The ripples of starlight that had defined the Legacy Hall did not merely fade; they were devoured by a predatory, absolute silence that seemed to have been waiting for ten thousand years.
Fang Lin watched as the infinite void around him contracted, the pale light of distant stars being extinguished by a darkness so dense it felt like a physical weight pressing against his eyes. The buoyant lightness of his breakthrough to the Middle Spirit Foundation—the feeling of being a celestial being floating among the gods—vanished in a heartbeat. It was replaced by a sudden, jarring return of gravity that sent a shockwave of pain through his recently healed joints as a massive circular arena of black basalt materialized beneath his boots.
He stumbled, the sudden shift in atmosphere making his lungs burn. The air here was different. It was cold, yes, but not the clean, freezing cold of his Frost Trace. It was a stagnant, heavy cold that tasted of ancient copper, pulverized stone, and a suffocating malice that made the True Dark Bud in his spiritual sea shiver. For the first time since entering the ruins, Fang Lin felt a vibration of pure, instinctual fear emanating from his very foundation.
"The basement is a lonely place, little fellow," the Mansion Spirit's voice drifted from the shadows. The old man was nowhere to be seen, his presence now only a disembodied echo that seemed to vibrate through the floor and up into Fang Lin's marrow. "The Sovereign was a man who understood that true value is only found in things that can survive the dark. He did not keep his treasures behind locks and keys. Those are for children and merchants. He kept them behind the things that killed the men who tried to steal them."
Fang Lin's fingers curled around the hilt of Night Burial Sword. He didn't draw it—not yet—but the connection to the blade provided a small anchor in the stifling dark. He could feel the sword's own thirst, its anticipation of the blood that was about to be spilled.
"This is the first gate of the Core Legacy," the spirit continued, the voice growing colder, more formal. "You have proven that you have the patience to build a foundation of straight wood. Now, show me if that wood has been tempered enough to strike iron without shattering into splinters."
At the far end of the basalt arena, the purple haze that clung to the floor began to swirl into a violent, silent vortex.
A figure emerged.
It was a **Shadow-Armor Void-Reaper**, a living nightmare from the **Obsidian Sovereign Clan**. It stood seven feet tall, its proportions slightly too long, slightly too elegant to be human. Its body was encased in a natural armor of interlocking black scales that shimmered with an oily, iridescent light, as if each scale had been forged in the heart of a dying sun. It had four arms, each ending in claws like shards of obsidian that seemed to draw the very light of the hall into their edges. Its head was a featureless mask of smooth, polished shadow, save for a single, vertical slit of burning violet light where an eye should be.
The pressure it radiated was not just a weight; it was a command to die. Fang Lin's expanded divine sense probed the creature and recoiled as if it had touched a furnace.
*Peak Spirit Foundation.*
On paper, the monster was only one sub-stage above him. But Fang Lin's instincts, sharpened by a hundred battles and the soul of a smith, screamed a different truth. The Night Horn Battle Race imitation he had faced at the tenth level of Myriad Halls Plaza had been at the Early Core Formation stage, yet this Reaper felt ten times more dangerous. Its darkness was not just energy it had cultivated; it was a lineage. It was a Royal.
"Royal..." Fang Lin whispered, his voice sounding thin in the vast arena.
Without a word, the Reaper moved.
It didn't run; it simply erased the distance. One moment it was fifty paces away; the next moment, the violet eye was inches from Fang Lin's face.
*Clang!*
Fang Lin barely managed to bring Night Burial Sword up in time. The impact was like being hit by a falling mountain. The basalt floor beneath his boots shattered, spider-webbing outward for twenty paces as he was driven inches into the stone. His arms, reinforced by the Nine Nether Phantom Body and his new Middle Spirit Foundation Qi, groaned under the sheer physical force. The vibration of the strike traveled through the sword and into his chest, making his heart stutter.
He didn't wait for a second strike. He activated the **Nine Abyss Shadow Scripture**, his body dissolving into a blur of **Abyssal Death Shadow** as he tried to slip around the Reaper's flank.
But the Reaper was not a local genius limited by the laws of this world.
A second arm lashed out, a whip of violet energy cutting through Fang Lin's shadow-form with the ease of a knife through silk. The strike ignored his concealment, tearing through his robes and leaving a shallow, burning line across his ribs that felt like it was melting his very Qi.
Fang Lin gritted his teeth, the cold precision of his mind overriding the sudden surge of pain. He executed the **Black Mountain Descent**, the heavy, suppressive pressure of a thousand-ton mountain slamming down onto the arena. He intended to pin the monster, to buy a single second of breathing room.
The Reaper didn't even flinch. It looked up at the invisible weight, the violet slit in its head pulsing with what looked like absolute disdain, and then it *leaped*.
The basalt floor exploded as the creature launched itself upward, its four claws coming together to form a drill of pure, piercing darkness.
Fang Lin went all out.
He drew upon the True Dark Bud, the crystalline flower in his spiritual sea glowing with a terrifying brilliance. He poured every drop of his new Middle Spirit Foundation Qi into the Night Burial Sword, the blade erupting with a dark freezing light that turned the surrounding purple haze into thick, jagged frost.
"Break!" Fang Lin roared.
He met the Reaper's drill head-on in mid-air.
The collision was a sound that shouldn't have been possible in a physical space—a high-pitched shriek of laws being ground against each other until the very air bled. For a heartbeat, Fang Lin held his ground. He saw the Reaper's single eye flare with a trace of surprise.
Then, the monster's darkness changed.
It didn't just push; it *ate*.
The dark freezing light of Fang Lin's sword was swallowed by the Reaper's violet aura as if it were nothing more than a candle in a storm. The crystalline petals of his True Dark Bud trembled as the creature's superior darkness lineage began to erode his foundation through the sword-clash.
*Crack.*
The sound came from Fang Lin's shoulder. The Reaper's strength tripled in an instant, its four arms working in a terrifying, rhythmic coordination that Fang Lin's current techniques couldn't match.
The obsidian claws shredded through Fang Lin's defensive Qi.
*Rip. Slash. Boom.*
Fang Lin was sent flying across the arena, his body skipping across the basalt like a stone across a pond. He crashed into the far wall with enough force to leave a crater five feet deep. Blood sprayed from his mouth, painting his white robes in a visceral, jagged pattern.
He tried to stand, his fingers clawing at the stone, but his left arm was limp, and his vision was swimming in a sea of violet and red. His meridians were screaming, his Qi flow disrupted by the corrosive violet energy. The Reaper didn't pursue him. It simply stood in the center of the arena, its featureless head tilted to the side as if watching a particularly stubborn ant struggle before its death.
A spatial ripple caught Fang Lin before he could collapse.
He felt the familiar, weightless pull, and a second later, he was back in the starlit Empty Void.
He fell face-first onto the non-existent floor, his breathing a wet, rattling sound. The Nether Life Spirit Qi was already surging, but even its legendary recovery felt slow against the corrosive violet energy that was still eating at his wounds. This was his first true defeat since leaving the Green Bamboo Sect—bitter, bloody, and absolute.
"That was a member of the Obsidian Sovereign Clan, little fellow," the spirit's voice said, now standing directly over him. The old man looked down at him, and for the first time, there was no mystery in his gaze, only a heavy, historical weight. "In the Higher Worlds, they are the masters of the path you are currently trying to walk. Their darkness is born of their blood, not just their breath. To them, your Nine Abyss scripture is a powerful tool, but their very existence is a law. You fought well for an ant, but an ant cannot bite a god."
Fang Lin coughed, spitting out a glob of dark blood that evaporated into mist before it could hit the void. He looked up at the spirit, his eyes burning with a cold, unrelenting determination that made the old man pause.
"I couldn't even see its third arm move," Fang Lin whispered, his voice trembling with exhaustion.
"Because your movement is based on the wind, and your attack is based on the mountain," the spirit replied. "The wind is loud, and the mountain is slow. The Sovereign knew this would happen. He knew that local methods would eventually hit a wall made of Royal blood. You have the blueprints, Fang Lin. You have had them since the fifth level and the trade with Mo Qingchuan. Why do you insist on fighting with sticks when you have blades in your hand?"
Fang Lin's hand tightened into a fist.
He thought of the two skill techniques he had been holding back. **Moonless Shadow Step** and **Moon-Eating Shadow Blade**. He had delayed cultivating them to focus on stabilizing his foundation, believing his Middle Spirit Foundation breakthrough would be enough. He had been arrogant. He had been a frog in a well, measuring the sky by the size of the opening.
"Senior," Fang Lin said, his voice regaining its stability as his wounds began to close under the green glow of his Life Qi. "I will not fail again."
The spirit looked at him for a long time, then nodded slowly. "Then prepare. The Sovereign's basement does not offer rest, only the opportunity to bleed until you are strong enough to keep your blood inside. You have one month before the next gate opens. How you spend it will decide if you leave this hall standing or in a jar."
-
The next few weeks were a blur of agony, contemplation, and savage progress. Time had little meaning in the void, measured only by the rhythm of healing and the sound of clashing steel.
*2nd Attempt.*
He lasted three minutes. He used the **Flowing Wind Steps** at their absolute limit, but the Reaper caught him in a pincer move with its upper and lower arms, crushing his ribs and sending him back to the void.
*3rd Attempt.*
He drew the **Moon-Eating Shadow Blade** jade slip into his consciousness. He sat for three days, his divine sense dissecting the complex shadow-paths of the technique. He realized it wasn't a sword move, but a hunger. It was the art of making the blade a mouth that could consume light itself. When he entered the arena, he managed to land a single, dark strike that consumed a sliver of the Reaper's violet light.
The Reaper responded by tearing his left leg open from hip to ankle.
*4th Attempt.*
He focused on **Moonless Shadow Step**. He realized the technique was not about speed, but about the *absence* of movement. It was about becoming a part of the shadows rather than moving through them. He practiced in the void until his body felt weightless, until his very aura became a silent ripple that even his own divine sense had trouble tracking.
*5th Attempt. 6th Attempt. 7th Attempt.*
Each battle was bloodier than the last. Each time, Fang Lin returned to the spirit with new, horrific wounds—smashed bones, shredded skin, internal organs turned to mush by the violet corrosion. He used the **Azure Marrow Recovery Pills** and the **Silent Meridian Black Dew**, his resources dwindling, but his battle prowess undergoing a qualitative transformation.
He was no longer just a talented cultivator using techniques. He was becoming a combatant who understood the rhythm of the Royal bloodline. He learned to read the pulse of the Reaper's violet eye. He learned to anticipate the four-armed strikes that had once seemed impossible to dodge. He learned to blend his **Black Mountain pressure** with his **Abyssal Death Shadow**, creating a shifting, heavy environment that even the Reaper found difficult to navigate.
The spirit watched him, silent and expectant. He taught Fang Lin how to breathe in a vacuum, how to move his Qi in reverse to counter the Reaper's "eating" darkness, and how to strike at the moment between heartbeats.
Finally, the 8th Attempt began.
Fang Lin stood in the basalt arena. His white robes were gone, replaced by a simple, sleeveless black tunic provided by the spirit. He looked thinner, his face sharper and more predatory, but his eyes were like two pools of abyssal water that could swallow the world.
The Shadow-Armor Void-Reaper stood waiting. It no longer tilted its head in disdain. It radiated a heavy, serious killing intent. It recognized the man before it as a threat—a survivor who had been forged in the fire of his own defeats.
The Reaper moved.
Fang Lin didn't.
He activated **Moonless Shadow Step**.
As the creature appeared in front of him, all four claws extended for a killing blow, Fang Lin simply… vanished. There was no blur of movement, no sound of displaced air. He was there, and then he was a shadow on the floor, sliding between the Reaper's legs with a silence that defied the laws of physics.
The Reaper roared, a sound like grinding stone, and spun around, its four arms lashing out in a 360-degree sweep that tore the very air into ribbons.
Fang Lin appeared above it, his body horizontal in the air, his robes snapping once before settling into a terrifying stillness.
"**Moon-Eating Shadow Blade**," he whispered.
Night Burial Sword didn't erupt with dark freezing light this time. It did the opposite. The blade became a hole in reality, a vacuum of absolute darkness that sucked in the purple haze of the arena.
He struck down.
The blade met the Reaper's scaly shoulder. There was no clang of metal on scale. Instead, the obsidian armor simply *dissolved* where the blade touched it, the light, the Qi, and the very life-force within the scales being consumed by Fang Lin's strike.
The Reaper screamed, violet blood spraying across the basalt.
It fought back with a feral, desperate ferocity that would have killed any other Middle Spirit Foundation cultivator in an instant. It ignored its wound, its four arms becoming a whirlwind of obsidian claws and violet energy. Fang Lin was caught in the storm, a claw tearing through his shoulder, another crushing his hip.
But he didn't retreat. He didn't even flinch.
He used the **Nine Nether Phantom Body** to bear the pain, his emerald-green Life Qi sealing his wounds even as they were being made. He stayed in the "pocket," his movements a terrifying, silent dance of **Moonless Shadow Step** and sudden, point-blank **Wind Break Palms** that shattered the Reaper's scales.
The battle was a masterclass in brutality. The basalt arena was soon covered in a mixture of dark red and violet blood. Fang Lin's breathing was a jagged roar, his vision narrowing until only the monster's violet eye remained.
The Reaper, sensing its end, lunged for his throat with all four claws simultaneously, a strike that carried the weight of its entire Royal lineage.
Fang Lin didn't dodge. He leaned into the strike, letting the obsidian claws pierce his chest, narrowly missing his heart by a fraction of an inch. He felt the cold iron of the Reaper's claws grate against his ribs.
*"Got you,"* he thought, a cold smile touching his lips.
He grabbed the monster's two upper arms with his bare hands, his Nine Nether strength locking them in place with a grip that would have crushed granite. The pain was absolute, a white-hot fire in his lungs, but his determination was a cold, freezing ocean that drowned the agony.
He raised Night Burial Sword with his free right hand.
The blade pulsed with a dark aura.
**Moon-Eating Shadow Blade**, fueled by the collective power that the world had not seen in ten thousand years: the **Nine Abyss Shadow Scripture**, and the **True Dark Bud**
"Return to the silence," Fang Lin growled.
He drove the blade directly into the Reaper's vertical violet eye.
The vacuum of the Shadow Blade met the core of the monster's Royal lineage. For a second, the entire arena was plunged into a state of absolute, perfect darkness—a darkness so deep that even the concept of space vanished.
Then, the Reaper exploded.
Not into gore or bone, but into a cloud of violet mist that was immediately sucked into Fang Lin's True Dark Bud. The crystalline flower in his spiritual sea absorbed the Royal lineage energy, its petals growing even more solid, more ancient.
Fang Lin fell to his knees as the pressure vanished. He stayed there for a long time, his hands pressing against the basalt to keep from collapsing, his head bowed. He was covered in wounds, his chest a map of claw marks, his Qi drained to the point where his meridians felt like they were made of glass.
He had never been so close to death. And he had never felt so powerful.
The basalt arena began to dissolve, the heavy stone turning back into the shimmering starlight of the Empty Void. The spirit appeared before him, looking down at the bloodied, broken, but victorious young man with a gaze that carried a trace of genuine, unvarnished respect.
"The wood is becoming iron, little fellow," the old man said, his voice echoing with a warmth it had never possessed before. "The Sovereign would have been... satisfied. You have not only survived; you have begun to walk the road of the kings."
Fang Lin looked up, his gaze steady despite the exhaustion that threatened to pull him into darkness. He had cleared the first gate. He had mastered the techniques he had been holding back.
Small mastery of Moon Eating shadow blade and Moonless Shadow step.
He had defeated a Royal Darkness shadow reaper from the Obsidian sovereign clan.
But as he looked at the spirit, he saw the old man's gaze shift toward the "basement" once more, his eyes reflecting a new, even more dangerous challenge.
"Rest, Fang Lin," the spirit said. "The first gate was for the blood. The second gate... is for the soul. And the soul is a much more difficult thing to forge than iron."
-