CHAPTER 712: ORIGINS OF TYRANTHIR

Mark continued smoothly, "If you wish to join another sect, go. You have my permission. And you do not need to feel like traitors. A sect is a family. The family head’s will is the direction the family walks. If a member refuses to walk in that direction, then staying will only hurt themselves... and the family."

He swept his gaze across all of them, slow and deliberate, allowing each elder to feel targeted personally.

"So leave. Create new lives. Do what makes you feel satisfied. No hard feelings."

The hall felt suffocating, not because of any aura, but because none of them had ever heard a sect master speak this honestly and ruthlessly.

Mark softened his voice just a fraction.

"You are all older than me. Wiser than me in many ways. If you sit down and reflect, if you truly think over every decision I’ve announced today, you will understand what I’m trying to do.

His tone became calm once again, almost gentle again, as he ended. "After you digest all of this, whatever choice you make... is acceptable to me. Just regret your choices later on."

He leaned back into the sect master’s throne.

"Now... you may all dismiss."

The elders bowed deeply, some stiff, some trembling, some confused, some ashamed, and slowly filed out of the hall, each one carrying various thoughts over the orders.

Above them all, Frost and Pyro exchanged glances, as if silently acknowledging the same thing: Their new master was as gutsy as their old master.

The elders slowly filed out, leaving only the three grand elders seated under the dim lantern light. The atmosphere shifted once the doors closed behind the last elder.

The oldest grand elder released a long, weary sigh and rubbed his forehead with two fingers. "Sect Master... some of your words today were quite offensive," he admitted, though his tone held no anger. Instead, it carried the fatigue of experience. "But... some were unexpected in a good way. I cannot speak for others, but you have my support, Sect Master."

The second grand elder smiled with a trace of nostalgia. "It’s been a long time since our sect has seen any real change. Perhaps too long. I also want to see what kind of transformation you bring."

Only Yujin remained silent. His expression was calm, but his fingers tapped lightly on the seat’s armrest, a quiet rhythm hiding his unease. After a moment, he finally spoke, "But there is the grand expedition in two months. Wouldn’t it be wiser to implement these new changes afterward? Too many shifts too quickly will confuse the disciples... and perhaps cause unrest."

Mark lifted one brow. "Seven weeks is not short, ancestor. The sect already needs change. And since the tribunals trusted me to lead the clan and the sect, I ask that you trust my judgment as well. If you cannot... at least watch the results before making your opinion."

Yujin held his gaze for a long moment. On the surface, his eyes were full of grandfatherly warmth, but deep beneath that warmth lay something colder, something calculating. "That goes without saying... but you must be alive until then," he thought silently. "If I allow you to continue at this pace, you will destroy everything our ancestors built."

But aloud, he simply said, "Very well. We will watch."

*

Later that night, Mark returned to his residence.

The air outside shimmered faintly. Frost had raised a barrier covering the entire courtyard, thick enough to block even the senses of a saint-level assassin. Frost stood like a guardian statue, silent and alert, while Pyro leaned against a tree nearby with her arms crossed, her expression filled with boredom. She still hadn’t fully acknowledged Mark, but she stayed because she had given her word.

Inside, Mark sat cross-legged on the floor. The chamber was quiet, lit only by a single floating light orb. He held one of the inheritance items, the orb containing the Blood Essence Drop of Tyranthir.

Taking a deep breath, he swallowed it.

The moment the liquid touched his throat, an immense heat surged through his veins. His entire body trembled as if every bone was being reforged. His skin prickled, burned, then cooled, then burned again. And just as the pain peaked, his vision blurred, and suddenly the room was gone.

Mark found himself in someone else’s memories.

He stood, no, crawled, in first-person view, inside a cracking eggshell. Sunlight poured in, harsh and golden. A dry desert stretched endlessly. He pushed harder, his tiny claws scraping, until the shell shattered completely.

His vision sharpened. His body felt alien, massive head, filled with rows of sharp teeth; thick scales layered over every inch of him; two small but muscular arms, ending in hooked claws; enormous feathered wings folded at his back; and on top of his skull, two thick horns curved backward.

Then he blinked, once, twice, and realized something else.

He had three eyes. Two normal ones and one vertical eye in the center of his forehead.

A guttural sound left his throat, a mixture of curiosity and hunger.

Mark, trapped inside the ancient creature’s perspective, felt its emotions as if they were his own.

Confusion. Hunger. Instinct. Loneliness.

He watched himself, Tyranthir, the ancient Dinosaur God, take his first unsteady steps in a world that feared him.

The memory continued to pull Mark deeper, dragging him through an ancient creature’s life as if he were living it himself.

The newborn beast, Tyranthir, staggered across the barren desert, his huge head dipping low as he sniffed for food.

At first, it found nothing but a few brittle shrubs clinging to life in the sand. It tore them out of the ground and swallowed them whole, feeling a brief spark of energy before hunger returned, sharper than before.

It then found small creatures, lizards, insects, avian reptiles, and devoured them without hesitation.

Whatever moved went straight into its maw. It never stopped, whether it is grass or a creature, or even small sects, as long as it is alive. Days turned to months, months to years. Its legs grew strong, its wings stretched wider, but its hunger never eased.

As the beast grew larger, its needs became monstrous. The desert no longer had enough prey to sustain it.

Eight long years passed like this. Finally, it stepped out of the wasteland and into an endless grassland.

Tyranthir fell to its knees and began ripping mouthfuls of grass, desperate and frantic. Grass turned into shrubs, shrubs into saplings, saplings into trees.

And among the trees, it found them, large dinosaurs, towering herbivores whose footsteps quaked the ground.

*Rawr*

Tyranthir attacked with a roar that shook birds from the sky. It tore into them with teeth and claws, ripping flesh and devouring spirit cores in a frenzy. Power surged in its veins. The more it hunted, the more the land trembled. Soon, it was not merely a predator; it was the ruler of the region.

A hundred years passed like seasons turning, the great beast aging slowly as its strength crept upward until it reached the peak of natural evolution. It became a 9-circle monster, unmatched on the planet. Nothing could challenge it. Nothing dared to. But the world itself was nearing its death.

One day, the sky tore open.

A black hole emerged, swallowing the light from the sun, the air, the land, the sea, everything.

Tyranthir tried to flee, beating its wings with all its strength. Mountains shattered beneath the force of its flight, but the black hole devoured the planet anyway. The beast escaped by a hair’s breadth, but only into the cold emptiness of space.

In the void, it froze, drifting helplessly as its consciousness dimmed. It would have remained a dead husk if not for a miracle.

Its third eye stirred first.

A crackle of power ignited in its veins. It broke through the Demigod realm.

A scream ripped from its throat, but no sound traveled in the vacuum.

It opened its jaws wide and began drawing in the energy spilling endlessly from the black hole. It fed on destruction itself.

A thousand years passed, then four thousand more. It devoured energy without stopping, its body growing as planets drifted by like dust motes. Soon, it reached the 11-circle realm. Then the 12-circle. And eventually, after hundred thousand years of absorbing energy in patience, it reached 13 circles.

By then, its body was a hundred kilometers long.

Two million more years passed. Tyranthir broke into the 14-circle, becoming a monstrous titan on a cosmic scale. By now, it dwarfed continents; its shadow could blanket an entire moon.

Still, its hunger is never satisfied.