"Just luck," Nightmare Douluo said with a faint smirk. "That beast was already heavily wounded."
"Very well," Zhongli Wu replied, waving his hand. "He's your disciple—handle it as you wish. You know the procedure. Take him to the Ascension Hall yourself."
"Yes."
Nightmare Douluo bowed, then turned to Lin Xiao. "Follow me. You've never seen the Ascension Hall before, have you? Today, you'll have the honor of witnessing the Holy Emperor's presence."
Lin Xiao nodded silently and fell in behind him. He had no interest in what this so-called Holy Emperor looked like—his mind was already sinking deep into his spiritual sea, searching for any possible path of escape.
The headquarters of the Holy Spirit Church sprawled beneath the Evil Demon Forest, a maze of branching tunnels. Disciples occasionally passed by, bowing to Nightmare Douluo as they went. But the deeper they descended toward the Ascension Hall, the quieter it became. Only the sound of two sets of footsteps echoed softly in the dark.
Before long, the path ended. Nightmare Douluo stopped.
Lin Xiao lifted his gaze—and froze. There was no grand temple ahead, no radiant idol of the Holy Emperor. Only an elderly man standing silently before a blank wall. His silver-gray hair was combed meticulously, his skin ruddy and youthful despite his years.
Even without an introduction, Lin Xiao instantly recognized him.
Dragon Emperor Douluo—Long Xiaoyao.
"Greetings, Senior Dragon Emperor," Nightmare Douluo said respectfully.
Even as a Holy Spirit elder, he bowed low before this man.
"Here for an Ascension Ceremony?" Long Xiaoyao's voice was calm, measured.
"Yes, Senior. I ask that you open the gate."
The old man's eyes drifted toward Lin Xiao, pausing for several seconds.
"His cultivation seems… a bit lacking, doesn't it?"
Nightmare Douluo stiffened. It was unusual for the Dragon Emperor to question such things—he seldom concerned himself with the ceremony's participants. But he quickly composed himself and answered, "Senior, the boy's talent is exceptional. Undergoing the ritual early will only help his growth."
"I see." Long Xiaoyao gave a slight nod. "So even I have overlooked something, it seems."
Nightmare Douluo didn't understand what he meant, but he dared not ask. With a sweep of Long Xiaoyao's sleeve, the air shimmered, and a massive stone door appeared out of nothing.
Nightmare Douluo led Lin Xiao forward. As they stepped through, the Dragon Emperor remained behind, his eyes following Lin Xiao's back until it vanished.
It was just one step—but Lin Xiao's vision spun violently. When he looked back, there was no door, no passage, only the heavy silence of an unfamiliar chamber.
The space around him was vast, the floor sloping downward like a drained lakebed.
At the "lake's" center stood a towering stone statue. It gripped a weapon—half shattered, its original form impossible to tell.
Lin Xiao's gaze rose higher—and his heart lurched.
Hanging from the ceiling were countless dim flames.
But they weren't flames. Not truly.
They burned a murky gray instead of the violet hue used throughout the Church. Some flickered brilliantly, others guttered low, on the verge of going out.
And through his perception, he saw the truth.
Each light was a fragmented soul, bound and trapped, whispering endlessly—some in pain, some in reverence—chanting praises for the "Holy Emperor" that had enslaved them.
Beside him, Nightmare Douluo's expression shifted. His usual cold detachment melted into feverish devotion.
Without a word, he stepped forward and unfastened the sack he carried.
Inside lay another Ghost-Faced Owl, even larger than the last—its body massive, its aura oppressive despite its comatose state.
A flash of silver glinted in Nightmare Douluo's hand. A dagger.
He plunged it straight into the beast's chest.
Blood erupted like a crimson fountain, spilling across the floor and snaking toward the base of the statue.
"All set," Nightmare Douluo said, turning back to Lin Xiao with a twisted grin. "Everything's ready. What you gain now depends on your own fortune."
So it is a sacrifice.
Lin Xiao's eyes narrowed, following the trails of blood winding around the statue. The streams intertwined, forming a strange sigil that pulsed faintly.
Then, an invisible pressure crashed down.
The statue seemed to stir—its presence stabbing into Lin Xiao's mind.
Above, the gray "flames" flickered wildly, their lament turning into shrill, ecstatic wailing.
"Go on," Nightmare Douluo whispered, his tone tinged with eerie reverence. "Step into the blood pool. Receive your baptism."
Lin Xiao looked down—and his breath caught.
The entire basin below had filled with blood.
The hundred-thousand-year beast's lifeblood couldn't possibly account for such volume. This was something else—something that defied comprehension.
"What's wrong? Still hesitating?"
The voice echoed oddly—half from Nightmare Douluo, half from the idol itself.
"Go… enter…"
Lin Xiao's mind blurred. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him forward until the blood swallowed him whole.
Nightmare Douluo's lips curved into a thin smile as Lin Xiao vanished beneath the surface. He turned, crouching beside the lifeless Ghost-Faced Owl. With a practiced motion, he drew his blade once more, probing through its flesh until he found what he sought.
A piece of spirit bone glimmered faintly in his hand.
"Ah, my good disciple," he murmured. "You really do have fine friends. Consider this your filial offering to your teacher."
He chuckled softly—but Lin Xiao heard nothing.
Submerged in the viscous red depths, his senses warped. He could breathe, yet the air—or blood—burned with a stench so strong it made his head spin. Everywhere he looked was an endless crimson haze.
Then the pain hit.
It was instant, overwhelming. His body convulsed as if being torn apart from within.
Soul power surged chaotically through his veins; five rings—yellow, yellow, purple, purple, black—rose around him, their light colliding in violent disarray.
Is this truly the Ascension Ceremony?
He remembered what the Sixth Servant had told him—the ritual was meant to be a "worship," a symbolic offering to the Holy Emperor. She had never mentioned sacrifice, nor blood.
Was it because her soul had been divided, the ceremony incomplete? Or had the Church concealed the truth even from its own?
He no longer knew.
Whatever this was, it wasn't ascension. It was torture.
The power rampaged within him, threatening to shred his meridians apart.
(End of Chapter)