Those fleeting moments of calm allowed Lin Xiao's thoughts to settle—and with clarity came understanding. The disciples who had undergone the Spirit Ascension Ceremony were different not only because of their fractured souls. Their most striking distinction lay in their spirit ring ages.
Among the core disciples of the Holy Spirit Church, not a single one possessed a mere hundred-year first ring. The weakest among them bore purple rings—and many, black.
He had once assumed the Church used some secret technique to enhance ring age. But now he understood—the secret was the ceremony itself.
Why had the Sixth Servant not needed a spirit beast sacrifice, while Nightmare Douluo had dragged him all the way to the Star Dou Forest to capture one?
It was clear now: the Sixth Servant's "ceremony" had been incomplete. What she experienced was only indoctrination, not true ascension.
What Lin Xiao faced tonight was the real ritual—the complete fusion of soul and sacrifice.
Those spirit beasts—the Ghost-Faced Owl, the black cat—all shared one trait. Their natures were tied to death, to the boundary between life and soul, just like his Other Shore Flower Martial Spirit.
The true purpose of the ceremony wasn't only to enslave minds. It was to use these soul beasts as offerings—to forcefully raise the age of a Spirit Master's rings.
That was why the Church claimed ascension made one "strong beyond measure."
And they were right—at least in part.
But Lin Xiao had no time left to marvel at the discovery.
Yes, he was "fortunate"—fortunate that the lost beasts had been replaced by a hundred-thousand-year Ghost-Faced Owl. Yet he was also the most unfortunate of all, for the power flooding into him now was far beyond what the human body could endure.
The agony tore at him without end. His spirit quaked, his consciousness fading. Within his spiritual sea, the last fragments of order began to collapse…
A faint breeze brushed past his face. Lin Xiao's eyes fluttered open.
He found himself standing in a place both strange and familiar.
Strange, because he had never set foot here before. Familiar, because at his feet bloomed countless Other Shore Flowers—his martial spirit, carpeting the ground in crimson.
Ahead stretched a narrow path winding through an endless sea of flowers.
He began to walk. Shadows appeared around him—faces he thought he recognized: former disciples of the Holy Spirit Church, perhaps, or strangers whose souls he had once guided to rest. They walked beside him in silence.
The gentle wind stirred their robes. The blossoms swayed lightly on either side, watching him pass just as he had once watched lost souls drift by.
And then—he heard it. The sound of running water.
Before him lay a river, endless and clear. Its surface reflected two faces—his own, and another faint, unrecognizable one beside it.
"So this is it," Lin Xiao murmured. His voice carried softly in the wind. "I've sent so many souls across this river. I suppose it's finally my turn."
"No. Not yet."
The calm, steady voice startled him. He blinked—and in an instant, the field of flowers was gone.
He was back in his spiritual sea. The blossoms had vanished, replaced by barren earth stretching as far as the eye could see. The ground trembled, cracked, yet somehow held firm.
Then—
Thump.
A deep, rhythmic sound echoed beneath the soil. Lin Xiao's heart leapt. Something was breathing down there.
Thump.
Another pulse. Pain shot through his body; warmth trickled from his nose and lips. In his inner world, the ground began to rise, bulging upward as green vines burst through the cracks.
Thump.
The third beat came—and Lin Xiao knew what was about to happen.
Outside, Nightmare Douluo's eyes went wide. Within the whirl of blood and light, Lin Xiao's first spirit ring shattered with a sharp crack.
In its place formed a ring of absolute black.
Then the second. The third. The fourth.
Even the fifth—already a ten-thousand-year ring—darkened until it gleamed like obsidian.
Black. Black. Black. Black. Black.
Five rings—each one as deep as night.
His cultivation hadn't changed. He was still only a Spirit King, yet the power radiating from him made even Nightmare Douluo's breath catch.
He had seen black first rings before. The Holy Spirit Church's Supreme Leader, Ye Xishui, had one herself.
But Ye Xishui was a Limit Douluo.
And Lin Xiao—Lin Xiao was barely past the fifth rank. How could a mortal body endure five ten-thousand-year rings, when even thirty-thousand-year rings should have torn him apart?
Especially when the sacrifice had been a hundred-thousand-year beast—a being whose essence far surpassed ordinary ten-thousand-year spirits.
How could he possibly survive it?
Perhaps not even Lin Xiao knew.
All he could do was seize the torrent of power flooding through him—desperately, instinctively, determined to absorb every fragment he could before it destroyed him.
He didn't care how much he took in, nor did he realize that even his first spirit ring now gleamed black. All he knew was that strength—real strength—was the only path to survive.
The fear he had felt before the ceremony, the helplessness in the face of a Titled Douluo's power—he never wanted to feel that again.
Pain? That no longer mattered.
The blood pool receded around him, but his aura only grew denser, more oppressive. Nightmare Douluo's hands trembled. His gaze darted toward the dimming gray flame overhead again and again.
He knew his place in the Church was precarious. Lin Xiao's potential, even half-realized, already exceeded his own. If the boy survived, his future status would eclipse that of his master.
And so, the elder's only hope now lay in that flickering light.
Time crawled. The ritual chamber fell eerily still. Nightmare Douluo's limbs had gone stiff when, at last—
The gray flame flared once more.
Slowly, it rose upward, merging with the countless other trapped souls that sang their hollow praises to the false Holy Emperor.
Nightmare Douluo exhaled and looked down—only to see Lin Xiao standing before him, the blood pool drained dry.
A dark cloak draped over his shoulders. His expression was calm, eyes unreadable.
"Teacher," Lin Xiao said quietly.
"Good… good!" Nightmare Douluo's lips twisted into a satisfied grin. "The ceremony is complete. From this day forth, you are a true Saint Envoy of the Holy Church. Come. We'll present you before the High Priest."
"Yes."
Lin Xiao's tone was flat, emotionless.
Nightmare Douluo took no notice. He raised a token, channeling soul power. The stone gate shimmered into existence once more.
As they stepped through, Lin Xiao turned slightly—his gaze flicking back to the faint gray flame hanging above.
And in that moment, Long Xiaoyao's words echoed again in his mind.
Even a Limit Douluo could overlook something. So what chance did Nightmare Douluo ever have to understand it?
(End of Chapter)