Lou Yuan's face stays taut as he stares at the stone temple suspended in the sky, its colossal doors sealed tight.
Inwardly, he mutters, Devil, can you tell whose trial field this is? He expects nothing in return—after all, the trial lands are the legacies of Supremes, and the devil in his body is no more than a Saint King at best.
Yet the voice answers, steady and certain, The aura woven around that temple—it is very likely Taixu Dragon Supreme.
Lou Yuan's eyes narrow. You can sense a Supreme's aura—
Before the devil can respond, a sharp shout cuts through the air.
"Lou Yuan, what are you doing here?"
He turns, meeting the eyes of Jun Zhenhai, flanked by two men and a woman, fellow entrants to the battlefield realm through their tokens.
Lou Yuan sneers, "I don't think I need to answer you."
Zhenhai's eyes flare with anger, Tao Lord pressure crashing down on Lou Yuan like a falling sky.
But before the weight can crush him, another Tao Lord's power surges to counter it. Lou Yuan turns sharply, finding Shui Yinhai standing with a man and a woman at his side.
"Zhenhai," Shui Yinhai says coldly, "years pass, yet your bullying nature doesn't change."
Zhenhai sneers, "Why can't I ask him this question? Saint Tian made the leader of humans inside the Battlefield Realm."
Lou Yuan's mouth twists into a snort, "Your Saint Tian will not live much longer."
Confusion and anger flash across the faces around them.
Jun Zhenhai's aura surges, Tao Lord pressure slamming toward Lou Yuan like a falling sky as he prepares to strike.
Lou Yuan releases his own Tao Lord aura to meet it, voice flat, "Are you deaf? Did you not hear me? Your ancestor's death is near."
Zhenhai hesitates; he cannot simply cut Lou Yuan down when their cultivations match and the temple draws watchful eyes from a thousand races.
Shui Yinhai narrows his eyes, "What do you mean?"
Lou Yuan answers, "I did not enter the Battlefield Realm alone."
Yinhai's brow lifts, "Who?"
Zhenhai's face drains; among humans, only one holds such enmity with his ancestor and the power to make that threat real.
He whispers, "Yu Feng."
Lou Yuan tilts his head, amusement cold in his voice, "Oh—enemies who know each other well."
Hearing that, Zhenhai's expression hardens; if Yu Feng's talent reaches the Saint realm, the Jun family will face ruin, and a dark resolve steels inside him—he must find a way to kill Yu Feng before that can happen.
Shui Yinhai's lips curve with a dangerous light, "Is he inside the Battlefield Realm?"
Lou Yuan answers, "Yes, he entered with me."
Yinhai presses, "Where is he?"
Lou Yuan shrugs, keeping his tone clipped, "After entering, we separated."
He does not mention the space turbulence that scattered them, nor the uncertainty of Yu Feng's entry. Inwardly, though, he believes that with Yu Feng's strength, he must have entered the Battlefield Realm as well.
Lou Yuan turns away, his group following him, and they drift to the side of the temple to wait in silence for the colossal gate to open.
Shui Yinhai steps closer, her voice calm but carrying a weight of certainty, "Lou Yuan, join us. With so many races converging here, there is safety in numbers."
Lou Yuan studies her, then gives a faint nod. "Very well." He falls in with her group, an alliance of convenience forged in the shadow of the temple.
Around them, the battlefield realm seethes with presence as thousands of cultivators gather, all waiting for the trial of Taixu Dragon Supreme to unfold.
At that moment, Merin arrives. His eyes sweep the crowd, instantly finding Lou Yuan, Shui Yinhai, Jun Zhenhai, and their companions.
He makes no move to approach them. Instead, he drifts to the edge of the gathering, lowering his presence. With practised precision, he arranges a small formation around himself, its runes flickering faintly before sinking out of sight.
The seal brands his wrist with a hidden shroud, masking the mark tied to the Dark Blood Race.
Once it is done, his gaze slides across the gathering, landing on several Dark Blood members standing in the crowd, their auras cold and sinister.
Merin watches their faces closely, searching for the smallest twitch of recognition.
None comes.
Their eyes pass over him as if he were no more than another cultivator in the crowd.
A long breath escapes his chest, quiet and measured, relief loosening the coil in his heart.
He waits, silent among the sea of cultivators, his focus locked on the sealed gates.
Days crawl by, tension strung tight as the air itself.
Then—
A deep groan reverberates from the temple. The colossal doors shudder, a thin line of light bleeding through the cracks.
With a creak like mountains grinding, the gates begin to part.
The crowd erupts, wings and flight treasures blazing as cultivators launch themselves forward, racing toward the widening gap.
Merin does not hesitate. He leaps into the torrent, body like a spear of shadow carving into the radiant light.
The instant he crosses the threshold, the world shatters.
His body vanishes.
He blinks—and finds himself standing in a stark white chamber.
The air is weightless, his limbs strangely hollow. When he glances at his own hand, it shimmers, translucent.
Realisation strikes.
It is not his body that has entered the trial field—only his soul.
Across the chamber wall, a rectangular tablet juts out of the white surface, glowing faintly with runes beyond comprehension.
Merin lifts his hand to summon devil energy—yet nothing answers. His meridians are gone. His strength, stripped away.
In this trial land, he is no Tao Lord, no cultivator, no devil.
Here, he is nothing more than a mortal.
Here, he is nothing more than a mortal.
A moment later, a cold yet steady voice ripples directly into his mind. You have seven days. Comprehend the space principles from the Dao picture before you.
Merin's gaze sharpens, turning toward the tablet.
Across its white surface, etched in faint silver lines, stretches the image of a spider's web. One hundred and twenty-eight nodes gleam within it, each pulsing faintly, strands binding them in a delicate, endless weave.
The instant his attention settles on the nearest node, his soul trembles. A ripple of understanding brushes him—space itself, folded, stretched, and linked, the threads of distance and direction hidden beneath reality.
He steadies his breath, beginning from the outermost nodes where the web seems simplest.
At first, he senses the faint tug of compression, as though the world could be squeezed tighter into itself. He lingers, watching how the strands bend inward, mapping the rhythm of contraction.
At the second, expansion blooms—space widening like a lung inhaling, edges drifting apart, yet never breaking.
At the third, the strands overlap, and he realises they are not lines but layers—space folded like paper, one surface pressed against another.
Each node whispers a law, and each law he wrestles with in silence, drawing its essence into the emptiness of his soul.
Time loses meaning inside the white chamber. His mortal form never tyres, only thinks, only learns, only endures.
When the seventh day dawns, the silver web flickers. The Dao picture fades, dissolving into motes of light that scatter into the void.
The voice returns. You have two days. Construct a spiritual body for your soul, built from the principles you have touched. Only space may shape your vessel.
Merin's eyes glint, calm despite the demand. He knows he has grasped but three nodes of the vast web—threads of compression, expansion, and folding—but already they hum within him like iron foundations.
With care, he begins weaving them, layering compression into the frame of his arms, stretching expansion into his breath, folding the emptiness to knit his limbs together.
It is crude, incomplete, yet with every fragment he shapes, the soul-body takes clearer form.
A week has passed since his entry, and though his progress is but three nodes, his understanding sharpens into a blade.
And with that clarity comes another revelation—his Destruction Fist technique, long at a plateau, now trembles with new potential.
In the silence of the trial, Merin closes his eyes and envisions the seventh move. Space folds where the fist strikes, compresses at its heart, then expands in detonation.
The path to reshaping it burns bright before him.
Merin draws in a slow breath, though his soul has no lungs, and begins to guide the strands of space essence he has grasped. They flicker around him, faint glimmers of invisible force, threads that can stretch, compress, or fold.
First, he forms the core.
Compression gathers at his centre, pulling fragments of space tighter and tighter until they condense into a stable nucleus. It hums like a silent heartbeat, anchoring his soul in the void.
From that core, he stretches expansion outward, weaving long strands that unfurl like veins.
They press against the nothingness around him, shaping the hollow outline of limbs, torso, and head. Each thread swells, soft at first, then stabilises as he balances contraction against release.
The process is painstaking.
Too much expansion, and the form thins into mist. Too much compression, and it collapses into a knot.
Merin's will holds the balance, folding the forces together in a careful rhythm until the frame of a body floats before him—shimmering, translucent, yet solid enough to house his will.
Next, he begins the binding. Space folds inwards, layer upon layer, knitting the loose strands together.
He wraps the outline in sheets of folded distance, each fold locking another fragment of his shape into place. Shoulders solidify, arms gain weight, fingers taper into clarity.
Last comes the face. He draws the compression gently, folding expansion like clay, shaping a mask that mirrors his true form. Hollow at first, then sharp, until his features return—cold eyes, stern lines, the visage of Merin reborn.
When the final thread tightens, the body shudders once, then steadies. A vessel of pure space energy stands where his mortal self should be.
Merin flexes his hand. The fingers move as if of flesh, yet each motion distorts the air faintly, the strands of space vibrating in answer.
For the first time since entering, his soul feels weight, balance, and presence again. A spiritual body wrought not of flesh, but of the laws of space.