CHAPTER 25: HUNDRED YEARS

The last bastion of the Green Sky World—Eternal Dome City—was falling.

Besieged from all sides by the Twelve‑Winged Soul Parasite Clan, the once‑proud capital now trembled beneath an unending tide of darkness.

From high above, the scene resembled the end of an era.

A black ocean stretched beyond the city walls—millions of abyssal demons surging toward the dome like a living flood, an endless wave threatening to consume everything in existence.

The final battle for humanity’s survival had begun.

Every Nascent Soul cultivator still alive had gathered upon the ramparts. No one fled. No one dared. They had long forfeited the hope of retreat; only resolve remained.

They would fight until death.

Amid the hovering array of cultivators stood a middle‑aged Nascent Soul master. His robes were tattered, his spirit aura dim. Lines of exhaustion carved deep into his face as he whispered, voice shaking despite himself,

"How long until reinforcements from Sword Heaven arrive?"

The words broke the city’s tense stillness. Around him, the others turned westward, eyes filled with desperate hope. They all waited for one man—for the one who had turned despair into legend.

Still, the battle roared below.

Each explosion lit the earth like a dying heartbeat. The four surviving sect formations pulsed with weakening light, barely holding the demonic tide back.

Then, the sky darkened.

A suffocating weight crushed down upon the world, pressing the air itself into stillness. Every cultivator’s expression shifted in unison—fear, pure and absolute.

From thousands of kilometers away, they felt it: a vast ocean of killing intent, moving closer with every breath.

Only one thought echoed through their minds.

A Five‑Winged Soul Parasite...

The words tasted of ash.

Such a being was no mere high‑ranked demon—it was said to rival the strength of the Deity Transformation Realm itself. A living calamity. A force that no mortal army could defy.

"This is bad... we’re doomed..." murmured one elder, his pallid face drained of the will to fight.

On the horizon, the monster came into view.

A dragon‑shaped abomination stretched over the clouds, its vast body a grotesque mural of stitched corpses. Thousands of mangled limbs and faces twisted in eternal agony, woven together by threads of black abyssal essence. Its skeletal wings unfolded, each beat tearing apart the fragile bodies that composed it, raining crimson mist across the sky.

And yet, the horror only grew stronger—gaining speed, momentum, hunger.

The dragon’s roar swallowed the heavens.

"A hundred years, huh..."

Wang Chen stood alone on a quiet avenue, the distant roar barely disrupting his stillness. His gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the monstrous dragon approached, but his eyes reflected something else entirely—a century of solitude, of blood and endless conquest.

The capital of humanity’s last empire lay in ruins around him. Ash drifted past like snow.

He looked no different from the day he had arrived in this world.

Untouched by time.

Untouched by age.

His calm, youthful face bore the stillness of eternity itself.

A faint fragrance drifted through the battlefield—a trace of wildflowers, soft and fleeting. Somewhere beyond the mist, footsteps echoed.

Then, through the haze, a figure emerged.

She seemed like a goddess descending into ruin, her radiance a quiet defiance against the death and smoke surrounding her.

It was Rin Luan.

A century of battle had changed her beyond recognition. What once was fragility had become strength tempered by divine fire. Her gaze, once trembling with fear, now held the calm warmth of conviction—and a devotion so deep that it needed no words.

When her eyes found Wang Chen, standing motionless among the ruins, her voice carried gently across the silence.

"Master, we have such a battle before us... and yet you seem far away."

Her tone was soft, almost tender, but the worry behind it couldn’t be missed. Only she could perceive the weight veiled within his quiet composure—the doubt he never allowed to surface.

At her call, Wang Chen’s eyes refocused. The grief and determination within them shimmered like twin stars. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to the dark horizon. Under the vast, trembling sky, the world itself seemed to blur, the pressure of fate thickening around them.

"It’s time," he murmured. "The final battle is here."

A faint flicker of light glowed beside him—a transparent pane hovering in the air. His gaze dropped to its glowing numerals.

[910,000 / 1,000,000]

So close. Only ninety thousand more parasites to slaughter—and the second trial of the Tower would end.

His fingers tightened at his side.

At last, it was time to finish it.

Phoenix and Dragon Dojo

Morning mist curled through bamboo shadows, wrapping the courtyard in quiet silver light. Each gust of chill air carried the faint sound of swaying leaves and sparrows calling from afar.

Lin Huang exhaled slowly, steam rising with his breath. He had just concluded his morning routine—hours of silent sword practice that left the stones slick with dew and sweat.

As he had done every day for the past week, he turned toward the old rocking chair at the far end of the courtyard.

A man sat there—motionless, eyes closed, his presence still and vast.

Lin Huang’s brow furrowed.

"It’s been a whole week... and Teacher still hasn’t moved," he murmured.

His junior sister had once explained that cultivators at the pinnacle could enter meditative trances lasting months, even years, their minds traversing astral realms beyond mortal reach. Yet this... this felt different.

In all the years he had followed his teacher, there had never been such silence.

A faint unease gnawed at the edges of his heart.

"Could something have happened to Teacher?"

He clenched his fists tightly, the veins on his forearms taut. The thought alone sent a hollow ache racing through his chest. If his master truly faced danger, what could he—a mere shadow of Wang Chen’s power—possibly do?

The courtyard’s massive gates creaked open.

Lin Huang’s head jerked up—and froze.

A slender figure staggered through the gate, blood soaking her torn robes.

"Junior Sister!" he exclaimed, rushing forward. "Are you hurt?"

"Don’t come any closer."

Li Mei’s tone cracked through the air like steel, halting his steps. For a breath, her hand twitched—caught between the urge to strike and the effort to restrain herself. Finally, she lowered it with a sigh, her cold expression softening for just a moment.

Even after all this time, she still couldn’t bring herself to harm this version of Lin Huang—no matter how changed he was from the one she once knew.

"It was nothing," she said quietly. "Just a few lowlifes from the Blood Fang Gang."

"Blood Fang Gang again..."

The name alone brought fire to Lin Huang’s eyes. The memory of their labs—the experiments, the screams—still burned fresh in his mind.

"They’ll pay for this," he said, his voice low and sharp. "Because of me, Master’s already been dragged into so much. Now even you’re suffering for it."

Li Mei watched him silently. She could see the guilt twisting within him, the same relentless drive that mirrored their teacher’s. And though she said nothing, she understood—for some burdens, no words could offer comfort.