A flicker of golden light pulsed in the chamber.
One moment, the four ancestors had been meditating in perfect stillness—breathing in rhythm with the deep Sea of Consciousness—and the next… their eyes jolted open.
Yangshen Zhenglong stirred first, breath sharp, as if awakening from a long dream. His hands loosened from their sealed position, and he slowly straightened upon the meditation cushion. Meiyun was next, blinking with a stillness rare for her before rising with practiced grace. Yuying's lashes lifted as her soul sense rebalanced to the physical world, and Jinhai exhaled heavily, rolling his shoulder once before relaxing.
They glanced at one another, confirming without words—they were back in the waking realm of Yùlóng Chángtǔ.
"…Back," Yangshen murmured.
Yuying smoothed the sleeve of her robe. "We trained longer than planned," she said calmly. "But it was worth every breath."
"The soul arts were genuine," Meiyun added with a light hum. "And effective. My realm feels more stable already."
Jinhai grunted, rubbing his shoulder. "Even in dreamform, that last form nearly snapped my spine."
Meiyun smirked faintly. "You'll live."
Yuying cast a glance toward the chamber walls. "We could remain here to cultivate further. It would be far more efficient than returning to our mountain dwellings."
Yangshen considered, then nodded. "Yes. The journey back would waste valuable qi retention. And staying here allows us to watch over Haotian directly."
Their movements were unhurried as they adjusted their robes and smoothed their spiritual flows. Their auras now carried a new density—deeper, brighter—like the lingering warmth of stone under the sun.
But before they left, their gazes turned.
Haotian lay quietly in his crib, expression peaceful, surrounded by a subtle warmth pulsing from within.
With reverence born of both duty and something more, the four ancestors stepped forward. Once legends of the clan, they now stood humbled before the child who carried its future. In unison, they knelt—backs straight, hands cupped, eyes closed—and bowed deeply.
Not a word was spoken.
Only then did they rise and step to the door.
It opened—revealing the hall beyond, crowded with faces.
Wuhen, Roulan, and their children stood at the front. Behind them gathered the extended Zhenlong bloodline—uncles, aunts, cousins, retainers. And at the head of the line, in full ceremonial robes, stood Zhenlong Wukang, Wuhen's stern-faced father and Haotian's grandfather—a man rarely seen outside the most formal occasions.
The moment the door opened, Roulan gasped.
"Ancestors!" she rushed forward, eyes wide and shimmering. "Please, is Haotian…?"
Wuhen caught her gently, steadying her trembling frame. His own expression was taut with worry, but underlined by a fragile hope.
Yangshen stepped forward, and the pressure of his presence parted the crowd like a slow tide.
Silence followed.
His gaze swept the hall—pausing briefly on Wuhen, then on each of the gathered kin—before settling on Wukang.
"Father," Wukang said, bowing deeply, his voice solemn. "Please… tell us. How is Haotian?"
Yangshen did not answer at once. Yuying gave him a discreet elbow to the side.
"…Haotian is not in danger," Yangshen said at last, his voice deep and steady. "Nor is the family lineage."
The air shifted.
A wave of relief moved through the hall—sighs, quiet exclamations, the sound of tension releasing from clenched fists.
Roulan buried her face in Wuhen's chest, trembling with relief.
Yangshen's tone remained calm. "However, the four of us have decided—we will remain here. At the estate. Permanently."
Gasps spread through the crowd.
"…Remain?" Wukang repeated slowly, the disbelief clear in his tone.
Meiyun stepped forward, voice softer. "We must stay close to Haotian. We are… monitoring a condition. Until the day he cries for the first time, he will be under constant spiritual watch."
"Even after," Yuying added gently, "our presence will remain necessary."
Though the meaning of their words was unclear to most, the tone left no room for doubt—this was sacred.
Wukang straightened, then turned to the nearest servant. "Prepare four chambers. The best rooms in the inner wing. Now."
The servants scattered at once.
When the way was clear, Wukang faced the ancestors again, bowing with deep respect. "Rest, honored ones. It will be our privilege to host your presence."
Yangshen inclined his head in acknowledgment. The four ancestors followed the servants into the inner wing—steps silent, movements unhurried, their presence like wind across ancient stone.
Roulan watched them disappear into the estate, eyes wet.
"They're… truly staying," she whispered.
Wuhen tightened his arms around her. "Then… Haotian must be even more special than we thought."
She nodded, voice barely audible. "Yes. More than we can imagine."
That night, the moon hung full over the estate, its pale light spilling across polished tiles and quiet gardens. Bamboo swayed in the night breeze, and spirit lamps glowed faintly blue.
Inside a quiet side hall, Wuhen and Wukang sat across from each other—tea cooling between them.
"They haven't told us everything," Wuhen murmured. "But I could feel it."
Wukang's brow furrowed. "It is as if they have seen something beyond what we can comprehend. Something about Haotian… or perhaps beyond even him."
Neither could find the words.
But they both knew—the world had shifted.
And it had begun with a single child.
Night descended softly over the Zhenlong estate, draping the high-roofed halls and winding courtyards in silvered moonlight. Jade lanterns swayed on gold-threaded cords, their soft green glow spilling across lacquered eaves and carved beams. The air was hushed, broken only by the faint chime of wind-bells and the subtle hum of qi-laced wards.
Within the newly prepared ancestral wing, spiritual flow filled the air like an unseen tide. The rooms, lined with fresh spirit-seal formations, had been crafted in haste yet bore the unmistakable precision of master artisans—every brushstroke reverent, every rune precise.
In the far chamber, Zhenlong Yangshen sat cross-legged, motionless as an old pine rooted in stone. His breathing was deep, steady, each cycle drawing ancient flame through his dantian. That fire burned brighter than it had in decades, pressing faintly against the edges of his control, the air in the room carrying a quiet rumble that made the lantern light tremble.
A ripple moved through his meridians.
The boundary thinned.
Then—it shifted.
Breakthrough.
His eyes opened slowly, irises alight with a golden blaze that seemed to pierce the dim room. Without rising, he sent a single thought through the ancestral soul link.
"I'm close. I must return to the mountain. The barrier will fall soon."
From their own chambers, Yuying, Jinhai, and Meiyun felt the pulse of his words at once. Though none moved, each gave the faintest nod, as if sitting with him in an unseen circle.
Yuying's calm voice threaded back through the link.
"Go. I will tell Alter."
Yangshen did not linger. He rose in one smooth motion, adjusted his robes, and stepped out into the moonlit walkways. Cold mountain wind met him at the edge of the estate, carrying the scent of pine and distant waterfalls. The ancient path awaited—stone worn by centuries of his own tread.
His palms glowed faintly with restrained force as he climbed, every step heavier with contained fire.
"…Thirty-seven years of cultivation," he murmured to the silent trees, "and one week beneath that being's guidance…"
His hands tightened into fists.
"…Now, I break through."
Above, the stars shimmered faintly—as if they, too, were watching.
By dawn, pale gold crept across the eaves of the estate. Servants moved with quiet efficiency, laying out incense trays and steaming tea. In the garden, Roulan strolled with her daughter while Wuhen conversed in low tones with his father, Zhenlong Wukang, beneath the pavilion.
The serenity broke as three robed figures crossed the inner courtyard, their steps light yet filled with authority.
Yuying, Jinhai, and Meiyun.
Both Wuhen and Wukang stepped forward immediately.
Wukang's gaze sharpened. "Where is Yangshen?"
Yuying offered a graceful bow, her voice steady. "He has returned to the mountain."
A faint line formed between Wukang's brows. "Has something occurred?"
Meiyun's eyes glimmered faintly. "Quite the opposite."
Jinhai's voice was proud, almost fierce. "He is on the verge of breaking through."
The words struck like a temple bell in the still air.
Gasps spread through the gathered kin. Even Wuhen's controlled expression wavered into open surprise.
"Breakthrough?" Roulan asked softly, her voice touched with awe. "A major realm?"
Yuying inclined her head. "The final barrier is thin—too fragile to risk within the estate. He requires silence and open sky."
Excitement rippled through the courtyard. A breakthrough at Yangshen's level was more than personal triumph; it was a rise in the Zhenlong name itself.
Wukang gave a slow, solemn nod. "Then may his flame burn steady."
Yuying's lips curved faintly before she and the others continued toward Haotian's chamber.
The room was as before—bathed in gentle spirit-light, the child sleeping in serene stillness beneath layers of dream-silk wards.
The three ancestors took their places on the familiar cushions without a word.
Breath slowed.
Eyes closed.
Thoughts drew inward.
And once again, their spirits slipped seamlessly into the Sea of Consciousness—toward the living soul-world where the quiet heartbeat of Yùlóng Chángtǔ's future waited to be shaped.
The courtyard held its breath.
Not a bird's cry in the sky. Not a whisper of wind through the pines.
Only the low, resonant hum of power curling in invisible waves around the central stone platform—where a lone figure stood as if carved from the world itself.
Alter.
His golden eyes burned beneath a veil of shadowed bangs, a single bead of sweat sliding down his temple before vanishing into the stillness of his jawline. His breathing was deliberate—measured—but the ground around him trembled faintly, as if each inhale pressed upon the earth's bones.
From the elevated terrace above, Zhenlong Yuying, Jinhai, and Meiyun watched in wordless anticipation. They had come expecting quiet cultivation. What they saw instead was a force being born.
Yuying's gaze narrowed, brows knitting."…No… he's not cultivating," she murmured. "He's… channeling something else."
A sudden thrum tore the stillness.
THUUM.
The flagstones beneath Alter's boots darkened, crimson veins of light blooming outward in jagged spirals—no runes, no scripted formation. Just raw, unshaped intent forcing reality to listen. The crimson threads pulsed like living arteries, each beat sending a shiver into the surrounding air.
His voice rang out, clear and unshaken.
"Begin—Shura's Heavenly Slaughter."
His weight shifted.
Strike One: Fist of Ruin.
BOOMMMMMM—!!
His fist fell like a hammer of worlds, colliding with nothing yet rupturing the courtyard as if struck from within. Stone erupted in jagged chunks, arcing skyward before gravity reclaimed them. The shockwave burst outward in a perfect ring, rattling even the terrace railings.
Strike Two: Heaven-Piercer Step.
WHOOM—CRACK!
He blurred and vanished, reappearing midair with a snap-kick. Lightning screamed down his leg, cracking the sky in jagged silver veins. His heel met the earth, and a slab of stone split from end to end with surgical precision.
Strike Three: Void Fang Rend.
TSSHHHH—KRRRAAAK!
A clawed palm sliced through the air. Space tore open in a black seam, edges glowing faint violet before sealing again. A ripple of unstable qi rolled outward, pulling at their bones.
Jinhai's voice was low. "…That's not sword qi…"
Strike Four: Bloodlash Howl.
WHRRRRMMMM—!!
A spin-kick bloomed outward into a crimson shockwave, rippling across the courtyard. Trees at the perimeter bent low, their leaves ripped away and scattered like frightened birds.
Strike Five: Soulbreaker Dive.
FWSHHHHHH—CRRRAAACK!
He soared upward, then dove like a falling star. His elbow met the ground in an impact that sank the platform inward, spiderweb fissures crawling across its surface.
Meiyun's grip whitened against the railing. "What kind of martial art is this?!"
Strike Six: Graviton Sever.
GRROOOHHNNN—SHRACKK!
He rose and fell again, a hammering strike collapsing a massive section of the platform into dust. The air around the impact hung still—compressed into silence so dense it felt wrong.
Strike Seven: Hellpulse Eruption.
BOOOM—FWWWSHHHH!
A palm thrust forward. The air in front of it ignited—not in flame, but in inverted heat, burning backward in time. Dust dissolved in expanding rings of distortion.
Strike Eight: Shadowbane Twister.
FWOOOSH—CRACK!
A crescent kick whirled overhead, casting a phantom wave that burned shadows clean off the ground. The courtyard brightened unnaturally, the light sharp enough to sting the eyes.
Strike Nine: Demon's Jaw Crush.
THWAM—
Palms clamped together like a vice. The air made a wet, muted crunch—like bone crushed from the inside out. No debris, no blast. Only tension so heavy it made the air difficult to breathe.
Strike Ten: Heaven's Dismantle.
One-two-three—blinding strikes to nothing. But every chakra point in the field rippled violently, ghostly silhouettes of celestial bodies manifesting—before shattering to dust.
Strike Eleven: Seraph Shatter Palm.
TH-TH-TH-BWOOOOOM!
The palm stopped short of contact. A breath later, space ten paces away erupted in a geyser of force, a vortex dragging the debris upward into a funnel.
Strike Twelve: Requiem Fang Barrage.
BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BA—!!!
Fists rained from every angle, their afterimages forming a golden cage around him. The air howled with each quarter-second impact, the platform beneath shredded with overlapping bursts.
Strike Thirteen: Voidlock Spiral.
SKREEEEE—VWOOOM!
His spinning leap birthed a vortex that pulled leaves, gravel, and qi-light into its core. Even the ancestors' robes were dragged forward, their hair tugged by the spiraling force.
Strike Fourteen: Celestial Vein Rupture.
TWHAMMMM—!!
A vertical uppercut ruptured invisible channels. Yuying staggered, her dantian twisting as her cultivation hitched. "…He's… disrupting the spirit channels…" she whispered.
Strike Fifteen: Thousand Cross Fang.
Z-Z-Z-ZIP—SHINK—SHINK—SHINK—!!
He blurred into ten overlapping trails, attacking from every conceivable angle in the blink of an eye.
Strike Sixteen: Abysswalker's Brand.
FWSSSHHH—KRAAANG!
A void-lit glyph burned into the ground, its curse-mark dragging reality's edges inward before detonating in silent brilliance.
Strike Seventeen: Sovereign Fang Collapse.
SKRAAAA—KHHHHWAMMMMM!
He descended like a meteor, his fist cratering the ground thirty meters deep. Concentric ripples of warped air tore outward, shredding the courtyard's perimeter wards.
Strike Eighteen…
Alter swayed, blood tracing a thin line from his mouth. His breath came rough now—but his eyes… his eyes burned brighter than ever.
One breath.
He raised his palm.
Creator's Banishment.
KRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—
The world turned white.
Reality split before him—not broken, but erased. A divine rift yawned forward, a line of absolute null hanging in the air for one heartbeat… before sealing itself in threads of shimmering cosmic light.
Silence.
The ancestors could only stare.
"…That was no martial art," Yuying whispered. "That was a divine extinction ritual."
Meiyun's knees hit the stone. Jinhai's hands trembled openly.
Alter dropped to one knee, his hands braced on the ground. He did not fall.
Above them, the sky remained split for the barest moment—then closed.
The dust rose in slow spirals, as if in reverence.
And in that silence… the gods did not watch.Because there was no answer for what had just been born in the mortal world.
The divine scar faded from the sky.
Dust hung motionless in the air, refusing to fall, as if time itself was unwilling to resume.
Alter remained on both knees, his breath shallow. Steam rose from his shoulders. Blood ran from his knuckles, down onto the shattered stone. His eyes—golden and glowing—dimmed just slightly, the embers of the final strike still flickering behind his lashes.
Footsteps.
Soft. Measured. Three sets.
From the upper pavilion, the ancient ones descended at last. Yuying led, her posture rigid—but not from pride. From disbelief.
She stopped just three paces from him.
"…What… was that?" she asked.
Alter said nothing. His eyes stayed low.
Jinhai stepped beside her, his voice quiet. "That wasn't martial arts. That wasn't divine talisman work. It… it bent the world around it."
"I couldn't even sense his qi," Meiyun whispered. "Just… pressure. Like the sky was collapsing."
Alter raised his head slowly.
His voice—dry, raspy—barely rose above the wind.
"It's called… the Demon God Killing Martial Arts."
The name hung in the air like an execution bell.
All three ancestors froze.
Yuying's eyes sharpened. "That art is not of this world…"
"No," Alter murmured. "It never was."
He slowly stood—shoulders trembling, muscles screaming—but his posture remained unbroken. Like a man who had crawled out of a divine battlefield, only to return to silence.
Yuying stared at the cracked earth, the erased space still bleeding faint distortions.
"…You used all eighteen strikes."
Alter's head dipped in a slow nod. "I had to."
Jinhai's brow furrowed. "Why? There was no enemy."
Alter's reply came with no emotion—just the weight of truth.
"Because you needed to see it."
The wind stirred. WHFFF.
Yuying stepped forward, her expression unreadable. Her voice dropped low—one hand at her side.
"…Was this power given to you?"
"No," Alter replied.
"I created it.Perfected it.And now… it's mine alone."
The elder matriarch stared at him—this boy cloaked in divinity, exhaustion, and defiance.
"…What else are you hiding, child?"
Alter's lips curved just slightly, the ghost of a smile behind his dried breath.
"…Enough to frighten even the heavens."
And with that—he turned, walking slowly through the dust as if nothing remained worth proving.
Behind him, the ancestors said nothing.
Because there were no more questions.Only silence.
The kind that followed the birth of something the world was not ready for.
The winds had calmed, but the air had not recovered.
Scorched lines still veined across the courtyard. The stone platform lay sunken, fractured inward from the force of eighteen strikes that no written scroll had dared name aloud in centuries.
Far above the cratered field, in the shade of the northern pine gallery, Zhenlong Yuying stood alone.
Her long silvery robes fluttered softly at her sides, her hair coiled in a high crown-knot. Her back was straight. Her eyes—ancient and sun-gilded—watched the dust below with unreadable weight.
Behind her, the sound of practiced combat rang faintly—Jinhai and Meiyun training near the echo pools at her request. She had dismissed them with a single glance.
This moment was not for them.
She waited.
And sure enough—
Soft footsteps crunched against fractured stone. Alter emerged from the haze below, one arm bandaged, his robes half-scorched from the full combo. His breathing was even now. Measured. As if the devastation he'd wrought no longer registered as strain.
He met her gaze without hesitation.
Yuying tilted her head just slightly.
"…You walked away," she said at last, her voice low, velvet-toned but unshaken. "After collapsing the courtyard. After branding the heavens. You just turned your back like it was routine."
Alter said nothing at first. He stood a few steps below her on the stone incline, arms folded, golden eyes level with hers.
"…I didn't walk away," he replied quietly. "I gave the dust time to settle."
A small breath escaped her lips—not quite a laugh. Not quite approval.
"You speak like someone who's broken a realm before," she mused.
He didn't answer that.
Yuying turned fully to him now. Her hands folded behind her back. Her presence wasn't threatening—but it wasn't soft, either. It was the presence of a woman who had lived long enough to know silence could bend thrones.
"I've witnessed tyrants die," she murmured. "I've watched sects collapse under their own vanity. I've seen the wrath of sword saints and the despair of mortal kings."
She stepped closer. One pace. Two.
"But I have never… in my entire blood-carved existence… witnessed what you showed today."
Alter remained still.
Yuying's eyes narrowed.
"Eighteen strikes. The final three etched into reality. A mark that unbinds divinity."
She circled him slightly—her voice cooling, sharpening.
"That's not martial arts. That's judgment."
The silence between them turned heavy.
Finally, she stopped at his side. For a moment, she said nothing. Then—
"Are you even still human, Alter?"
His eyes turned to her. Slowly.
"…Mostly."
Yuying's lips twitched.
"…That explains the storm in your blood," she said softly. "And why the ancestral jade cracked the day you were born."
Alter looked up at her now. "You knew."
"I suspected," she admitted. "But there's a difference between intuition… and witnessing a mortal child erase space with his palm."
She exhaled deeply—then smiled faintly. Not mocking. Not amused. But something else.
"You've inherited more than blood, it seems."
He nodded once.
"…And I've buried more than my name," he replied.
Yuying turned her gaze to the sky—quiet now, the clouds still parted from the earlier blast.
"There are few things in this world that can silence divine decree," she whispered. "Even fewer that can erase the memory of gods."
She turned to him again, but this time—her tone changed. Lower. Warmer.
"And yet… here you are. Still standing."
Alter raised a brow. "Surprised?"
"No," she said. "Relieved."
She stepped forward once more, until they stood shoulder to shoulder—descendant and matriarch, blood and legacy, fire and ancient steel.
"You remind me," she said gently, "of our very first progenitor. He who carved cities from dragonbone and dared to pierce the heavens with nothing but a broken saber."
"I've read of him," Alter replied.
"No," she whispered. "You haven't. Those books tell the story of a warlord."
Then she looked directly into his eyes.
"But I remember the boy."
Alter blinked—just once.
And for the briefest moment, something shifted between them. Not romance. Not authority. But recognition—an immortal acknowledging the flame of a legacy she had once seen, long ago, in another youth who tried to carry the sky on his shoulders.
Yuying looked away, clearing her throat.
"…Rest. Your spine is holding too many worlds right now."
Alter smirked slightly. "You saw that, too?"
"Please," she muttered, shaking her head. "Half the mountain felt it."
She began to walk away.
But Alter raised one hand. Palms facing each other.
CLAP.
A resonant echo burst outward—like thunder cracked between two planes.
The air shimmered. Fractured stone shifted beneath their feet. Broken tiles reformed, reassembling piece by piece. Cracks vanished, dust lifted, ash compressed into smooth patterned flooring. In seconds, the courtyard was pristine—flawless.
Only a lingering spiral pattern in the center remained, burned faintly into the stone—the symbol of the final strike.
Yuying turned back with a faint smile, brow raised.
"…Show off."
Alter exhaled. "You said the family should learn from my restraint."
She laughed—just once. "That wasn't restraint. That was artistry."
She descended the steps, vanishing into the pine mist.
And for a long while, Alter stood beneath the now-unbroken sky—watching the symbol fade.