Demon Merin's attention shifts from the cave to the sleeping Yalong.
Greed blooms immediately—thick, instinctive, overwhelming.
If he devours this creature's essence, he could break through the Saint stage in a single step.
His crimson eyes narrow.
"So much power…" he whispers inwardly, hunger curling through every thought.
He studies the beast more closely.
The once-brilliant black scales are dulled, mottled bronze in several places. The lustre that once marked its pride is nearly gone.
"It's near the end of its life," he murmurs silently. "A dying Saint."
A dead treasure waiting to be claimed.
A silent opportunity.
He withdraws from open view, slipping behind a jagged outcropping of stone. There, hidden from sight, he sits cross-legged.
A slow breath escapes him.
Wisps of demon aura leak from his body—thin, serpent-like tendrils drifting toward the Yalong.
The aura slides across the ground, then slips beneath its scales like smoke passing through cracks.
Carefully—very carefully—he guides the demonic energy deeper.
Through flesh.
Through veins.
Toward the spirit space.
Every inch is a risk.
Every moment requires restraint.
Finally, after painstaking effort, the first strand reaches the barrier of the Yalong's spiritual core.
Demon Merin pushes gently, probing for weakness.
The aura breaches the boundary.
A wave of burning pressure slams into him—Saint realm authority radiating from the Yalong's slumbering soul.
Even through the thread of demonic energy, the force scorches him.
He grits his teeth, eyes narrowing with focus, but his expression never shifts from calm hunger.
Inside the sleeping titan's spirit space—
Here is the continuation rewritten cleanly, with the extended formation of his Dao as requested. Pacing remains deliberate, tense, and immersive:
---
Demon Merin has finally entered.
His demonic energy endures the scorching saint pressure—burning, blistering, yet refusing to crumble.
Through the spiritual connection, Merin—sealed deep in the dream world—feels the pain echo through his consciousness.
Even so, Demon Merin smiles.
Because in that suffering, he confirms the truth:
This Yalong did not become a Saint by forming a Dao.
It advanced through the bloodline might alone.
Its soul remains below the Saint threshold—only stained by the lingering aura of the realm, not fully transformed.
Which means:
It can be devoured.
If done carefully.
If done properly.
If done with a Dao strong enough to bypass its soul defences.
Two paths exist to step into the Saint stage.
One: Form your own Dao, a path no one else has walked.
Two: Rely on inherited power, bloodline dominance.
The Yalong is the second type—massive strength, but imperfect foundation.
To consume such a creature, Demon Merin must walk the first path.
He must forge a Dao.
A true one.
One born from comprehension—not instinct.
And here, in the stillness of a sacred beast's slumber, surrounded by ancient pressure and the scent of power ready to rot—
He begins.
Demon Merin closes his eyes.
Inside his mind, laws gather like stars floating in a black void.
The Law of Emotion sits at the centre—dark, fluid, unknowable. It pulses with the resentment, despair, hatred, fear, and hunger he has devoured.
Around it orbit the Five Element Laws—Fire, Water, Earth, Metal, Wood—long mastered by Merin in the mortal world.
Below them coils the Law of Devouring, a silent and endless abyss, shaped by instinct yet sharpened by understanding.
Farther still lies the Law of Space, faint yet vast, a silent backdrop connecting all things.
He begins the assembly.
Not with power.
With meaning.
Emotion binds everything—life, purpose, dreams, destruction.
It becomes the centre.
Around it, the Five Elements shift—not separate forces, but the structure of existence. They fuse, forming a cycle:
Creation → Growth → Decay → Destruction → Rebirth.
A perfect loop.
Yet a loop means nothing without direction.
So he draws the Law of Devouring forward.
Not as destruction—no.
As the bridge.
A hungry law, one that consumes material, spiritual, and emotional forces, refining them into unity.
The devouring law anchors the Five Elements, and from them extends toward space itself—merging physical existence with the intangible.
Slowly—
The laws begin to intertwine.
Emotion shapes intent.
The Five Elements give structure.
Devouring extracts and refining.
Space binds all together.
The void trembles.
Connections tighten.
Contradictions collapse.
And from chaos—
Form emerges.
A monstrous silhouette begins to take shape in his inner world.
Not a concept—
A being.
A maw.
A colossal hunger formed of emotion, element, void, and will.
It opens slowly, as though awakening.
Within its depths lie infinite layers of meaning—fear, grief, hatred, longing, desire—every emotion a blade, every element a tooth.
It devours matter.
It devours spirit.
It devours emotion.
It devours everything.
The first spark of a Dao ignites.
A nascent Dao.
Weak in form, yet boundless in potential.
The stage is only its beginning—Nascent Form.
From here, it will grow:
Nascent → Budding → Blooming → Flowering → Fruit.
When it reaches the Budding Stage, the Dao will stabilise, and Demon Merin will step into the Saint realm by his own understanding—not borrowed blood.
When it reaches Fruit, he will stand at the threshold of the Supreme Stage—master of his path, ruler of his concept.
Demon Merin opens his eyes.
His new Dao settles inside him—like a beast curled beneath his ribs, waiting to awaken fully.
The sleeping Yalong exhales.
Unaware.
Unprepared.
Demon Merin smiles—
Slow,
sharp,
hungry.
The hunt has evolved.
Demon Merin sits in silence, feeling the newborn Dao pulse faintly within him—raw, hungry, unfinished.
It is only the nascent form, yet it already holds frightening potential.
Merin's comprehension of the Five Element Laws reached the Saint King stage,
The Law of Devouring is at true Saint mastery,
The Law of Space is also at Saint-level precision,
But for now, the Law of Emotion is still only at half-step Saint—his chosen primary Law—and so he holds the others back, weaving only fragments of them into the structure.
Too much power would shatter the balance.
Only a true Dao walks forward without collapsing.
And yet—even incomplete—it is enough for what lies before him.
He opens his eyes.
His expression sharpens.
Along with Merin's memories, Demon Merin inherited another strength—Saint-level mastery of formation arrays.
Using the dim flicker of the cave's energy, he begins carving invisible formation lines into the air and sand.
Each motion is precise.
Each symbol is intentional.
Runes anchor into the ridge walls, connecting through lines of demon-infused spiritual sand until the array wraps around the sleeping Yalong like an unseen cage.
A formation to bind.
A formation to prevent escape.
A formation to ensure only one ending.
When the final stroke settles into place, the desert goes unnaturally still.
The moment the formation hums to life, Demon Merin focuses on the thread of demonic aura lingering in the Yalong's spirit space.
His Dao unfurls gently.
Like a shadow.
Like a whisper.
Like a mouth opening in the dark.
He lets the Dao wrap around the sleeping Yalong's soul—slow, patient, careful.
Then—
He begins.
The first wisp of vitality drains.
The Yalong doesn't stir.
More follows.
Each thread absorbed flows into Demon Merin's veins—heat, force, instinct, bloodline power—refining the body and sharpening the Dao with every breath.
His cultivation swells, inching closer to the Saint realm with every pulse of stolen life.
The Yalong's body withers from the inside, flesh decaying without external wound, scales losing the last of their lustre.
Still, it sleeps.
Still, it does not wake.
Only when the final thread of vitality is consumed does the ancient beast finally open its eyes—eyes full of confusion, not rage.
It tries to roar—
But there is no longer a body to roar with.
Only the soul remains.
A powerful soul, once, but incomplete, unanchored, no longer Saint-level without the bloodline foundation.
It trembles.
It understands its fate too late.
Demon Merin's Dao yawns—vast, merciless.
The maw closes.
The Yalong's soul is swallowed whole.
Silence returns.
Power floods Demon Merin's meridians—dense, primal, intoxicating. His demonic aura swells until the air vibrates.
His realm trembles, breaking past multiple internal limits in a single breath.
And then—
Impact.
His cultivation surges violently toward the Saint stage, tearing through the final barrier like a beast ripping open a cage.
The desert around him shakes.
Sand lifts in a swirling storm.
The dream world trembles with mirrored resonance.
Inside, Merin watches quietly.
Studying emotion.
Studying the mechanism of souls.
Studying his other self.