The white light of the ejection law did not feel like a teleportation; it felt like the world was being torn away from beneath Fang Lin's feet.
Through the shimmering distortion of space, he saw the Myriad Halls Plaza begin to fold. He saw Feng Jiu'er turn, her face pale, her hand reaching out as if to grab a ghost. He saw the shock in Su Wanqing's eyes and the grim, wordless nod of Gu Man. For a fraction of a second, the black flame marks on their foreheads flared with a blinding brilliance, and then—
Silence.
The spatial pull that had been clawing at Fang Lin's own mark suddenly snapped. It didn't fade; it was severed by a weightless, invisible blade.
Fang Lin stumbled. The sudden return of gravity sent a jolt of pain through his shoulder, reopening the jagged wound left by the imitation Night Horn Battle Race. He caught himself on one knee, his breath coming in ragged hitches. When he looked up, the plaza was empty.
He sat down again, and since none of them were here, he started circulating the Nether Life Spirit Qi in full speed and in just an incense stick worth of time, his body healed.
The hundreds of geniuses, the thousands of trial doors, the noise of greed and ambition—all of it had been swept out like dust from a tomb.
He was alone in the bone-white expanse.
"The spatial laws of this place are not fond of those who overstay their welcome," a voice remarked quietly.
Fang Lin didn't reach for his sword. He recognized the tone—ancient, dry, and carryings the weight of a mountain. He slowly stood, ignoring the blood trickling down his collar, and turned to face the elderly man in grey robes.
The mansion spirit stood thirty paces away. He looked unremarkable, like an old scholar who had spent too many years among dusty scrolls, yet the air around him didn't ripple; it submitted.
Fang Lin bowed his head slightly. It was not the bow of a servant, but the bow of a junior recognizing a senior who had just granted him a life-changing opportunity. If this mysterious spirit had truly held him back to correct his path, it was a kindness that outweighed any spirit stone.
"Junior Fang Lin greets Senior," Fang Lin bowed slightly and said, his voice gravelly. "Thank you for the stay."
The old man's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. "Do not thank me yet, little fellow. Staying behind is a choice to walk into a furnace. Your foundation is a mess of crooked wood and stolen bridges. You have used the modified Dew to build a house, but you forgot that a house built on a lie will eventually crush the owner."
He walked forward, his footsteps silent on the ancient stone.
"The complete scripture is in your hand. But knowledge is not power; it is merely the blueprint. To fix the root, you must first have the courage to break what you have already built."
Fang Lin looked down at the black jade scripture in his palm. It felt cold—colder than the void he had just glimpsed. He knew the old man was right. Every time he circulated his Qi, he felt a faint, nagging ache—the "crookedness" of the incomplete path. If he tried to force a breakthrough to the Middle Spirit Foundation now, that ache would become a fracture.
"I understand," Fang Lin said, his expression hardening into a mask of cold determination. "If the wood is crooked, I will burn it and forge it anew."
The old man smiled, though it was more of a baring of teeth. "Then sit. The Nine Abyss Shadow Scripture will be your furnace. The complete Dew will be your fuel. And your soul… your soul must be the hammer that beats the impurities out of your very marrow."
Fang Lin was not astonished that the old spirit knew about the Nine Abyss Shadow Scripture. He sat cross-legged in the center of the silent plaza.
He didn't hesitate. He pressed his divine sense into the black jade. Immediately, the true formulas for the Dew of Ten Thousand Shadows flooded his consciousness.
Volume 1: Dark Bud,
Volume 2: Midnight Lotus,
Volume 3: Twilight Lotus,
Volume 4: Eternal Night Lotus.
They appeared like constellations of obsidian, weaving a path so complex it made his previous cultivation feel like a child's drawing.
*Circulate.*
He activated the *Nine Abyss Shadow Scripture*. The abyssal current rose from his spiritual sea, heavy and cold, coating the inside of his meridians like a layer of protective frost. This was the furnace—an environment of absolute darkness that could contain the volatile transformation of the Dew.
Then, he reached into his foundation and touched the Dark Bud.
The reaction was a scream of agony that didn't leave his lips, but echoed through every cell in his body.
The hundred Shadow Dewdrops he had condensed through the modified method revolted. They were being forced into channels they weren't designed for, being compressed by formulas that demanded a purity they didn't possess.
*Break it.*
Fang Lin's determination was a cold, unrelenting force. He didn't coax the power; he crushed it. Using the Nine Abyss current as a vice, he began to dismantle his own cultivation.
The pain was visceral.
It felt as if a thousand needles of white-hot iron were being dragged through his meridians. The "crooked" lines of his modified path began to crack and dissolve, releasing bursts of raw, unstable darkness that lashed at his internal organs. Sweat poured off him, mixing with the dried blood on his robes until he was soaked in a dark, metallic sheen.
"Ghh…"
His jaw locked so tight his gums began to bleed. His left arm spasmed, the nerves screaming as the new, true circulation path forced its way through. It was the pain of a bone being broken and reset, repeated a hundred times over.
His Late Stage Solid Soul State was the only thing keeping him from slipping into the darkness of unconsciousness. He watched his internal world with the detachment of a master smith watching a blade in the coals. He saw the old, modified structures collapse into mist, and he saw his meridians swell and groan under the terrifying pressure of the complete art.
Then, he began the re-forging.
Drawing upon the knowledge from the complete scripture, he guided the dissolved darkness into new channels. These channels were deeper, narrower, and etched with the weight of the Eternal Night. They didn't just store power; they refined it, compressing the darkness until the Shadow Dewdrops that began to re-form were no longer liquid.
They were like tiny, polished pearls of obsidian, each one carrying a density that made his meridians ache with a different, more solid kind of pressure.
One hour. Three hours.
The plaza remained silent, but the air around Fang Lin was a churning vortex of shadows. Blood trickled down his chest, wounds opened all over his body, but he didn't move. He didn't breathe. He simply drove the power forward with a savage focus that ignored everything but the true path.
Ten Dewdrops. Fifty. Eighty.
With each one, the pressure increased. His foundation was being stretched beyond its limits, forced to accommodate a quality of energy it was never meant to hold at the Early Spirit Foundation stage.
*Endure.*
Finally, the hundredth true Shadow Dewdrop clicked into place.
*Boom.*
A silent explosion rocked his spiritual sea.
The Dark Bud—the true, complete Dark Bud—bloomed at the center of his foundation. It was no longer a flickering seed; it was a solid, pitch-black flower of power, its petals etched with ancient characters that seemed to pulse with the heartbeat of the ruins themselves.
The "crooked" wood was gone.
The new foundation was set, straight and true.
Fang Lin slumped forward, his hands pressing against the cold stone to keep his face from hitting the floor. His breathing was a ragged, wet sound. He had never felt so weak in his life; his Qi was a dry well, and his body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder.
And yet, beneath the exhaustion, there was a resonance. A stability he had never known. The ache was gone.
"You survived," the old man's voice said, sounding closer than before.
Fang Lin lifted his head, his vision blurring. The grey-robed figure was standing directly over him. For the first time, the old man's gaze didn't feel just mysterious or critical; there was a trace of genuine recognition in it.
"The wood is straight, little fellow," the spirit said. "The house is small, but the pillars are strong enough to hold the heavens. You have corrected the root. Now, the fruit is ready to ripen."
The old man reached out and tapped the air in front of him Fang Lin's forehead.
The plaza around them began to dissolve. The white stone and dark doors turned into a swirl of grey mist and ancient, glowing patterns. Fang Lin felt a sudden, familiar spatial pull, but it was not the violent rejection of the ejection law. It was a guiding hand, pulling him deeper into the heart of the place.
"The Legacy Hall awaits," the spirit's voice faded into the mist. "Rest. Recover. And when you wake… show me if you can truly bear the weight of what you seek."
Fang Lin's eyes closed as the light swallowed him.
He was completely exhausted.
But inside him, the true Dark Bud pulsed with a quiet, terrifying inevitability.
The Middle Spirit Foundation was no longer a goal.
It was coming.
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