In the desert—beneath the still-roaring tribulation cloud—a holy golden light suddenly erupts.
The gathered cultivators tense instantly.
They form a tight battle formation, pressing those who wield holy weapons into the centre. Every eye narrows. Every aura sharpens.
Golden light.
Holy radiance.
It feels wrong—almost insulting—to associate something so pure with a demon, yet the meaning is obvious:
*He survived.
He passed the Saint Tribulation.
He is about to ascend.*
A chill spreads through the crowd.
If the demon becomes a Saint, their revenge becomes a dream. None of them dares imagine fighting a Saint as mortals or Tao Lords.
So they wait—breath held, killing intent rising—ready to strike the moment the clouds disperse.
---
Below that storm, Demon Merin exhales a long, shaky breath.
Relief.
Exhaustion.
A lingering hunger.
The eighty-first tribulation thunder obliterated his entire body—erasing flesh, marrow, and even most of his bones.
Only a single toe bone remained.
That single remnant allowed his spirit to cling to existence and pass the trial.
Now, he frantically draws origin energy into himself.
The tiny bone glows.
Then splits.
Another bone forms, reshaping the foot.
The foot completes, then the ankle.
Energy coils upward, crafting the entire leg.
Hip bones manifest. Then the second leg.
Then his spine ignites, vertebrae appearing one by one.
Soon his ribs, arms, and skull materialise—glittering with indestructible Saint luminescence.
Once the skeleton completes, his absorption surges dramatically.
Organs bloom inside the ribcage.
Veins and meridians weave like glowing threads.
Muscle spreads across bone.
Finally, flesh grows, skin seals—and his eyes open.
His cultivation has not entered the Saint Realm yet.
But his body has.
A Saint-body radiates from him—ancient, powerful, terrifying.
He waits.
The heavens should now grant him the gift of heaven and earth—the Saint baptism of origin energy—allowing his cultivation to ascend and his Dao to evolve to the Budding Form.
But the sky responds differently.
The cloud does not fade.
It darkens.
Deepens.
Thickens.
A ripple of confusion spreads in the watching crowd.
"Why… why isn't the tribulation dissipating?"
Then someone realises—
"…His tribulation isn't done."
As if acknowledging the statement, the tribulation cloud rumbles violently, its pressure doubling, then tripling.
Fear spreads.
A cultivator swallows hard.
"If… if he's facing a second tribulation—after passing the first—then Heaven has judged him a potential Forbidden Genius."
Someone gulps, voice barely steady.
"A genius capable of breaking fate. One who may reach the Forbidden Realm."
A hush falls.
Because they know what that means.
Forbidden Realm is not a cultivation realm—but a measure of defiance.
A measure of how violently someone can shatter the order of Heaven.
It is divided into ten stages:
* First stage: defeat someone one a small realm higher.
Tenth stage: defeat someone ten realms above* and still win.
A realm of monsters, calamities—future Supremes.
And the demon beneath the clouds has been acknowledged as one.
The cultivators tremble—not from cold, but from instinctive fear.
---
The tribulation deepens.
The thundercloud churns like the wrath of a god.
From its heart, forms begin taking shape—
Not normal lightning weapons.
But Dao Weapons.
Supreme-tier imprints.
*A sword woven from thunder.
A spear carved from lightning.
An axe forged from pure law.
A chain made from storm essence.
A seal carrying the command of Heaven.
A halberd formed from the memory of destruction.*
Each radiates a unique Dao—complete, overwhelming, ancient.
The moment they appear, the surrounding cultivators stagger under the pressure.
"This… these aren't ordinary tribulation weapons…"
Someone stares, voice shaking.
"They're Supreme projections."
The thought spreads like wildfire.
Weapons from long-dead or missing Supremes—summoned as trial judges.
The spear descends first.
A cultivator watching gasps.
"That… that's the Dragon Spear! The weapon of the Dragon Supreme!"
Another point at the axe.
"And that—Blood Devil Supreme's Crimson Execution Axe!"
One after another, recognition spreads.
The Chain of Mountain Seal.
The Thunder God Halberd.
The Killing Moon Blade.
The Devouring Seal of the Abyss.
Six legendary weapons descend—each a trial of an ancient Supreme.
No one speaks now.
They simply watch—paralysed.
---
Below, Demon Merin stands tall—face expressionless, eyes burning with a cold madness.
The six Supreme projections strike.
The ground shatters.
Lightning storms erupt in the sky.
The Dragon Spear thrusts forward—a strike capable of killing Saints in a single breath.
Demon Merin reacts.
His Dao manifests—not as light, not as force, but as a vast invisible maw.
It clamps onto the spear—devouring.
But immediately, resistance erupts.
A draconic roar echoes—ancient, royal, violent.
The Dao of the Dragon Supreme pushes back, refusing to be swallowed.
While locked with the spear, the other five weapons strike him in unison.
He roars—not in pain, but in challenge.
His techniques awaken:
Blood Sea.
A crimson ocean expands beneath him, absorbing shock and turning attacks into nourishment.
Killing Fist.
Each punch shatters a Supreme strike head-on, raw, brutal, unstoppable.
Demon Cry.
A sound technique—terrifying in its simplicity—sending waves of killing intent outward like a collapsing star.
Metal clashes.
Thunder screams.
Dao tears through the air and sand.
He blocks five Supreme weapons alone, while his devouring Dao wrestles the spear—analysing every thread of the Dragon Supreme's path.
Law of Dominance.
Law of Bloodline.
Law of Scale and Fang.
He studies them—not with reverence—
But with hunger.
The Dragon Spear trembles.
Slowly, painfully—
The devouring maw begins winning.
The draconic roar weakens.
The Dao resisting him thins.
The spear—piece by piece—is pulled apart.
Absorbed.
Consumed.
The demon's aura rises—deeper, darker, stronger.
He laughs—low, guttural, unrestrained.
And above them, the heavens rumble—
As if Heaven itself were deciding whether this creature before it deserved to exist.
The clash continues.
Demon Merin's strikes become heavier, slower—not from hesitation, but from strain.
His techniques—Blood Sea, Killing Fist, Demon Cry—are powerful, but they are still Tao Stage arts. Against six heavenly-summoned Supreme projections—each carrying Saint-level force—they begin to show limits.
His flesh splits.
Bone cracks.
His newly formed Saint body begins bleeding again.
Yet he does not stop.
He bares his teeth—more beast than man.
Then, with a low growl, he burns his demon essence.
His aura explodes outward.
The desert sky, already dark, turns pitch-black—like ink seeping across the firmament.
The tribulation thunder above flickers, almost dimmed by the spreading demon shroud.
With renewed force, he counters the barrage.
The axe swings—he stops it with Killing Fist, sending cracks through space.
The chain lunges—Demon Cry freezes it momentarily with sheer killing intent.
The seal descends—his Blood Sea rises and swallows half the force.
The sword slashes—he blocks with raw flesh and regenerating bone, refusing to fall.
The halberd tears toward his chest—he twists and sends a spatial ripple to break its strike.
Yet five weapons attacking at once—each carrying the Dao impression of Supremes—remains overwhelming.
Every exchange costs him blood, bone, and will.
---
Far away, but close enough to witness, the gathered cultivators stare with wide, horrified eyes.
The hope they felt moments ago is fading.
One of them whispers, voice trembling:
"If even Heaven's supreme weapons cannot kill him…"
The sentence hangs unfinished—but everyone understands the meaning.
Even with their holy weapons, even with numbers, even with hatred—they may be powerless.
They cannot wield the holy weapons alone.
Without a formation, without perfect unity, those weapons are nothing more than heavy relics.
And if Heaven itself struggles to erase this demon…
How could they?
Helplessness grows.
Some grit their teeth.
Others shake with fear.
A few whisper prayers—not for victory.
But for survival.
---
On the battlefield beneath the clouds, Demon Merin's strength begins to slip.
His movements grow fractionally slower.
His regeneration falters.
His forbidden realm state—the source of his overwhelming might—begins thinning around the edges like fading smoke.
This is his first time entering the Forbidden State.
Unlike the original Merin—who used refined Dao comprehension to effortlessly dominate realms—Demon Merin relies on raw instinct and an overwhelming devouring force.
Forbidden State requires balance.
Climate.
Blood.
Will.
Comprehension.
Intent.
It is a razor's edge walked by only the strongest geniuses.
And Demon Merin's foundation, though monstrous, is still new.
His power continues to bleed away.
The six supreme projections sense the weakening and intensify their assault.
The Dragon Spear, nearly fully devoured, flickers and tries one final strike.
The axe descends with execution force.
The chain tightens, attempting to bind.
The halberd pierces toward his heart.
The seal drops like judgment.
And the thunder sword arcs for his neck.
Demon Merin staggers.
For the first time—
His eyes narrow not in hunger,
not in arrogance,
But in the calculation.
The tribulation is not finished.
And neither is he.
But intent cannot replace strength.
The last remnants of the forbidden state flicker, dim… then vanish entirely.
Demon Merin's aura collapses from overwhelming to merely fierce.
The shift is immediate.
The balance breaks.
The weapons—already pressing him—now strike with crushing dominance.
His Blood Sea falters.
His Killing Fist fractures.
His Demon Cry fails to suppress even a fraction of the heavenly force.
He grits his teeth and continues fighting—slashing with devouring claws, blocking with regenerating flesh, countering with burning spiritual energy—but now it is pure resistance, not retaliation.
The sky roars.
The axe slams downward.
The halberd pierces his shoulder.
The thunder sword carves across his ribs.
The chain wraps around his torso, crushing bone.
The seal drops onto his back—breaking vertebrae and rupturing meridians.
Merin's body jerks violently under the impact.
For a heartbeat, he refuses to fall.
Refuses to kneel.
Refuses to break.
But the five heavenly projections strike again—this time in perfect synchronised force, as if Heaven judges the moment ripe.
Five impacts become one.
A deafening blast echoes across the dunes.
Demon Merin's body shoots downward—
slammed from the sky like a falling meteor.
Sand explodes outward in a massive crater.
The earth shakes.
Cracks spread like a spiderweb for thousands of meters.
Silence follows.
Above, the six remaining weapons hover, humming with divine power—waiting, judging, watching.
The tribulation cloud churns, growing darker still, as if deciding whether to strike again.
Around the crater, the cultivators stare in stunned disbelief—some hopeful, some fearful, none breathing.
Because though buried beneath shattered desert rock—
No one yet dares say he is dead.