Energy bursts from the depths of the ancient battlefield, rippling through the fog like a wave of darkness.
Kaelan's head snaps up.
His eyes fix on the mountain peak, where a shadow takes form amid the haze—tall, silent, familiar. Even with the black fog veiling the air, he recognises the presence instantly.
It's him.
The figure moves, and in the blink of an eye, it vanishes from the peak.
A low hum splits the air. Kaelan's instincts flare—he raises his arms, mana surging.
The ground cracks as the figure appears before him, fist already descending.
Kaelan's eyes flash. "Ironstone Body."
His skin darkens to a metallic hue, rippling with dense energy.
The blow lands, echoing like metal striking stone. Dust explodes outward. Kaelan's feet drag backwards, carving twin lines across the bone-littered ground, but he doesn't fall.
He channels his Iron Body magic power, veins glowing faintly through his silvered skin.
The pressure doubles—his muscles harden, every strike that lands against him now rebounds with a dull, ringing sound.
The figure retreats a step, then attacks again, faster this time. Dark energy trails behind every movement, cutting through the air in streaks of shadow.
Kaelan meets him head-on. Their blows crash like thunder. Fist against fist. Knee against knee. Each impact sends ripples of force across the wasteland, scattering bones and sand.
The fog swirls wildly around them, torn apart by their clash.
Kaelan feels the power behind every strike—heavier than before, sharper, more refined—but his body no longer buckles.
The Ironstone Body holds firm, and his Iron Body magic strengthens with every impact.
He drives a counterpunch into the figure's ribs, the metallic sound echoing like a bell.
The figure staggers, slides back through the sand, and vanishes into mist again.
The battlefield falls silent for a breath—then a burst of dark energy surges from behind him.
The fight begins anew.
Kaelan meets the dark figure's charge head-on, fire bursting from his fists as the metallic sheen of his body glows faintly under the flickering fog. This time, his strength surges higher than before.
The advancement of his realm sharpens his control, and each movement flows smoother, heavier, more precise.
Their blows crash again and again—dark against flame, shadow against steel.
Bones explode into dust beneath their feet.
The figure's attacks come fierce and fast, yet Kaelan counters every strike, slipping through the assaults with calm precision.
His flame punches drive the figure back, the heat cutting through the fog like a blade through silk.
Kaelan's advantage shows clearly now—their power close, but his control steadier, his strikes sharper.
Still, as he fights, he moves gradually backwards. Every few steps, his heels slide closer toward the edge of the battlefield.
His eyes never leave his opponent, but his mind stays clear—ready to flee the moment the balance breaks.
Then it happens.
A shadow flickers in the mist to his right. Before Kaelan can react, another figure emerges, dark energy surging from its palm.
The blast hits like a hammer, slamming him sideways. He twists midair, landing in a crouch, and raises his arms just in time to block the first figure's follow-up strike.
The ground cracks beneath his feet.
Pressure mounts—two opponents now, both swift, both brutal. Kaelan grits his teeth, his arms ringing from each clash.
His earlier advantage dissolves under the twin assault, every defence harder than the last.
But he doesn't retreat.
Each hit burns through his limbs, every impact tempering the metallic glow of his body.
He feels his Iron Body magic power sharpening under the strain, every blow refining his control, hardening his flesh and bones like tempered steel.
Pain and growth merge into one rhythm—the rhythm of battle.
Until his spirit sense flares.
Another presence. Stronger. Closer.
Kaelan's eyes narrow, and he catches a glimpse—a third shadow stepping through the fog.
Without hesitation, he releases his control.
Mana erupts from his body in a violent surge, a crimson shockwave blasting outward.
The two figures before him are thrown back, crashing through bone hills.
Kaelan leaps, spirit power flaring around him, lifting him high into the air.
His body twists, feathers replacing flesh, wings bursting wide—each feather burning faintly with flame.
With one thunderous beat of his wings, he cuts through the fog, rising fast into the open sky. The battlefield below shrinks into swirling darkness.
The three figures vanish beneath the haze as Kaelan disappears into the night.
From that moment, his days fall into a relentless rhythm.
At dawn, he returns to the ancient battlefield, sitting cross-legged among the bones and mist, absorbing death energy until his body hums with silent power.
At night, the fog thickens, and the figures come again—two dark silhouettes that rush from the haze like hunting beasts.
Kaelan meets them every time.
Their battles shake the ground, scattering bones and flame through the fog.
He no longer fights to win but to temper himself—to sharpen his Iron Body magic power under the weight of their strikes.
Each night, his body grows harder, his defence thicker, his control deeper.
His mana refines with every blow, every exchange.
When the danger grows too fierce, he withdraws to the Demon City, resting until sunrise, then returns again.
A week passes like that—fighting, refining, advancing.
By the seventh night, his cultivation stands at the very peak of the third realm.
His mana flows smoothly and densely, refined to its utmost limit, trembling at the edge of transformation.
Only one final push remains to cross into the fourth realm.
He plans to make that push tomorrow at the ancient battlefield.
When he returns to the Demon City that evening, a crow waits by his window, its black feathers gleaming faintly under the lamplight.
It drops a sealed letter on his desk before perching silently at the sill.
Kaelan breaks the seal. It's from Wang Xian's mother.
Her words are urgent—she writes that in one week, the hunt for the Crow Demon will begin.
Three ultimate martial art masters and one Core Formation cultivator will lead the assault.
Kaelan leans back, the corner of his mouth curving.
A week later, his strength would be at its peak—his cultivation stable in the fourth realm, his Iron Body magic power perhaps even at great mastery. Everything moves according to his plan.
Then the crow caws.
Kaelan turns, eyes narrowing.
A thin line of tension ripples across his face as the crow speaks through the wisp of mana inside it.
"When Wang Xian's mother left the letter to be collected," the crow says, its voice echoing faintly in his mind, "an old man followed her. He read the letter before placing it back, and then went to the City Lord's mansion."
Kaelan's calm fades into sharp focus.
So the attack won't wait for a week—it will come sooner.
He sets the letter down, a faint smile tugging at his lips, but his eyes gleam coldly. "So they can't wait."
The idea doesn't stir fear—only battle lust. If he can defeat them now, none in this region would dare to touch him again.
He exhales slowly. Tomorrow, after breaking through to the fourth realm, he will not return to the Demon City.
He will go back to his cliff—and wait.
Decision firm, Kaelan closes his eyes.
The faint hum of death energy fills the room as Kaelan resumes refining his mana. His body glows faintly in the dark, power coiling within his core like a storm waiting to erupt.
When he next opens his eyes, the world has shifted—the dense stillness of night thinning, light pressing through the veil of darkness. Dawn.
Kaelan stands, quiet and composed.
Leaving the Demon City behind, he spreads his wings and rises into the clouds, the wind sweeping across his feathers.
The first rays of sunlight touch his back, warm and steady, as he soars eastward toward the ancient battlefield.
He lands at his familiar place, at the foot of the bone mountain, and returns to his human form. Sitting cross-legged, he closes his eyes and begins the next step.
Hundred wisps of mana surge around him, spiralling faster and faster, forming a dark cyclone that pulls in the lingering death energy from the land.
His spirit already stands in the second stage, yet this breakthrough only pushes him to the fourth realm of his primary cultivation path—making the process smooth, effortless.
The cyclone tightens, compressing until the hundred wisps fuse into one brilliant core of mana.
When it forms, the power surges back into him like a flood, tempering his body, refining every inch of his flesh closer to the threshold of the second stage.
The death energy around him responds wildly. It floods into his body unrestrained, forming a second, a third, a fourth wisp of new mana. When the seventh takes shape, the battlefield trembles.
A violent pulse spreads outward—an eruption of force that shakes even the sky. Kaelan opens his eyes.
At the far horizon, a towering funnel of death energy spirals upward, piercing the heavens. Something at its heart is devouring power at an impossible rate.
He narrows his eyes. A treasure born of heaven and earth.
Without hesitation, Kaelan lifts himself into the air with spirit power and flies toward the disturbance.
As he cuts across the desolate plain, others rise too—dark streaks in the air, demons abandoning their meditation to chase the surge.
When Kaelan nears the centre, he sees it.
A withered land turned alive with ghostly light—and at its heart, a lone tree, black as night yet shimmering faintly with deathly brilliance, surrounded on all sides by watching demons.