Fang Lin did not enter the next door immediately after returning from the seventh trial.
He sat where the Green Bamboo Alliance had gathered, one hand wrapped in cloth, the other resting lightly on Night Burial Sword. Blood still darkened his sleeve, and the cuts across his neck, thigh, and shoulder made him look as if the previous chamber had taken more from him than he had expected.
That was the appearance he wanted.
The Myriad Halls Plaza had grown quieter than before. The silence was not peace. It was the kind of silence that came when every cultivator was calculating, weighing, fearing, and pretending not to fear.
No plaques announced results anymore. No formation voice praised success or mocked failure. Some cultivators walked out of the doors with pale faces and shaking hands. Some dragged broken weapons. Some returned smiling too calmly. Some did not return at all.
Feng Jiu'er stood near Fang Lin, her green robe edged with faint flame-red patterns that made her look colder rather than softer. Her eyes moved across the plaza once, then settled on him.
"You are going again," she said.
Fang Lin looked at the trial doors. "If I wait too long, others will think I am afraid."
Gu Man, who was sitting not far away with his arms folded, gave a rough laugh. "If anyone thinks that after seeing you walk out covered in blood and still breathing properly, their eyes should be donated to someone useful."
Mo Qingchuan's expression remained mild, but his gaze was sharp. "The danger is not whether they think you are afraid. The danger is whether they think your injuries are real enough to test."
Fang Lin smiled faintly. "Then let them test carefully."
Feng Jiu'er's eyes narrowed a little. "That is not a good answer."
"It is a practical one."
She looked at him for another breath, then said in a lower voice, "Come out alive first. Be practical after that."
Her tone was calm, but the concern behind it had not been fully hidden.
Fang Lin only nodded once, then rose to his feet.
Across the plaza, several eyes turned toward him. Xu Hanjiang noticed. Jian Wuchen noticed. Kong Mingyuan noticed as well, though his prayer beads continued to move between his fingers as if nothing in the world could disturb his righteous heart.
Fang Lin ignored them.
He walked toward one of the countless trial doors.
The door opened before he touched it.
Ancient light swallowed him, and the plaza vanished.
When Fang Lin's feet touched ground again, he stood inside a long battlefield chamber paved with dark bronze tiles. Four rows of broken weapon racks lined the sides, and above them hung tattered banners whose markings had long since faded. The air smelled of old iron, dust, and killing intent that had been sealed for countless years.
At the far end of the chamber stood a figure in black armor.
It was not alive.
It was shaped like a man, but its body was formed from condensed battle mist and old spiritual patterns. Four arms extended from its shoulders, each holding a saber. The sabers were narrow, slightly curved, and covered in dull red markings that looked as if they had drunk blood before they were formed.
The moment Fang Lin looked at it, all four sabers moved.
There was no warning.
The first saber came for his throat, the second for his right wrist, the third for his knee, and the fourth cut toward his waist from an angle that blocked retreat.
Fang Lin's eyes became steady.
Nine Nether Phantom Body activated within him, and his flesh, bones, and meridians tightened like a bow drawn beneath the skin. At the same time, Nine Abyss Shadow Scripture circulated through his body in a thin, restrained current, darkening his aura without letting it spread beyond the battlefield chamber.
He did not reveal everything.
Not yet.
Night Burial Sword met the first saber with a heavy clang. Fang Lin shifted half a step, letting the second saber pass along his sleeve while his knee struck the flat of the third blade. The fourth saber cut across his side, tearing cloth and leaving a shallow wound, but Fang Lin had already stepped inside the saber spirit's reach.
His shoulder slammed into the armor.
The saber spirit slid back only three feet.
Fang Lin's gaze sharpened.
The seventh trial creature had relied on speed and airspace. This one was different. Its footing was deep, its saber rhythm was layered, and every strike guarded the next. It did not waste movement. It did not show anger. It did not retreat like a living cultivator trying to protect pride.
It existed only to kill.
The four sabers moved again.
Fang Lin used Flowing Wind Steps, his body gliding between two saber lights. The movement technique was public enough, clean enough, and useful enough. His robe snapped behind him as he crossed the saber spirit's left side, Night Burial Sword cutting toward the joint beneath one arm.
The saber spirit turned its wrist.
One saber blocked Night Burial Sword. Another stabbed toward Fang Lin's abdomen. The third saber cut upward toward his chin, while the fourth slashed across the ground, forcing his feet to shift.
Fang Lin's attack failed.
A red line opened across his forearm.
He moved back three steps, but the saber spirit followed faster than expected. Its four sabers became a net of cold metal. Each blade came from a different angle, and each angle seemed to know where Fang Lin would move before he moved.
A cut appeared on his shoulder.
Another on his thigh.
The third saber nearly pierced his ribs before Fang Lin caught its path with Night Burial Sword and pushed it aside by force.
The impact made his wrist numb.
Fang Lin's expression did not change, but the battle spirit's danger had already risen in his heart.
This thing could read rhythm.
Not thoughts. Not intention. Rhythm.
It watched feet, shoulders, breath, sword angle, and the first tremor of muscle before movement. Against ordinary cultivators, this alone would be enough to carve them apart before they understood why they were dying.
Fang Lin stopped retreating.
He employed Black Mountain Suppression Art, letting heavy pressure sink into his stance instead of spreading outward. The bronze tiles beneath his feet cracked slightly. The saber spirit's next step slowed by a fraction, so small that most cultivators would not have noticed it.
Fang Lin noticed.
Night Burial Sword struck forward.
The saber spirit blocked with two blades. Fang Lin's left hand shot out and grabbed the back of one saber with bare fingers. The edge cut into his palm, but his grip did not loosen. His body force surged through his arm, and he dragged the saber spirit half a step off its perfect line.
That half step was enough.
His knee struck the saber spirit's lower armor.
A crack appeared.
The saber spirit's other three blades descended at once. Fang Lin released the caught saber and twisted sideways. One blade cut across his back. Another sliced through the cloth near his ribs. The third missed his neck by less than an inch.
Blood splashed onto the bronze floor.
Fang Lin's eyes became colder.
The saber spirit pressed forward without pause. Four blades cut, stabbed, hooked, and swept. It did not give him room to breathe, and each exchange became heavier than the last. Fang Lin's wounds increased, but his gaze grew clearer instead of cloudier.
He was learning its rhythm.
The saber spirit could read movement.
Then Fang Lin stopped giving it movement worth reading.
His breathing changed.
His feet became heavier. His shoulders stopped revealing direction. His sword no longer chased openings. Instead, he let the saber spirit attack, and each time the four blades arrived, Fang Lin used the smallest possible shift to survive. A tilt of the wrist. A half-turn of the heel. A shoulder drop. A sword angle changed at the final instant.
The saber spirit's blades still cut him.
But the wounds became shallower.
One saber scraped across his collarbone. Another opened the back of his hand. A third tore his sleeve from elbow to wrist. Fang Lin endured all of it, his expression silent, his eyes fixed on the hidden pause between the spirit's second and third blade.
There.
The next exchange came like a storm.
Fang Lin stepped in.
Not back.
Not aside.
In.
The first saber cut across his shoulder. The second stabbed toward his heart. Fang Lin twisted just enough for it to pierce through the outer flesh below his chest instead. At the same time, Night Burial Sword pressed down on the third saber, and his left elbow smashed into the fourth arm before it completed its arc.
The saber spirit's formation broke for one breath.
Fang Lin took that breath.
Black Mountain Descent was executed through his body force, not spread in a grand display, but crushed into a single point beneath his step. The bronze floor sank. The saber spirit's stance dipped.
Night Burial Sword cut across its right shoulder.
One arm flew away, saber and all.
The severed arm dissolved into black mist before it touched the ground.
The saber spirit did not cry out. It did not hesitate. The remaining three sabers changed rhythm immediately, becoming faster and more vicious.
Fang Lin's lips curved slightly.
"So you can adjust."
The saber spirit lunged.
Fang Lin met it head-on.
His sword collided with one saber. His shoulder blocked the second arm before the blade fully extended. The third saber pierced toward his throat, but Fang Lin's head shifted aside, and the blade cut open a line across his cheek instead.
His left palm landed on the saber spirit's chest.
Black Mountain Breaking Palm was executed at close range.
The palm force did not explode outward. It drove inward.
The saber spirit's chest armor caved in with a dull boom. Cracks spread across its torso, but it still swung two sabers toward Fang Lin's neck.
Fang Lin lowered his body and passed beneath the strike.
Night Burial Sword rose.
A second arm was severed.
The chamber trembled.
The saber spirit retreated for the first time. Its remaining two arms crossed in front of its chest, and the red markings on its sabers brightened. Old battle mist gathered around its body, forming faint images of soldiers behind it. Those figures had no faces, but each carried a saber, and each raised its weapon in the same instant.
Fang Lin felt the pressure sharpen.
This was not an ordinary attack.
He did not wait politely.
His foot struck the ground, and his body shot forward before the saber images fully formed. Nine Nether Phantom Body drove his flesh and bones beyond ordinary Spirit Foundation limits, while Nine Abyss Shadow Scripture made his movement darker, stranger, and harder to follow.
The saber spirit slashed.
Dozens of saber shadows fell.
Fang Lin moved through them.
One cut opened his left shoulder deeply. Another slashed across his waist. A third struck his thigh and nearly forced his leg to buckle. He ignored them all. His eyes were fixed on the true body beneath the saber shadows.
Night Burial Sword thrust forward.
The saber spirit crossed both blades to block.
Fang Lin released the sword with his right hand.
For one instant, Night Burial Sword remained pressed against the crossed sabers. Fang Lin's body slipped closer, his left fist closing, all the pressure from his stance gathering into one brutal strike.
Black Mountain Guard held his frame steady against the saber storm.
Then his fist landed.
The saber spirit's chest shattered.
The crossed sabers flew apart.
Fang Lin caught Night Burial Sword again before it fell, turned his wrist, and drove the black blade through the saber spirit's throat.
The chamber went still.
The faceless saber images behind the spirit froze, then scattered like smoke in wind.
The saber spirit's body cracked from throat to chest. The remaining arms lowered slowly, and the two sabers slipped from its hands. Before they struck the ground, both weapons dissolved into mist, leaving no spoil behind.
Fang Lin pulled Night Burial Sword free.
The saber spirit collapsed into black fragments.
For several breaths, Fang Lin stood alone in the bronze chamber, blood dripping from his cheek, shoulder, palm, waist, and thigh. His breathing was heavier than before. This battle had not forced him to reveal his true depth, but it had forced him to sharpen his control.
The eighth trial had been different.
Not stronger only in force.
Stronger in skill.
Ancient light descended from above.
A small black jade box appeared in front of him. Inside lay two sealed vials filled with dark liquid as still as night. The liquid did not ripple even when the box settled into Fang Lin's palm. A faint medicinal scent entered his nose, cold, heavy, and clean.
Silent Meridian Black Dew.
Fang Lin did not study it for long. He stored the jade box away, then looked down at his wounds.
Some were deeper than he had intended.
That was acceptable.
He suppressed the recovery that wanted to stir beneath his skin and let his aura become rougher. A few wounds he kept bleeding. A few he sealed just enough to stop them from affecting his walk. His face became slightly pale, and his grip on Night Burial Sword loosened by a believable amount.
Only then did the trial door appear.
Fang Lin stepped out.
Myriad Halls Plaza returned around him.
No announcement sounded.
No plaque lit up.
The cultivators nearby saw him walk out with blood across half his robe and a cut along his cheek that had not been there before. A few eyes changed, but no one spoke loudly. At this stage, speaking too quickly was the habit of fools.
Fang Lin walked back to the Green Bamboo Alliance side.
Feng Jiu'er's gaze landed on his waist wound first, then moved to his shoulder. Her expression stayed calm, but the air around her seemed to warm slightly.
"That one was worse," she said.
Fang Lin sat down slowly. "A little sharper."
Gu Man stared at him for a moment, then looked at the door behind him. "If that is your answer after bleeding from six places, I should thank the heavens I did not ask for details."
Mo Qingchuan's brows tightened. "Your aura is unstable."
"It will settle."
Feng Jiu'er looked at him. "Make it settle before you stand again."
Fang Lin met her gaze and nodded. "I will."
This time, he did not add anything else.
He closed his eyes and adjusted his breathing. Around him, the Myriad Halls Plaza remained crowded, ancient, and quiet. The trial doors stood in every direction, and behind each door waited something different.
Inside his storage treasure, the two vials of Silent Meridian Black Dew rested silently beside the rewards from the sixth and seventh trials.
The eighth trial had fallen.
Outside, no one knew.
Fang Lin let that ignorance remain.
Item Note
Silent Meridian Black Dew: A high-quality Spirit Foundation medicinal treasure from Myriad Halls Plaza. It nourishes and toughens meridians, helps recover from pressure-heavy combat strain, and is especially useful for cultivators who endure violent internal force collisions. Estimated value: 4,500 low-grade spirit stones per vial. Fang Lin obtained two vials.