Lin Zian steps into the black mist, and the world vanishes.
There is no sky, no ground of snow, only pitch-black fog forming walls, floor, and ceiling alike, pressing close with a silent, suffocating presence.
He spreads his spirit sense and immediately realises he is alone.
The space around him resolves into the shape of a corridor, long and narrow, its boundaries formed entirely of condensed black mist, with the cold of the frozen wasteland completely erased.
Lin Zian snaps his fingers.
A sphere of fire blooms into existence, hovering above his palm and casting flickering light that barely pushes back the darkness.
He begins to walk.
The corridor stretches forward in silence, swallowing sound, until it abruptly ends and splits into two paths—one curving left, the other right.
He pauses only briefly, then turns right and continues.
Minutes pass.
The path ends again, this time dividing into three corridors that fan outward like the ribs of a beast.
Lin Zian chooses the middle path without hesitation and walks straight ahead.
There is no logic he can sense, no pattern carved into the maze, so he trusts instinct over calculation, taking turns that feel right rather than those that appear safe.
The corridor suddenly opens.
Lin Zian steps into a vast chamber—and the moment his spirit sense expands, danger screams through his mind.
He twists and rolls to the side.
A thunder spear crashes down where he stood a heartbeat earlier, tearing through the mist floor in an explosion of lightning.
Lin Zian rises instantly and looks up.
Floating above is a burly figure, his frame massive and dense, arcs of lightning crawling over his skin as another thunder spear condenses in his grasp.
A Thunder Whale demon.
The demon hurls the spear without a word.
Lin Zian raises a single finger.
Sword qi erupts.
A sharp, condensed blade of light slashes forward, colliding with the spear midair, and the chamber detonates in blinding light and thunder.
Before the shockwave fades, Lin Zian vanishes.
He reappears above the demon, sword already drawn, his body moving with blinding speed as he strikes.
The Thunder Whale demon meets him head-on.
The clash shakes the chamber.
Lin Zian's sword rings against flesh hardened like divine metal, sparks and lightning exploding outward with every impact.
The demon does not dodge.
He cultivates the Puppet Lord profession—his body treated as a perfected puppet, forged and refined down to the microscopic level, capable of clashing directly with true spiritual treasures.
Fist meets blade.
Thunder meets sword qi.
The chamber becomes a storm.
Lin Zian spreads his arms, and sword qi erupts from his back, forming radiant wings.
Sword Wing.
His agility surges as he weaves through attacks, leaving streaks of light behind him.
He flicks his fingers in rapid succession.
Finger Sword.
Blades of sword qi lance outward, forcing the demon to raise Lightning Armour, crackling arcs forming a defensive shell around his body.
The demon counters with a thunder roar, shockwaves rippling through the chamber, followed by a lightning whip that snaps toward Lin Zian like a living serpent.
Lin Zian twists, channelling elemental sword arts in rapid succession.
Fire Sword scorches through the mist.
Water Sword flows, deflecting lightning.
Earth Sword crashes down with crushing weight.
Metal Sword pierces with ruthless precision.
Wood Sword spreads, branching and binding.
Then Lin Zian raises his blade high.
Countless strands of sword qi spiral together.
Sword Qi Dragon.
The dragon roars into existence and charges, colliding with thunder fist and thunder spear in a catastrophic explosion that rips the chamber apart.
Smoke, lightning, and sword light fill the void.
In the chaos, Lin Zian moves.
One precise strike slips through a gap—past Lightning Armour, past thunder-forged flesh.
The blade does not cut the body.
It passes straight through.
The Thunder Whale demon freezes, eyes widening.
Lin Zian's sword has pierced his spirit.
A psychic wizard's strike.
The lightning around the demon falters, flickers, and collapses into fading sparks as the chamber falls unnaturally silent.
Lin Zian does not give the enemy a single breath to recover.
His eyes sharpen, and his presence changes.
A pulse spreads outward from his body.
His inner field unfolds.
The black mist beneath his feet is overwritten, replaced by an endless field of grass stretching across the chamber, each blade long, narrow, and gleaming like forged steel.
Sword-grass.
Every strand trembles, releasing fine threads of sword qi that hum through the air like a thousand whispering blades.
The pressure of the field crashes down on the Thunder Whale demon.
For the first time, the demon staggers.
His movements slow, not from injury, but from suppression—his control over space and motion forcibly overridden by Lin Zian's field.
Before the demon can adapt, Lin Zian moves.
He vanishes and reappears within the grass, his sword flickering in and out of existence.
Spirit Sword.
The strike bypasses flesh and lightning, cutting directly at the demon's spirit.
The Thunder Whale demon roars, lightning surging wildly as his control over his own body falters for a fraction of a second.
That fraction is enough.
Lin Zian presses the advantage.
Sword qi erupts from the grass itself, slashing upward from every direction, each blade of grass becoming a silent executioner.
The demon swings blindly, thunder fists and lightning whips tearing through the field, but the grass reforms instantly, sharper than before.
Another Spirit Sword strike lands.
The demon's posture collapses.
His movements become erratic, delayed, disconnected, as if the commands sent to his body arrive moments too late.
Lin Zian steps in.
This time, his blade does not pass through.
Steel bites flesh.
Blood splashes across the sword-grass as Lin Zian cuts again and again, each strike precise, merciless, guided by psychic perception rather than sight.
The Thunder Whale demon tries to retreat, but the field denies him escape.
The pressure increases.
The grass bends inward.
Sword qi converges.
With a final, silent thrust, Lin Zian drives his blade through the demon's core.
The lightning dies.
The massive body stiffens, then collapses.
Lin Zian withdraws his sword and exhales slowly.
His inner field retracts.
The endless sword-grass dissolves back into black mist, leaving the chamber bare once more.
The demon's corpse hits the floor heavily—then the mist surges, wrapping around it, dragging it downward until it vanishes as if it never existed.
Lin Zian descends to one knee.
Fatigue washes over him, his breathing uneven but controlled.
He snaps his fingers.
A fireball blooms into existence, its light pushing back the darkness once more.
Without looking back, Lin Zian rises to his feet and steps forward, continuing deeper into the maze as the black corridors shift silently ahead of him.
Like Lin Zian, the other third-stage transcenders who entered the array are also fighting their own counterparts—enemies drawn from the Night Dynasty and the martial artists.
Across the black mist, battles erupt in isolation.
Some end decisively, victory claimed by one side, the loser's corpse swallowed whole by the mist, erased without a trace.
Others drag on until both sides withdraw, wounded but alive, the conflict ending in a grim draw.
One such battle teeters on that edge.
Minyu stands opposite Ge Qiu.
Light gathers in Minyu's palm and erupts forward in a focused spell, radiant and pure.
Ge Qiu meets it head-on, his sword flashing as he cleaves the light apart, fragments dissolving into the darkness.
Their positions shift.
They clash again.
And again.
Neither gains ground.
Finally, both are slow, and fatigue is evident even at their level.
Minyu exhales and speaks first.
"You've grown weaker."
This is not the first time they have fought.
Ge Qiu's eyes narrow.
"If I had my original sword, you would already be dead."
Minyu snorts softly.
"What difference does a sword make?"
Ge Qiu's gaze sharpens.
"You will see."
He steps backwards.
The black mist behind him ripples—and Ge Qiu vanishes into it, swallowed without a sound.
Minyu does not linger.
He dismisses the exchange from his mind, gathers light once more, and presses forward, following the corridor that opens ahead.
Time loses meaning inside the array.
The path twists, stretches, and folds back on itself.
It feels like days pass as Minyu walks, fights minor disturbances, and advances deeper.
At last, he steps into a wide chamber.
Waiting for him is a third-stage puppet.
Its body gleams with refined metal, joints seamless, movements precise.
They clash immediately.
Light collides with steel.
Minyu's spells scorch and bend around the puppet's form, while the puppet's blows land with mechanical inevitability, each strike calculated, efficient, merciless.
The battle drags on.
Then Minyu's eyes harden.
He releases his field.
Cold moonlight spreads outward, washing over the chamber in pale silver.
The temperature drops.
Time seems to slow.
Within the field, both fighters come to a halt.
The puppet stiffens.
Its metal body ripples, plates shifting, reforming.
The refined shell dissolves like melting wax, revealing a familiar figure beneath.
Minyu's expression changes.
His voice is quiet, controlled.
"Which plan are we following?"
The figure before him looks back with eyes too calm to be human, a faint smile forming as the moonlight reflects in its gaze.