Two days passed in the blink of an eye.

The Sword-Burial Mound remained unchanged.

The desolate silence unique to the Bone-Burial Ground enveloped the entire Sword-Burial Mound.

Even the golden glow of dusk could not warm this forsaken land.

Instead, in the final moments before nightfall, it seemed as though the light was making one last desperate flourish before the darkness, amplifying the sorrow and melancholy.

At the entrance of the Sword-Burial Mound stood a towering archway with azure pillars. On either side, wind chimes hanging from the upturned eaves tinkled crisply in the evening breeze, their ethereal chimes echoing softly in the fading sunlight.

Between the eaves, a vermilion plaque bore the elegant, dragon-like characters: "Sword-Burial Mound."

Beneath the plaque stood a figure clad in black robes.

Hidden within the folds of his robe, his skeletal fingers clutched a wine flask.

The black-robed man raised his head, his hollow eye sockets gazing at the inscription.

Behind him, the last rays of sunlight stretched across the ground, cascading down tens of thousands of steps, resembling a golden cloak draped over his shoulders.

The warm hues of dusk even softened the oppressive gloom of his black robes.

"Sword-Burial Mound," he murmured, his voice carrying a loneliness never heard before.

"It's been... a hundred thousand years, hasn't it?"

Flanking the azure pillars were the Piao family's ancestral tomb guardians. Before they could react to the sudden appearance of the black-robed man—or the dog, spirit, bear, and centipede trailing behind him—he had already stepped past them.

With each stride spanning several meters, he glided forward effortlessly.

In the blink of an eye, the guardians were left standing at the entrance, their eyes vacant, as if they had forgotten something.

What had just happened?

Perhaps nothing at all.

The guardians, too, could no longer recall what they had seen.

So they turned back, resuming their posts, guarding this desolate land of silence.

Meanwhile, Lu Benwei had already entered the Sword-Burial Mound.

Before him stretched an expanse of swords embedded in the earth.

Each member of the Piao family's direct lineage was buried with a single bone and a single sword.

Bathed in the twilight, the swords gleamed with a faint golden hue, each one resembling a stalk of wheat standing tall in an autumn field.

Lu Benwei paused.

His gaze swept across the scene.

An endless wheat field stretched before him.

Vast, desolate, and boundless.

Generation after generation, descendants upon descendants.

The skeletal fingers holding the wine flask twitched slightly.

Then, with a flicker of movement, he advanced, each step covering several meters, light as a whisper.

As if afraid his footsteps might disturb the slumbering dead.

Soon, he stood before the altar at the deepest part of the Sword-Burial Mound.

Upon the altar lay a solitary skeleton.

Beside it stood a rusted sword, its blade pitted and worn, like an elderly man on the brink of death.

Wavering, yet unyielding.

On its corroded surface, traces of blood from ages past could still faintly be seen.

Next to it stood a stone stele, inscribed with the words: "Piao Family Ancestor—Piao Yunchu."

At the bottom left corner were two smaller lines:

"If water comes, we wait in the water.

If fire comes, we wait in the ashes."

Lu Benwei stood before the stele, silent, as if lost in memory.

The dying sunlight bathed the tombstone in a fiery glow, stirring in him the recollection of that great conflagration a hundred thousand years ago.

The inferno that had consumed them all.

Behind him, the dog, sensing its master's uncharacteristic solemnity, dared not even breathe loudly. It could only follow obediently, its curiosity piqued as it studied the skeleton.

Wondering who this person might have been.

Under the curious gazes of the dog and its companions, Lu Benwei raised his skeletal hand.

From his fingers dangled the wine flask.

A gentle shake produced a faint sloshing sound.

"This is your favorite—General's Return," he said softly.

With a pull of the stopper, the rich aroma of wine instantly filled the air.

Even the dog and the others perked up at the scent.

He tilted the flask, pouring the clear liquor over the skeleton's resting place.

The potent fragrance of aged wine spread through the air.

A gust of wind swept through the mound, lifting the hem of Lu Benwei's black robes.

It carried the scent of wine with it.

The breeze brushed against the ancient sword, causing it to tremble slightly. It swept over the grave, stirring tiny grains of sand.

Then it spread across the endless expanse of the Sword-Burial Mound.

Whether it was the strength of the wind or the allure of the wine, the swords embedded in the earth began to quiver.

Their mournful hums intertwined, like lamentations, like whispers of grief.

Watching the precious wine spilled upon the ground, the dog and its companions could no longer contain their curiosity.

It glanced at the skeleton, then at the wasted liquor.

Finally, it ventured a cautious question.

"Boss... who is this?"

Roused from his thoughts, Lu Benwei paused.

Then he finished pouring the wine.

He released the flask.

The sound of shattering porcelain rang out as the vessel broke into countless shards at the foot of the stele.

It was an offering to the departed.

A final toast to an old friend.

The next moment, Lu Benwei raised his hand.

The scenery around the dog and the others shifted rapidly. The tombstone and skeleton receded into the distance, replaced by a dizzying whirl of motion—sparks flickering at the edges of their vision.

Soon, a scorching heat enveloped them.

Before them stretched a vast, cracked wasteland—the Ashen Forbidden Land.

Its fissured terrain stretched endlessly, like the scars of an ancient battle.

Then came an icy gale, biting into their bones.

For adjacent to the Ashen Forbidden Land lay the Frozen Abyss, a realm of eternal winter spanning countless miles.

In the blink of an eye, Lu Benwei and his companions stood high above the Frozen Abyss, gazing down upon a world of ice.

Upon the glacier stood the armies of the divine realm—countless loyal soldiers as its ranks, a million gods and demons as its generals.