You ever stand somewhere and feel like the air itself has a grudge against you?
That was the cellar.
The gravity down there wasn't just "heavy." It was vindictive. It pressed into Xiao Yan's shoulders, slid beneath his skin, and then—almost politely—started scraping at his spirit like a whetstone against bone. Not painful at first. Just… invasive. Like it was testing him.
Wei Mo didn't seem amused.
He stepped farther into the chamber, green claymore dragging faint sparks across the basalt floor. Toxic light oozed off the blade like swamp gas on a summer night. His aura flared—Divine Stage 9, loud and showy—and pushed back against the pressure in visible ripples.
"I told you to leave," Wei Mo barked, though the strain in his voice betrayed him. "Ranked fourth in this Gate. Remember that. You? You're a Mortal fluke who wandered too far from his pasture."
There it was. The farm joke. Again.
Xiao Yan didn't respond.
He couldn't—not really. His focus had tunneled inward. The so-called calm lake of his spirit sea? Gone. It was a kettle left screaming on the stove, lid rattling, steam clawing for escape. The Heaven-Pulse Thunder Veins along his arms glowed violet, not soft or decorative, but furious. Almost offended.
[The pressure from the World Anchor is optimal,] Michael murmured inside his head. Calm voice. Annoyingly calm. [You've been holding your breakthrough back to maintain the "harmless" image. Admirable strategy. However, if you don't ascend now, Wei Mo's toxin will seep into your marrow. Pretending has limits.]
Pretending.
Yeah. That word stung a little.
"Yanlin," Xiao Yan said quietly.
His voice didn't sound like his own. It carried a metallic undertone, like steel humming in winter air.
"Yeah? I've got your back—"
"Close your eyes."
A pause. "What?"
"Now."
Yanlin saw it then—the golden swirl blooming in Xiao Yan's pupils, the Judgment Codex Eye flickering awake like some ancient sun. He didn't argue again. Didn't crack a joke. He retreated behind his Earthbreaker Shield and braced, jaw tight.
Smart man.
Xiao Yan exhaled.
And let go.
He stopped resisting the gravity. Instead, he inhaled it. Drew the crushing weight inward, layer by layer, until it collapsed toward the spinning core at his chest—the Primordial Soul Core—now rotating so fast it blurred.
There's a sound a dam makes before it breaks. A low groan. A surrender.
CRACK.
The barrier between Mortal and Divine didn't politely dissolve. It shattered like cheap glass in a bar fight.
Violet thunder erupted upward, colliding with white frost in a violent column that slammed into the cellar ceiling. The basalt fractured. The moss froze mid-glow.
Wei Mo and his cronies didn't stand a chance. The shockwave hit them like a freight train. Their toxic aura guttered out—snuffed, honestly—like birthday candles in a hurricane.
Wei Mo smashed into the far wall and slid down, coughing black blood. He stared, stunned. "That's—no. He was Mortal. I checked. His aura was trash-tier."
Xiao Yan stood at the epicenter.
He felt… different. Taller, maybe. Not physically—though it felt that way—but internally. Sharper. Like someone had wiped dust off his senses. The world came into focus with unsettling clarity.
[Promotion confirmed: Divine Realm — Stage 1.]
But the surge didn't stop there.
The cellar was cold. Damp. Ancient.
And something inside him answered.
The Frozen Origin Physique—buried since the fall of the Nansha Empire, hidden like an embarrassing heirloom—stirred.
Not violently.
Just enough.
Wei Mo staggered upright, clutching his claymore. "You think one breakthrough changes anything? You're still beneath—"
"You wanted talent?" Xiao Yan interrupted softly.
He didn't reach for the Sword of Heaven and Earth this time.
Instead, he slipped his fingers into the air near his ribs and drew something out.
The temperature plummeted.
I don't mean "it got chilly." I mean breath crystallized mid-exhale. Moss froze solid in a blink. Sound itself seemed to dull, like the world wrapped in wool.
In his hand formed a slender, flexible blade—white, translucent, almost delicate. It shimmered as though carved from a glacier's spine.
The Sword of Ice.
Wei Mo's arrogance cracked. "Wait—hold on. We're disciples of the same Gate. Killing is—there are rules—"
"I'm not killing you," Xiao Yan said.
His voice carried no heat.
"I'm just making sure you never walk into my room again."
Then he moved.
And this time, he wasn't heavy.
With the Ice Sword, he was wind across a frozen lake. Quick. Silent. Untraceable.
Flash.
A disciple dropped, leg encased in Divine Frost.
Flash.
Another, arms sealed in crystalline ice so pure it refracted the cellar's dim glow.
Flash.
Wei Mo roared and swung his claymore in a wide, desperate arc. Toxic light howled through the chamber.
Xiao Yan flicked his wrist.
The soft blade wrapped around the claymore like a ribbon caught in a storm, coiled once—tight—and snapped the weapon into three frozen fragments. They clattered uselessly to the floor.
Silence.
Xiao Yan appeared behind Wei Mo, Ice Sword resting gently at his jugular.
"You talk about rank like it's oxygen," Xiao Yan murmured. "But down here? Strength decides who breathes."
Wei Mo swallowed. Hard.
"The 32nd Gate belongs to the strong," Xiao Yan added. "And today, you're at the bottom."
High above, tucked into a crack in the masonry, a silver frost-bird watched.
Through its eyes, Yan Bingxue saw everything.
The thunderous ascent. The ice manifestation. The way Xiao Yan shifted from crushing gravity to slicing winter without hesitation. Seamless. Controlled. Terrifying.
In the Immortal Hall, her breath caught.
"Triple cultivation…" she whispered.
Thunder. Ice. And that strange, sovereign heaviness.
She stood slowly, fingers curling into her sleeves.
If the elders discovered the Frozen Origin Physique—an ability whispered about in the lost Ice Dragon bloodlines—they wouldn't congratulate him.
They'd dissect him.
Curiosity has teeth in places like this.
Back in the cellar, the gravity eased as the World Anchor stabilized. The oppressive weight withdrew, like a predator deciding the hunt was over.
Xiao Yan let the Ice Sword dissolve. It melted back into his veins, leaving a faint chill beneath his skin.
Somewhere deep inside, the Azure Dragon Emperor rumbled in approval—low, satisfied—before drifting back into sleep.
Yanlin lowered his shield.
He stared at the frozen Top Ten disciples scattered across the chamber. Then at Xiao Yan, who calmly brushed frost off his sleeve like he'd just finished light stretching.
"Boss," Yanlin said slowly, awe bleeding into his tone. "You're Divine Stage now. And that sword… I've trained my whole life, and I've never seen anything like it."
Xiao Yan offered a small shrug.
"It's just a tool."
A lie. But a necessary one.
"Let's keep this quiet," he added. "I'd rather the 31st Gate still thinks I'm some lucky Mortal who tripped into a breakthrough."
Yanlin laughed once. Nervous. "Yeah. Sure. 'Lucky.' That's one word for it."
Xiao Yan glanced at his own hand.
He hadn't even drawn deeply on his roots. Not fully. Not recklessly.
And yet—
For the first time since the empire fell, since thrones burned and bloodlines scattered, he didn't feel like he was scrambling to survive.
He felt… in control.
Like the lock had finally turned.
And somewhere far below the 32nd Gate, beneath stone and frost and history, something ancient shifted—aware now.
Watching.
To be continued.