The Third Trial descended without ceremony.
No announcement of rules.
No measured guidance.
Only enforcement.
The moment Lin Feng and the others stepped through the gate, the world inverted.
Space slammed shut behind them, and a vast island materialized beneath their feet—millions of kilometers across, scarred by ancient battles and saturated with killing intent so thick it clung to the skin.
Then—
Suppression.
A brutal, absolute force crashed down on every participant.
Lin Feng's cultivation plummeted instantly.
Peak Lord.
Late Lord.
Mid Lord.
It did not stop until it locked him firmly at Early Lord Realm.
Around him, the same happened to everyone else.
Powerhouses who once ruled regions screamed as their cultivation was torn down. Arrogant geniuses staggered, suddenly unable to comprehend their own weakness. Some fell to their knees immediately.
A cold, ancient voice echoed across the island, stripped of emotion:
"Third Trial: Survival."
"All participants are equalized."
"Only the living may proceed."
The meaning was unmistakable.
This was not a competition.
It was a cull.
The moment the voice faded, killing intent erupted across the island like wildfire.
Formations ignited at the perimeter, sealing the space completely. No escape. No withdrawal. No mercy.
Lin Feng inhaled sharply, forcing himself steady.
His companion—once Supreme Lord, now also reduced to Early Lord Realm—stood beside him, her expression calm but eyes razor-sharp.
"So this is how they filter," she said quietly.
Lin Feng nodded. "No cultivation advantage. Only experience, instinct… and will."
Around them, chaos exploded.
Some participants formed alliances instantly. Others attacked the nearest cultivator without hesitation, fear and desperation driving them mad. Blood stained the ground within seconds.
A man lunged at Lin Feng from behind, eyes red with panic.
Lin Feng reacted without thinking.
He pivoted, sword flashing once.
The man fell.
No hesitation. No triumph. Only necessity.
Inside the bronze ring, Lao Yao spoke grimly.
"This is a true survival trial. There are no innocents here. Hesitation equals death. Remember—your goal is not dominance. It is endurance."
Lin Feng understood.
He pulled his companion close. "We move. Stay mobile. No prolonged fights."
They vanished into the terrain.
The island itself was hostile—forests filled with ambush points, plains riddled with unstable ground, mountains that distorted perception. The inheritance was not merely watching them fight each other; it was shaping the battlefield to accelerate death.
They avoided large conflicts, striking only when necessary.
An ambush at a ravine—Lin Feng baited, his companion executed.
A three-man alliance attempted to surround them—broken apart by terrain manipulation and timing.
A so-called genius tried to rely on former habits—Lin Feng cut him down before he could adjust.
Hours passed.
Then days.
Bodies accumulated.
The air reeked of blood and desperation.
Lin Feng was wounded—more than once. A slash across his ribs. A poisoned graze that forced him to circulate Dao manually to survive. Each injury slowed him, sharpened him.
He was no longer fighting to win.
He was fighting to remain.
At one point, they hid within the hollow of a shattered mountain while dozens of cultivators slaughtered each other outside.
His companion leaned against the stone, breathing shallowly. "How many do you think remain?"
Lin Feng closed his eyes briefly, listening to the distant sounds of combat.
"…Less than a hundred."
Lao Yao's voice was low. "And shrinking fast."
When they emerged again, the island felt emptier.
The final phase came without warning.
The sky darkened.
A massive formation ignited beneath the island, and every remaining participant felt it simultaneously—
A pull.
Those still alive were drawn toward the island's center.
There, a colossal stone altar rose from the ground, stained with old blood and layered with cracks. Only a few dozen cultivators remained now, all exhausted, all wounded, all staring at one another with hollow eyes.
The voice returned.
"Final cull."
"Only ten may remain."
No countdown.
No signal.
The killing resumed instantly.
Lin Feng moved like a shadow—no wasted motion, no unnecessary clashes. His sword struck only when outcome was guaranteed. His companion guarded his blind spots without a word.
One by one, others fell.
When it was over—
Ten remained.
Silence settled heavily over the altar.
Lin Feng stood among them, bloodied, breathing hard, alive.
The ancient voice spoke one final time:
"Third Trial: Passed."
The surviving ten were enveloped in light.
As space began to shift them away, Lin Feng felt the bronze ring warm again.
Lao Yao's voice carried rare approval.
"You survived a trial designed to erase futures. Remember this feeling. Strength may be equalized… but resolve never is."
Far above the inheritance—
Feng Hao observed.
This time, he spoke.
"…He didn't rely on luck."
One Ancient Elder nodded. "Nor on protection."
Another added, eyes narrowed slightly, "He adapted faster than most."
Feng Hao's gaze followed Lin Feng as he vanished from the island.
"Interesting," he said calmly.
And for the first time since arriving—
The inheritance was no longer merely something he was observing.
It was something that had produced a variable worth remembering.
The light faded.
Lin Feng's feet touched solid ground once more.
The bloodstained island, the screams, the endless slaughter of the Third Trial—gone. In its place stood a vast circular platform suspended in empty void, its edges rimmed with slowly rotating Dao sigils. Above and below, nothing existed but boundless darkness.
Ten survivors.
No more. No less.
Each of them carried the weight of what they had done to remain standing.
The ancient voice returned, colder than before, stripped of even the pretense of fairness.
"Final Trial."
The sigils around the platform ignited.
"Participants will form teams of two."
"Five teams total."
A pulse of light swept through the ten.
Lines of faint resonance formed naturally—those with prior cooperation, similar Dao frequencies, or mutual survival instincts were drawn together.
Lin Feng felt it instantly.
His companion stepped beside him without a word.
Their link stabilized.
Team confirmed.
Around them, the other survivors paired off—some with grim familiarity, others with forced alliances born from necessity rather than trust.
The voice continued.
"A draw will determine exemption."
Five cards materialized above the platform, floating and rotating slowly. Each card bore a simple mark—four were identical, etched with crossed blades.
One was blank.
"The blank card will not fight in the first round."
Silence thickened.
The cards descended.
One by one, the teams reached out.
A man with hollow eyes drew first—crossed blades.
Another team—crossed blades.
Third—crossed blades.
Fourth—crossed blades.
The final card drifted toward Lin Feng's team.
He took it.
Blank.
For half a breath, the void itself seemed to pause.
"Exemption granted."
A faint ripple passed through the remaining teams—relief for some, resentment for others.
Lin Feng exhaled quietly.
His companion glanced at him. "Luck?"
Lin Feng shook his head slightly. "Positioning."
The voice did not give them time to reflect.
"The four remaining teams will battle."
"Victory by surrender or death."
First Phase — Elimination (2v2)
The platform split cleanly into two vast arenas.
Arena One.
Arena Two.
Each sealed by heavy suppression barriers—not cultivation suppression, but escape denial. No interference. No retreat.
Four teams moved.
Lin Feng's team remained where they were, elevated, observers by decree.
Below—
Techniques ignited instantly.
This wasn't survival anymore. No chaos. No hiding.
This was structured slaughter.
Arena One
Two teams clashed with immediate coordination.
One relied on brute Dao output—overwhelming force, reckless momentum.
The other fought like surgeons—tight spacing, layered defense, lethal counters.
Within minutes, the difference showed.
A misstep.
A delayed recovery.
A joint strike pierced straight through a cultivator's core.
The remaining teammate screamed and burned everything—only to be cleanly severed moments later.
Winner: Team One.
They stood bloodied—but intact.
Arena Two
This battle lasted longer.
Both teams were cautious. Experienced. Scarred by the Third Trial.
Blades met formations. Soul attacks clashed with physical techniques. One cultivator lost an arm—but took an enemy's life in return.
In the end, it became a duel between the last two survivors.
One gambled.
The other endured.
A final exchange.
One collapsed.
Winner: Team Two.
They barely stood—but they stood.
The arenas dissolved.
Only two teams remained now—each having clawed victory from true 2v2 combat.
The ancient voice did not allow rest.
"Second Phase."
"Advancing teams will battle."
Second Phase — Ascension Match (2v2)
The platform merged into a single arena.
The two victorious teams faced each other.
No hesitation.
They understood.
Whoever won this fight would earn the right to face the exempted team.
This battle was different.
Sharper.
Colder.
They had seen death. Now they fought with intent refined by it.
Lin Feng watched intently.
He saw everything.
How one team's synergy was breaking down.
How exhaustion was creeping into movement.
How desperation made techniques predictable.
His companion leaned closer. "They're burning themselves."
"Yes," Lin Feng replied quietly. "They have to."
The clash peaked.
A forbidden technique detonated—burning lifespan for power.
It worked.
One team was erased.
The victors staggered back, breathing ragged, auras unstable—but victorious.
Final challenger confirmed.
Final Phase — Challenge of the Exempted Team
The void shifted.
Lin Feng and his companion were drawn forward.
The battlefield reformed—larger, denser, layered with observation sigils.
Across from them stood the final team.
Wounded.
Exhausted.
But sharpened by survival.
They knew this was the last fight.
They bowed—briefly. Respect, not submission.
Lin Feng returned it.
No arrogance.
No mercy.
Only clarity.
Lao Yao's voice surfaced softly.
"This is good. They are already broken. You are not."
Lin Feng stepped forward.
His cultivation flowed—stable, controlled, lethal.
His companion aligned beside him, aura resonating perfectly.
The ancient voice spoke one final time.
"Final battle."
"Victory determines inheritor."
Far above—
The Nine Divine Golden Dragons remained motionless.
And Feng Hao watched.
Not as a judge.
But as a reader reaching the final page of a chapter.
The battle began.
The arena sealed.
No wind.
No ambient Dao.
Only four cultivators and the pressure of an inheritance that demanded a conclusion.
Lin Feng stepped forward first.
Across from him stood the final opposing team—two men, both visibly exhausted, robes torn, blood crusted along their sleeves. One wielded a crescent saber humming faintly with Dao residue. The other carried twin short spears, their tips dulled from repeated impact but still lethal.
They didn't underestimate Lin Feng.
They couldn't.
After surviving two consecutive two-on-two battles, instinct screamed that the real danger was finally in front of them.
Opening Exchange
The moment the ancient voice fell silent, the spear wielder moved.
No warning.
No declaration.
He vanished—reappearing low and fast, spears thrusting toward Lin Feng's abdomen and throat in a cross-pattern strike meant to force simultaneous defense.
Lin Feng didn't retreat.
He stepped in.
His sword slid free in one smooth motion.
Clang—!
Steel met spearhead.
Not explosively.
Precisely.
The first spear was deflected sideways, its trajectory altered by less than a finger's width—just enough. Lin Feng's sword rotated immediately, intercepting the second spear mid-thrust and riding its momentum downward.
At the same instant, Lin Feng's companion moved.
She didn't attack.
She positioned.
Her foot pressed into the ground, Dao spreading outward in a subtle lattice. The arena's surface hardened, altered—cutting off the spear wielder's retreat vector.
The saber cultivator reacted instantly, slashing diagonally toward Lin Feng's back.
Too late.
Lin Feng pivoted.
His elbow struck first.
A short, brutal impact to the saber wielder's sternum—not enough to kill, but enough to disrupt breathing and Dao circulation for half a heartbeat.
That half heartbeat was fatal in a battle like this.
Lin Feng's sword followed.
A shallow cut across the saber wielder's forearm—severing tendons.
The saber clattered to the ground.
Momentum Shifts
The spear wielder roared and released his grip, retreating explosively backward—burning essence to force distance.
"Careful!" he shouted. "They're synchronized!"
Too late.
Lin Feng's companion raised her hand.
The ground rippled.
A suppression pulse—not cultivation suppression, but mobility interference. The spear wielder's landing point destabilized, his footing slipping just enough to break rhythm.
Lin Feng was already there.
Sword thrust.
Straight.
Unadorned.
The spear wielder twisted desperately, letting the blade graze his ribs instead of piercing his core—but blood sprayed, and his internal circulation stuttered.
The saber cultivator tried to rejoin the fight with his off-hand technique—a Dao blade formed from compressed spiritual energy.
Lin Feng didn't even look.
He stepped sideways.
His companion intercepted.
Her palm met the incoming Dao blade.
It shattered.
She followed with a forward strike—open hand, Dao condensed into a focused shock.
The saber cultivator flew backward, slamming into the barrier.
Cracks spread across it.
He didn't rise.
Desperation Phase
The spear wielder stood alone now.
Breathing hard.
Eyes bloodshot.
He knew.
He burned essence again.
His cultivation flared violently—forced, unstable.
A forbidden technique activated.
Blood ran from his nose as his aura doubled.
"I won't die here!" he screamed.
He charged—spears reforming in his hands from condensed Dao, larger, heavier, unstable.
Lin Feng's expression didn't change.
Inside the bronze ring, Lao Yao's voice was calm.
"Good. Let him empty himself."
The spear wielder struck with everything—dozens of thrusts layered atop one another, phantom images overlapping, killing intent saturating the space.
Lin Feng retreated one step.
Only one.
Then he stopped.
His sword moved.
Not faster.
Cleaner.
Every thrust was met. Every angle closed. Every phantom dispelled.
The spear wielder's breathing turned ragged.
His attacks slowed.
That was the moment Lin Feng stepped forward.
Sword lowered.
Point aligned.
A single thrust—infused not with force, but intent.
The blade pierced through the spear wielder's chest, slipping between ribs, piercing the heart cleanly.
No explosion.
No dramatics.
Just silence.
The spear wielder collapsed.
Dead.
Aftermath
The arena went still.
Lin Feng stood with sword lowered, breathing steady.
His companion exhaled softly, relaxing her stance.
The ancient voice paused.
Then—
"Final battle concluded."
"Victor confirmed."
The inheritance trembled.
Above—
Feng Hao watched, eyes unreadable.
The three Ancient Elders exchanged glances.
"…Efficient," one murmured.
"…No wasted motion," another added.
"…That boy's foundation is clean," the third admitted reluctantly.
Lin Feng didn't hear them.
He only felt the inheritance opening—its final gate responding to victory.
Inside the bronze ring, Lao Yao's presence stirred with rare satisfaction.
"Well done," the old soul said. "You didn't just survive."
"You proved you deserve what comes next."
Lin Feng looked ahead.
Toward the final reward.
Unaware that this battle—this precise, disciplined display—
had just been recorded
by an existence far above inheritance-level fate.
And Feng Hao continued observing.
Still silent.
Still watching.