Lang Lin closed his laptop and ran a finger over the skull-shaped ring on his hand. "It's time," he muttered. "If Bao were to see this, it would be troublesome."
This was his deepest secret. If anyone found out, disaster would surely follow. Only the little rabbit knew of it—but it was just an animal, and that didn't matter.
He pushed the thought aside. There would be time to worry later.
Heading to the back of the house, he chose a secluded spot before raising his gaze to the ring. The metal was as cold as ever, and within the carved skull, its eyes glowed with a crimson light.
The first time he had used the ring, its red light had gone dark afterward. But after three days, the glow returned. That was when he realized the truth: the ring could open portals only when its eyes shone. Once used, the light vanished, waiting three days to replenish its power.
"What will I get this time?" Lang Lin's chest tightened with excitement. Last time, he had returned with piles of novels worth a fortune. Surely this time would bring something even greater.
The air chilled, and the dimensional gate appeared before him.
With rusty kitchen knife in hand, his face set with determination, Lang Lin stepped through the portal.
On the other side lay the Primordial Tomb.
Several exploration teams were scattered throughout its vast halls. The tomb had only been opened today, and already blood was being spilled—fighting was inevitable in a place like this, where treasures of the ancients slumbered.
This was no ordinary burial ground. It was the eternal resting place of Emperor Ai Ren, a sovereign so mighty that all men of his age had bowed before him. It was said that a single swing of his blade could split a city in two. None had ever defeated him; his legend was etched into history itself.
Among the many factions prowling the tomb was a small group of four youths led by Huang Yikong. Though the youngest among them was only sixteen, each possessed the strength to bring down a tiger with bare hands. Against ordinary men, their fists alone were death.
"Zhang Yangrui," whispered a pale-faced girl, "are you sure this path leads to the treasure chamber?"
Zhang Yangrui looked like a man of fifty, his beard long and gray, yet he was only seventeen. His aged appearance came from his bloodline. Stopping, he drew out an ancient compass inscribed with archaic runes. Its needle trembled as if pulled by unseen energy.
"No mistake," he said firmly. "This Treasure-Seeking Compass has never lied. It's a level-two magical artifact. Its detection range may only be a kilometer, but in a place like this, that is more than enough."
"Then let's move," said Huang Yikong, unsheathing his sword and stepping boldly into the darkness.
The girl nodded and followed. The passage they entered reeked like the den of a beast, the walls slimy with green mucus. Fortunately, the tunnel stretched only two hundred meters. Any longer and the stench would have suffocated them.
Clang! Clang!
The ring of steel echoed from ahead.
"Wait. There's fighting up ahead," Huang Yikong warned. They pressed against a massive stone, hiding themselves.
"That's the garb of Taoist cultivators!" the girl whispered.
"And those they're fighting…" Yikong's eyes narrowed. "They belong to the Black Dragon Empire." His voice shook. These were powers far beyond what they could afford to provoke.
"What do we do?" the fat youth in their group finally spoke, fear thick in his tone. "We can't afford to leave empty-handed. We came here for treasure."
"Yangrui, can you find us another way around?" Yikong asked.
Zhang Yangrui pressed his fingers to his forehead, his eyes flaring with red light as his qi surged. Sweat poured down his face as he forced the compass to seek another route.
"I've found one! This way!" His voice was weak, but triumphant. His body trembled from the effort, but the risk was worth it.
They hurried toward the hidden path—but then, in an instant, a long sword shot from the shadows.
Thud!
The fat youth collapsed, the blade driven clean through his skull.
"Ahhh!" the girl screamed, bolting blindly down the hidden tunnel.
Yangrui's face turned ghastly white. Huang Yikong gripped his sword so tightly his knuckles bled.
A cold laugh filled the air. "Trying to slip past while we fought the Taoists, were you?"
The victor stepped forward, drenched in blood, his aura like an icy storm. He was the last survivor of the clash—proof that he was the strongest among them. He was a cultivator of the Black Dragon Empire.
Yangrui forced a smile despite his terror. "Elder brother, now that you've defeated them, why not share the spoils with us? There's no need for more killing, is there?"
The man's eyes blazed with murderous intent. He wanted nothing more than to cut Yangrui down where he stood. But then he glanced at his own wounds, deep and bleeding. If he fought again now, even against these two weaklings, there was no guarantee he would leave alive.
He gave a cruel smile. "Very well. Just now, when I threw my sword, it was meant only to block the path. That fool ran into it by chance. Pure accident."
Huang Yikong's stomach churned. Accident? The strike had been too precise to be chance. But he swallowed his rage, forcing his face into a strange smile. Survival mattered more than truth.
Together, the three of them pressed on, the Black Dragon cultivator following close behind.
As they ventured deeper, monstrous spiders attacked—giant arachnids of the first rank, far stronger than common beasts. Yikong and Yangrui, still at the mid-stage of qi gathering, could barely handle them. Only the Black Dragon cultivator, at the peak of qi gathering, could cut them down with ease.
Eventually, they stumbled upon the girl who had fled earlier. Her body was now a husk, shriveled and bloodless.
"She must have been drained by the spiders," Yikong sighed. "Let's move quickly."
The tomb was only growing darker—and far more deadly.