Jun Tian descends from the sky with a group of human saints behind him.
They land silently, boots sinking slightly into soft soil as they approach a lonely riverbank under a grey, stagnant sky.
No one speaks.
The air itself feels like a warning.
When they reach the water's edge, each cultivator slices their palm. Drops of golden saint-blood fall into the dark river and ripple outward.
They stand still for a full minute—waiting, tension carved deep into their expressions.
Even as Saints, what comes next holds no guarantee of safety.
Finally, something stirs.
A dinghy, an ancient boat, glides into view—wood blackened with age, ropes frayed like dead veins.
A skeletal figure stands aboard it—bones cracked, half-rotten flesh still clinging stubbornly to certain joints. It rows with a long, warped oar, movements stiff but eerily precise.
The boat reaches the shore and stops.
The skull lifts. A hollow voice rasps out:
"Where do you wish to go…?
*Eternal Garden.
Furnace Hell.
Or the Abyss Staircase.*"
Jun Tian exchanges a single glance with his group.
Decision made.
They leap onto the boat. Despite the number of saints landing, the vessel does not sway—not even a fraction. As if physical laws do not apply to it.
The skeleton resumes rowing.
Ripples spread.
Water shifts.
And then—the river twists into nothingness.
The boat begins to cut not through water, but through space itself.
Because the three destinations are not part of the Battlefield Realm—they are separate realms tethered to it:
Eternal Garden: A sanctuary and battlefield for Saints and Quasi-Supremes—a place where cultivation leaps forward and precious Longevity Stones* can be found.
Furnace Hell:* A realm of craftsman fire, where weapons are forged and refined; a marketplace for those strong enough to trade.
Abyss Staircase: A stone path descending into darkness, where only Quasi-Supremes may tread—the final road toward the Supreme Throne.*
Time slips strangely while they travel.
After days drifting through warped reality, the saints begin to feel heat—subtle at first, then searing.
The world shifts.
Their sight clears.
They now float above a sea of roaring fire.
The boat halts.
They pay the skeleton, each offering a pouch of origin stones.
Then, shielding themselves with protective qi, they step off and rise into the burning sky.
Ahead floats a city—built atop crimson clouds, glowing like molten steel.
They land on the cloud surface and walk.
No one speaks loudly here.
The weakest presence they sense is the Saint realm.
Great Saints walk openly.
Saint Kings move like passing storms.
They move quietly—low-key, cautious—and head toward a massive building lined with saints from countless races.
A long line waits outside.
They join.
Time stretches.
Months pass before they reach the entrance.
Standing at the doorway, Jun Tian places a storage ring on the counter.
Seventy thousand high-grade origin stones—the price of entry.
The gatekeeper nods.
The doors open.
And Jun Tian steps inside.
The gatekeeper nods.
The doors open.
Jun Tian and his group step inside.
The interior is quiet—dim lantern light, incense burning, scrolls and crystal spheres arranged behind reinforced glass. Every item emanates a pressure that reminds them:
This place does not serve the weak.
This is a branch of the Karma Clan.
Once human, but countless generations of transformation, ritual reconstruction, and karmic evolution warped their bodies and souls beyond recognition. They no longer acknowledge the human race—not as kin, not as allies.
They separated long before the Great War.
They survived because they never chose a side.
And because they had three Supremes:
The Time Lord*
The Karma Emperor*
The Spider Empress*
Their supreme weapons—Time Hourglass, Karma Mirror, and Fate Net—when used together, could reveal any being in existence, even a Supreme hiding among time, destiny, or death.
For chasing a Saint?
Just the Karma Mirror was overwhelming.
Jun Tian approaches the counter.
"We seek a person," he says. "Yu Feng."
The clan member—skin like porcelain silk, eyes threaded with glowing karmic lines—does not speak.
They simply extend a hand.
"Payment first."
Jun Tian lowers a ring filled with origin stones.
The figure accepts it and lifts their hand.
A faint glow forms around their fingertips.
Then—Saint Art: Karma Captured.
Golden threads burst from nothingness and swirl, wrapping around the clan member's body like a web—capturing the line of fate tied to Yu Feng.
Their eyes open wider—pupils becoming mirrors.
"Saint Art—Karma Tracing."
Above them, a suspended artefact lowers: a replicated Karma Mirror, revolving clockwise in silent judgment.
It expands—like a pond accepting a storm—and the reflection begins to move.
A scene forms:
A vast desert.
Then a ridge.
Then a cave.
Then a space transfer array.
The Mirror tries to follow further—
—only for the image to shatter like cracked glass.
The light dies.
The room falls still.
Jun Tian frowns.
"What happened?"
The clan member finally speaks.
"To trace further, the price increases tenfold."
Jun Tian's expression tightens.
"Why?"
The response is calm, but its meaning strikes like thunder:
"Because the array leads to a Supreme Dojo."
Shock ripples through the group.
"What?"
A Supreme Dojo—an inheritance ground belonging to one who once reached the pinnacle. A place with weapons, scriptures, and opportunities beyond kingdoms.
Fear flickers across their faces.
Then greed overtakes it.
Yu Feng was originally a threat.
Now he is a key.
If they kill him and seize the dojo—
They won't just remove a future enemy.
They may gain a Supreme foundation.
They end the request there.
Payment is completed.
No more words are exchanged.
They leave the Karma building.
Then the cloud city.
Then Furnace Hell.
And step back through the tapestry of space—
Returning to the Battlefield Realm.
Without pause, they turn skyward and fly toward the desert.
Their expressions are sharp with murderous anticipation.
---
Meanwhile, deep within the Frozen Abyss, Demon Merin reaches a halt.
Here, the temperature can freeze a saint's soul and shatter the Dao foundation of the unprepared. Frozen fierce energy lashes against his body like blades of hatred.
Still, he sits.
Cross-legged.
Calm.
His Dao spills outward.
A massive gaping maw materialises behind him—formed from void, emotion, space, and devouring law—its presence bending the surrounding air.
Slowly, deliberately, the gaping maw continues consuming the freezing energy of the abyss. As the fierce cold enters his Dao, it breaks down—reduced to law, essence, then pure comprehension.
Time becomes meaningless.
Days fade into months.
Months stretch into years.
The maw trembles—ice forming around its edges, frost creeping outward like veins of pale crystal. Finally, from deep within its open jaws, ice gathers, compressing into a single dense point—then releases.
A beam fires forward.
For a single heartbeat, space itself freezes.
Silence.
Then the frost fractures and collapses.
Demon Merin reappears where the maw dissolves—expression calm, but eyes sharper than before.
A Saint Art has been born:
Ice Beam.
He stands still for a long moment, gaze fixed deeper into the abyss.
Should he continue further—or leave?
If he goes deeper, he can refine his body against the extreme cold, tempering it to match the level of his Dao. The process would take time—years, perhaps decades—but the reward would be clear:
His Dao would likely step into the Blooming Stage.
But then another thought crosses his mind.
There is another fierce land.
The Fire Abyss in the south.
If he comprehends the fire fierce energy there, he could refine a counterpart to this Saint Art—and accelerate the next evolution of his Dao far faster than remaining here.
Decision made.
He turns and begins walking back toward the entrance of the frozen world.
He does not disturb Gu Silan. She sits deep in meditation, crimson patterns pulsing beneath the ice. Her awakening continues.
Demon Merin leaves the Frozen Abyss and takes to the sky—flying toward the south.
But mid-flight, he stops.
Three Tao Space Saints streak toward the north—the direction of the Frozen Abyss. Even from a distance, their auras reek of malice, hidden intent barely suppressed.
His expression darkens.
He conceals himself and follows silently.
Their clothes bear familiar markings—the Spiritual Transformation Sect. More specifically, the Zou Clan.
A cold calculation forms instantly.
Silan's exile lasts two decades—only half that has passed. Their presence now is no coincidence.
Either they plan to "correct" the mistake of her survival…
or eliminate her before she becomes a threat.
With her current strength, she can kill them easily.
And if she does, the conflict between her and the Zou Clan will be exposed far too early.
Unacceptable.
Before any of the three senses danger, Demon Merin lifts a hand.
A ripple of demonic aura flows like invisible smoke.
It slips into their bodies without resistance.
Their souls are torn free—silent, instant.
Their physical forms lock in place, frozen mid-flight—then fall apart as if made of brittle glass.
Shattered remnants scatter across the snow below.
The souls dangle helplessly in the air before him, unable to resist.
Their cultivation is too low. Against him, there is no room to react—no chance to struggle.
He closes his grip, binding their souls, and turns away.
He does not kill them.
Their disappearance—no battle marks, no corpses—will only breed confusion.
Good.
Confusion is useful.
Days later, the Spiritual Transformation Sect searches the north and finds nothing—no signs of struggle, no corpses, no trace. Their confusion only deepens.
And while they puzzle over shadows—
Demon Merin steps into the southern realm.
Into the Fire Abyss.
Where flames roar like living beasts and the fierce fire energy threatens to burn heaven itself.
The next evolution begins.