The world narrowed to a breath, a heartbeat, a blade.
Dark Qin Jiang moved — no, he manifested — a blurred streak of coalescing shadow and concrete aura. The obsidian blade in his hand gleamed not with light, but with the absence of it — an edge honed in silence, forged in hatred, oiled with every suppressed regret the real Qin Jiang had buried.
Qin Jiang tried to pivot, muscles coiled, senses screaming — but he was a fraction too slow.
The clone was already upon him.
With a sound like glass shattering underwater, the doppelgänger's form split the air, black vapor trailing behind like ink swirling in water. One step — and he was in front of Qin Jiang.
Another — and he was behind him.
The blade moved in the space between those two steps.
There was no clang of steel, no resistance, no struggle. Just a soft whisper, like fabric torn gently by hand. That was the only sound the obsidian blade made as it kissed flesh and parted bone.
Qin Jiang's body stood motionless for a moment, shoulders still squared in combat readiness. His face held a strange serenity, caught in the final flicker of thought, eyes staring forward as if he hadn't yet realized what had happened.
Then — his head tilted.
Just slightly, as if bowing in defeat.
A thin red line bloomed across his throat, crimson welling up like the ink of a broken brush. His head slid cleanly from his neck, tumbling down in slow motion. Hair fanned in the air like a war banner as it fell. The expression on his face was eerily tranquil, mouth slightly open, as though caught in mid-breath.
The body, betrayed by its command center, staggered once. Arms drooped. Knees buckled. Then the rest of him crumpled to the ground, the impact muted by the pooling blood and the dust stirred from their earlier duel.
Behind him, Dark Qin Jiang sheathed the obsidian blade in a shearing clang, though the blade seemed to absorb the sound rather than make it. Concrete aura crackled along his shoulders like the aftershock of a thunderstorm, fragments of rubble levitating gently around him before settling again.
His eyes — pitch, cold, endless — lingered on the corpse with no satisfaction, no remorse, no confusion.
Just acceptance.
He turned, each step silent as fog drifting across stone. Blood didn't stick to him. Shadows recoiled from him, not because they feared, but because they recognized kinship.
A single word escaped his lips, almost a whisper, almost reverent:
"Weakness."
He vanished into the dark, folding into an alleyway like a figure stepping back into the void that birthed him.
But behind him, in the stillness of death, the body trembled.
Only slightly.
A ripple passed through the pool of blood — not from the wind, for none blew — but from something within.
Unseen.
Unyielding.
And maybe, just maybe…
Not yet finished.
Dark Qin Jiang walked calmly away, footsteps absorbed by the dust and silence. Behind him lay the body of his original — severed, lifeless, and forgotten. Victory radiated from him in quiet waves, a sinister gravity that seemed to choke the very air.
Then, the ground beneath the corpse pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
A third time — and a blinding surge of crimson and bronze light exploded outward in a perfect circle, rippling through the stone plaza like a gong struck by the gods. Etched lines began glowing beneath the dust, ancient runes igniting in a complex array that stretched out from beneath Qin Jiang's fallen body.
A seal. Massive. Intricate. Alive.
Dark Qin Jiang paused mid-step. He turned, his head cocked slightly — more curious than alarmed. His black eyes narrowed as the air grew heavy, thick with the scent of clay, earth, and something older.
From the center of the seal, the decapitated body began to levitate — not dragged by strings of magic, but pulled from within by a deeper force. The blood that had spilled now receded, flowing backward into the body, reversing death itself.
The severed head flickered once — and vanished.
In its place, a perfect version of Qin Jiang appeared, fully intact, his robes unmussed, his expression calm, almost bored.
His lips parted, voice soft but resonant:
"Mutation Technique: Terracotta Double Seal."
Dark Qin Jiang's eyes widened for the first time.
Boom.
A massive column of light shot upward from the seal, and from its glowing edges, figures began to emerge — massive, humanoid, carved from earthen clay and sculpted in the image of ancient war.
The first to rise was a Terracotta Warlord, towering and broad, his twin axes carved from molten jade, his body inscribed with glyphs that pulsed like molten veins.
Then came the Generals, adorned in obsidian armor with spears long enough to impale a dragon. Their eyes glowed with unwavering loyalty, and every step they took cracked the earth.
And then — a legion. Hundreds upon hundreds of Terracotta Soldiers, armed with swords, polearms, and tower shields. Silent. Perfect. Unbreakable.
Dark Qin Jiang snarled and dashed forward, his obsidian blade raised for another killing strike — but it clanged uselessly against a Terracotta General's halberd, sparks exploding as the clone was hurled backward by raw force.
The army advanced.
A wave of stone and discipline, coordinated and deadly. One squad moved to intercept while the generals unleashed sigil-infused strikes that bent gravity and shattered space. Dark Qin Jiang fought savagely, striking down a half-dozen soldiers with shadow arcs and blade storms — but for every one that fell, another rose in its place.
He was fast.
But they were eternal.
The Warlord reached him — a colossus with a face like thunder and a voice like grinding mountains. With a roar, it brought its twin axes down in a crushing X-shaped cleave. Dark Qin Jiang attempted to phase away — but a sealing spear embedded in the ground locked space, trapping him in a split-second of real time.
CRACK!
The axes struck.
Shadow shattered. Bone fractured. Aura screamed and fled.
Dark Qin Jiang fell to one knee, his obsidian blade cracked, flickering. His eyes burned with disbelief — until a single terracotta blade plunged through his back and out his chest, holding him aloft like a fallen god.
He looked up… and saw the real Qin Jiang standing before him, arms folded, impassive.
"You think you're my reflection," Qin Jiang said coldly. "But you're just a fracture. An incomplete gen user."
Dark Qin Jiang opened his mouth, but only dust escaped. His body began crumbling, the shadows dissipating like mist in the morning sun.
He collapsed — not with a scream, but with a sigh. A failed echo swallowed by time.
The terracotta army stood in silence.
Then, one by one, they turned to Qin Jiang, bowed deeply in unison, and slowly returned to clay — their purpose fulfilled.
The seal dimmed, vanishing beneath the stone once more.
And Qin Jiang stood alone.
Alive.
Awake.
And far from done.
The battlefield had long quieted.
Dust settled. The light of the Terracotta Seal had faded, leaving behind only scars upon the stone plaza — and silence. Qin Jiang stood motionless amid the remnants of war, his breathing calm but deep, like a sea finally beginning to settle after a violent storm.
Then it struck.
A soundless thunderclap rippled through the heavens. The sky, though unbroken, pulsed once as if taking a breath — and then exhaled a beam of ethereal silver and black light that descended directly onto Qin Jiang.
The Immortality Tribulation was complete.
But unlike others who ascended in agony, clawing through fire and lightning, Qin Jiang did not scream. He did not roar. He simply… accepted it.
The light surged into him.
His body lifted from the ground, wrapped in luminous veins of divine energy and mutative essence. Cracks spidered across his skin — not wounds, but sheddings. His mortal coil breaking like a chrysalis.
His long white hair shimmered.
And turned raven black — strand by strand, as if time itself was reversing. The years peeled away from his face; the wear of battles, training, and bloodshed melted like wax under divine flame. What remained was a face sharp with potential, eyes glowing with unfathomable depth.
He landed softly.
And opened his eyes.
Power thrummed through him. But it wasn't just raw energy. It was order. A symphony of mutative forces, now refined and orchestrated within him.
"So this… is post-tribulation immortality," he murmured.
He lifted his hand. The air folded around his fingers, bending in unnatural angles, responding to his will like water around a blade.
Without chanting, without a gesture, he summoned it.
A black spark ignited in his palm — dense, heavy, silent.
From it grew a blade.
The Obsidian Blade — reborn not from technique, but from bloodline. Its edge was smooth, its surface rippling with a mirrored sheen. But within, galaxies swirled — miniaturized judgments, prisons of law and time.
He instantly knew its name:
"Obsidian Judgment… forged from the gen unlocked within my tribulation. One of the Blessings."
The blade was not just a weapon. It was an extension of his will, born of mutation and divine law. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, and with each pulse, the space around him shuddered slightly, recognizing a new sovereign.
He turned his gaze to the horizon.
Suddenly, space cracked beside him — not shattered, but pulled open like silk.
He stepped forward, and the world obeyed.
"Spatial mastery…" he said, flexing his fingers. "I can bend distance now. Laws resonate when I move."
No more would terrain, seals, or barriers restrain him.
He felt the Law of Gravity swirling at his heels like a pet.
The Law of Stillness coiled beneath his feet like a sleeping serpent.
And the Law of mutative gens — his law — pulsed like a second heart within his chest.
But above all, the Obsidian Judgment Gen whispered.
It whispered of trials to come.
Of judgment to pass.
Of worlds that would soon know his name.
Qin Jiang exhaled slowly, the last remnants of his mortality burning away in silence. In its place stood something new. Something terrifying.
Not just a man.
Not just an immortal.
A force.
And his path was only beginning.