can free me from the stele, whether you know my identity or not, I will spare you. If you cannot, I will still kill you. Only the dead keep secrets."
"Allow me to examine it," Lin said after a moment.
"Do so," the Supreme replied.
He patted the stele. A soft glow rose; the insect-etchings lit one by one and then went dark. The entire stele's aura withdrew as if falling asleep. The void went utterly quiet: no sound, the insects' soul-communications ceased. Even those battling at the front suddenly went still—letting themselves be cut down without resistance. The stele was the swarm's core; when it stopped, all stopped. To control the stele was to control the insects.
"Look," Jin said. "I hope you can see something."
There was subtext in his voice. He had refined the stele; he knew its depths. He didn't believe Lin Moyu could see more than its master.
Lin sent his soul-sense into the stele. Its inner world was unfathomably deep; he'd need time to probe it.
While he explored, he asked, "In all these years, have you asked anyone else for help?"
"They were unworthy to help me," the Supreme said.
Lin's expression twitched. In your state, and they're unworthy? You do think highly of yourself…
Deeper and deeper his soul-sense went—until he suddenly discovered… something.