The massacre of half the Hidden Severance Guard, and the chilling manifestation of a rogue echo within his own System, left Jianyu with a cold, hard resolve. He had gained a soul-bound weapon, a blade that wept blood, but the cost was immense. He was fighting not just external enemies, but the very fragments of his past, seeking to undermine him from within. The sects, however, remained his primary targets. He needed to strike at their heart, at their very legitimacy.
His gaze turned to the Heaven-Sewn Court, a neutral site revered by all sects, used for grand ceremonies and, most importantly, for ascensions. It was a place where cultivators, deemed worthy, could publicly transcend, legitimizing their power and claiming a higher status in the realm. Jianyu saw it not as a sacred ground, but as a stage.
He arrived at the Heaven-Sewn Court, not with an army, but with a calculated audacity. He posed as a dual-identity deity candidate, a being of such unique power that he forced the sects to acknowledge his existence, to legitimize his very being, even if they abhorred it. He manifested subtly as both Jianyu and Niánmei, their qi signatures intertwining, creating a mesmerizing, unsettling aura that captivated and terrified the assembled elders.
The ceremony for ascension was ancient, steeped in ritual. It involved walking across the Flesh Heaven Bridge, a living road said to react to spiritual truth, to the very essence of a cultivator's being. It was a test of purity, of resolve, of true spiritual alignment.
Jianyu stepped onto the Bridge, his two forms flickering around him, a visible manifestation of his multiplexed soul. The Bridge, a vast expanse of pulsating, organic tissue, hummed beneath his feet, its surface shifting, reacting to his qi. He walked with a serene confidence, allowing the Bridge to probe him, to test him. He felt its ancient consciousness, its judgment.
Halfway across, the Bridge pulsed violently. The air around Jianyu shimmered, distorting. He felt his forms fragmenting, collapsing into a void, then reforming, faster and faster. Visions flooded his mind, not just echoes of his past, but a profound, overwhelming sense of being fragmented, of being torn apart.
He saw himself as a child, small and vulnerable, crying in Gong Xuelan's arms. Her face, usually so cold and clinical, was etched with a strange, almost maternal sorrow. He felt her touch, a chilling tenderness, as she cradled him. And then, her voice, soft and insidious, echoing in his mind, not as a memory, but as a living presence:
"You will make them kneel, my darling sin."
The vision was so real, so visceral, it threatened to consume him. He was a child again, helpless, broken, in the arms of his creator. The Bridge groaned beneath him, threatening to swallow him whole. His qi flared, desperately trying to stabilize his fracturing forms. He was on the verge of collapse, teetering on the precipice of madness. The truth of his origin, the depth of Xuelan's manipulation, was a terrifying, all-consuming force.