Necropolis did not slow when Nightsea stirred.
Even with Lan Yunzhu in the group, Ling Feng did not rush toward any so-called great chance.
He strolled.
Necropolis was a city built on bones and obsessions. Under the streets, the dead dreamed in stone coffins and bronze sarcophagi; above them, the living bargained, laughed, plotted, and gambled their futures away. Ghost Immortals in tattered court robes haggled with human cultivators over Yang Nightfish. Sentiments brewed tea in broken palaces, white shadows from the Snow-Shadow Tribe slipped like frost between alleys, and the distant roar of Nightsea and Ancestral Flow hummed under everything like a buried drum.
Ling Feng moved through it as if through his own courtyard—hands in his sleeves, women at his side, Snow-Shadow elites and Thousand Carp elders fanning out behind like an accidental procession.
The pressure of Ancestral Flow in the distance, the chill from Nightsea's hidden tides, the faint hum of Ghost River… all of it lay coiled under the streets. He felt it. He simply refused to let it rush him.
Lan Yunzhu walked half a step to his right.
Today she wore simple blue robes, Thousand Carp's subtle wave patterns hidden beneath a light cloak. Her bearing was still as noble as before—back straight, gaze steady—but something had shifted. The invisible distance that once lay between "Thousand Carp's proud descendant" and "dangerous stranger" had melted by a finger's width.
Maybe it was because her hand had already rested in his once, in the middle of Necropolis' main street, while two Heavenly Sovereigns burned to ash behind them.
Maybe it was because the jade she had worn since childhood now hung openly on his chest, its dao ripples purring like a tame beast whenever she drew near.
Or maybe it was because, in the private stillness of an inn room two nights prior, he had casually done something that shattered the common sense of countless cultivators.
...
They had taken an upper-floor courtyard in an inn run by sentiments. The walls were engraved with ghostly dao lines that swallowed sound and spiritual sense; bone lanterns cast a soft, cold light, their flames swaying as if breathing.
Lan Yunzhu sat cross-legged on a stone mat. Behind her, her saint fate palace hovered like a small, silent world—walls thick and ancient, rivers running with the dao of Immortal Emperor Qian Li's legacy and Thousand Carp's teachings. Within that palace, clear holy currents moved like a refined version of her ancestral river, waves carrying the scent of jade and water.
For many geniuses, just that palace alone was a lifetime's pinnacle.
Ling Feng sat opposite her, sleeves rolled up, expression casually focused. No incense burner, no grand formation, no ranks of elders chanting blessings. Just him, one hand extended, two fingers resting against her wrist with a touch lighter than falling snow.
"You're really fine with this?" Lan Yunzhu asked at last, lashes lowering to hide the flicker in her eyes. "Opening another saint palace is not a minor matter. Thousand Carp's ancestors took generations to build a path for my first palace. Even with your ability… I cannot repay—"
"Hey," Ling Feng cut in, voice soft, almost amused. "You already paid."
She blinked. "…Paid?"
"That jade." He nodded toward the pendant lying against his chest. "It pointed me at you. You came over. That's enough."
His tone held no falseness. It felt as if he truly thought this was a fair trade: an era-shifting opportunity in return for meeting her.
Lan Yunzhu found herself briefly speechless.
He grinned, just a little.
"Relax, Yunzhu. I'm already liking you," he said frankly. "I help the people I like. I'm not running some loan business here."
Her heartbeat skipped. She forced herself to still it, turning her mind back toward her saint fate palace.
This man is dangerous, she reminded herself. Not only in strength. In the way he speaks.
"Close your eyes," Ling Feng said. The teasing edge faded from his voice, leaving it steady, warm. "I'll do most of the heavy lifting. You just… don't fight me."
She obeyed.
Within her Inner Void, the saint palace's ancient walls shone. The dao river within ran clear and deep, fed by Immortal Emperor Qian Li's teachings, by Thousand Carp's ancestral dao, by her own tireless cultivation. For anyone else, building another palace at this level would be like hanging a second moon in the same sky—one wrong push, and both would crack and collapse.
Ling Feng's Chaos Force slid into her like a second, invisible current.
Not invasive, not domineering—simply there, inevitable, like the tide.
In his Inner Void, the Green Chaos Emerald pulsed. Space between her dao lines stretched and softened under an unseen touch; cramped paths gently parted, like mud around a riverbank loosening after a rain.
The Yellow Emerald hummed next. Her refined energy, once flowing in a single grand torrent, began to adjust—thinning where it had become too dense and stubborn, thickening where hairline brittleness had gone unnoticed even by Immortal Emperor legacies. The invisible pressure points left by years of cultivation were touched and smoothed, one by one.
The Purple Emerald's soul light wrapped around her Dao Heart, stilling it. The tension of responsibility, the weight of Thousand Carp's expectations, the subtle fear of failure—all of it was bound, softened, and set aside. Not stolen. Not erased. Simply moved out of the way so that nothing could disturb her in this moment.
He did not tear apart her Thousand Carp heritage. He did not force a foreign dao into her system.
He simply took all the tiny imbalances that any human cultivation left behind… and smoothed them.
In that instant, if some ancient ancestor could have peered into her Inner Void, they would have wept. This was the foundation every line dreamed of but could never achieve across generations.
At this moment, Lan Yunzhu had long since stepped into the Ancient Saint Realm. Her talent was terrifying enough that, in the eyes of the Sacred Nether World, she was someone who could compete for the Heaven's Will.
Because of that, Ling Feng's process was almost effortless.
Her saint palace shivered.
At the far horizon of that inner world—where mist had always obscured the edge of her own potential—space rippled.
A seventh fate palace outline flickered into being like a mirage: faint walls, distant sky, an empty land where only indistinct dao mist drifted. In this world, such an outline should have taken another lifetime to stabilize; most geniuses would break their dao trying.
Here, under his guidance, it began to solidify in the span of breaths.
Lan Yunzhu's breathing hitched in the physical world. Cold sweat beaded along her back. Inside, she felt as if she were watching a second river force its way past a dam that had never been meant to hold it.
She stood on a tightrope suspended above an abyss.
And somewhere beyond that abyss, this man's hand casually held the rope steady.
"Good," Ling Feng murmured, thumb brushing lightly over the inside of her wrist in the real world. The small touch anchored her, like a hand at the small of her back. "Follow the pull. Don't overthink it. You're built for this."
Her dao river surged.
Under the subtle shift of his Chaos Force, the main current did not shatter; it split. A portion turned aside, seeding the new land. Walls thickened. Sky clarified. A seventh saint fate palace—lean, young, ferociously bright—rose beside the first, its embryonic rivers already humming with Thousand Carp dao.
Thousand Carp's ancestors would have gone mad if they could see this.
Lan Yunzhu trembled, biting down on the soft gasp that wanted to escape her lips. The breakthrough thunder that should have shaken the city was swallowed by her meridians, dissolved and absorbed by the Yellow Emerald's control over energy; to the outside world, nothing happened except a slight flutter of bone lantern light.
Inside, her realm climbed like a dragon ascending a waterfall.
Her Inner Void expanded. Dao patterns that had crowded a single palace now had room to stretch and spiral. Her saintly foundation, once already proud enough to look down on peers, stepped onto a height few could even glimpse.
A seventh saint fate palace.
A Heavenly Saint.
After an unknown span of heartbeats, it was done.
The seventh palace stood firm. The river between palaces flowed with a new, vigorous rhythm.
Lan Yunzhu opened her eyes.
For a moment, she simply sat there, pupils still reflecting the twin palaces within. The air around her had changed; even sitting quietly, she now exerted a faint pressure that would make many geniuses instinctively avert their gazes.
Ling Feng's hand left her wrist with a soft pat.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
She searched for words, failed, then managed hoarsely, "…As if the river inside me was always meant to split, but the dam never broke until now."
"Yeah." He smiled, genuinely pleased. "That's the feeling. Your line has been trying to cram too much into one palace for generations. Someone needed to poke a hole in the wall."
He spoke lightly, but she knew exactly how terrifying what he had just done was.
To guide the transformation of a saint fate palace, to open a seventh one seamlessly… In Necropolis, there were Ancestors who would gladly trade half their remaining lifespan for the method. There were imperial lineages that would kneel and beg for a single pointer.
He had done it in an inn courtyard, on a calm night, with bone lanterns swaying gently outside.
And he had not asked for a thing.
Lan Yunzhu's throat tightened.
"Ling Feng," she said quietly, fingers curling in her robes, "this grace… I truly do not know how—"
He leaned forward and flicked her lightly on the forehead.
She jolted, eyes widening.
"Don't start with that." His tone was gentle but firm. "You want to repay me? Live well. Walk your dao to the end. Don't waste what I just did. That's enough."
His finger brushed the edge of her brow as it withdrew. The touch was warm and casual, as if he had merely wiped away a stray ink mark.
Then he ruined the solemn air completely by grinning.
"Also, let me tease you now and then," he added. "That's non-negotiable."
She stared at him.
Against her will, a quiet laugh escaped her lips, like a clear drop of water falling into a deep pool.
"…Shameless," she murmured.
"See?" He spread his hands. "Already paying me back. You look better when you smile."
Her cheeks heated. She turned away, pretending to study the faint dao mist tracing the courtyard tiles. Her Dao Heart, tempered by Immortal Emperor Qian Li's trials and countless Thousand Carp ordeals, had weathered storms that broke others. Yet this man's simple, direct words stirred ripples she couldn't quite smooth away.
Outside, Necropolis continued to breathe. Inside, a Heavenly Saint sat in front of a man who made that title feel small.
...
The next days passed in that rhythm: quiet nights of cultivation and laughter, noisy days where Ling Feng walked through Necropolis as if strolling through a familiar neighborhood on a lazy afternoon.
He wandered with his women and allies, sometimes as a whole group, sometimes in smaller clusters.
He let Su Yonghuang walk at his side while they discussed the interplay between her blazing sun flames and the dense Nether yin coiling under Necropolis' foundations. Her usual distant calm warmed by his earnestness as he pointed at the ghostly sky.
"Look," he said, tracing with a finger. "Your flames like to burn straight up. But here, the yin bends everything sideways. You don't fight that—you ride it. Twist, then pierce."
"With your words, it sounds very simple," Su Yonghuang said, lips curving faintly. "If I taught my disciples like this, they would die from confusion."
"You're not me," he replied, unbothered. "I'll show you tonight. We'll make the Nether itself work overtime for you."
She gave him a sidelong glance, eyes softening for a moment before she hid it behind imperial poise. "Then I shall trouble you, Ling Feng."
He leaned back lazily in a teahouse while Bing Yuxia pretended not to be pleased when he dragged her into the seat beside him and poured tea personally.
"You know," he said as steam curled between them, "from the way you glare, anyone would think you hate sitting next to me."
Bing Yuxia scoffed, though she relaxed by nearly half an inch. "If I am seen being too intimate with you-"
"Yuxia," he cut her off, tone light, "I'm holding my beautiful woman's hand, I don't care about anything else."
Her ears turned pink. She coughed, looking away toward the street. "You… truly have no shame."
He smiled, topped off her cup, and said nothing more. Her fingers, though, tightened minutely around the warm porcelain, and she didn't move away.
He followed Chi Xiaodie into an armory where ghost smiths hammered life treasures from soul-iron and bones. The princess argued with a skeletal craftsman over blade balance, her usual scowl sharpened by excitement.
"This weight distribution is wrong," she insisted, pointing. "A saber like this will drag the user's center of gravity forward."
The ghost smith rattled its jaw in annoyance. "Living ones these days know nothing. This is—"
Ling Feng slid in between them, plucking the saber from the rack. He twirled it once, the blade cutting a clean arc that made the air hiss.
"She's right," he said easily. "Shift the core weight back by three fingers. Otherwise your customers will eat dirt the first time someone parries them properly."
Chi Xiaodie's scowl softened into something like satisfaction. When they stepped back out into the street, she tilted her head at him.
"You really had no reason to interfere," she said. "Yet you did."
"Can't let my woman swing a crooked blade," he replied, utterly serious.
Her steps faltered. Color rose in her cheeks, fierce and helpless at once. "…Idiot."
He watched Qiurong Wanxue handle Snow-Shadow matters with cold grace, white shadow flaring faintly behind her whenever she issued orders to elders and retainers. Later, when they stood alone beneath a ghost willow, its pale leaves drifting like frozen tears, he simply reached out and squeezed her fingers once.
"You're doing great," he said softly.
The saintess of the Snow-Shadow Tribe, whose whole body had been carved by duty since childhood, exhaled. The burden on her shoulders felt half as heavy.
He let Xu Pei fuss over everyone's meals, stealing skewers from the grill she bought from a sentiment chef. She scolded him in a whisper, only to squeak when he bent down to murmur some nonsense in her ear—little phrases from a world no one else understood.
Her eyes turned into crescents, and though she hit his arm, her posture leaned toward him with unmistakable trust.
He praised Chen Baojiao's relentless sparring, half-joking that if she kept it up, she might make him blink one of these days.
"If I make you blink," she snorted, sweat glistening on her brow, "you'll have to marry me twice."
"Deal," he said instantly.
She tripped over her own foot, then pretended she hadn't heard him, attacking even more fiercely.
He and Bai Jianzhen occasionally exchanged a look across a courtyard—the swordswoman's eyes calm, his gaze amused. There was an understanding there, wordless and sharp: if she asked for another sword exchange, he would not refuse. She kept her distance, guarding her dao like a blade honed alone in the dark, but when he brushed past her shoulder one evening and said in a low voice, "When you're ready to test that new sword thought, just say so," she did not pull away.
In the quieter hours, he sat cross-legged with Li Shangyuan, their hands lightly touching as he adjusted the cold, crystalline flow of her Pure Jade Physique's energy. Frosty mist coiled around her fingers even when she was still.
At the same time, rumors thickened like fog.
The name "Ling Feng" sank deeper.
The human who let a swordswoman kill Mo Lidao with one stroke.
The human who snapped Ye Sha's neck as if breaking a twig, without even turning around.
To some, he looked like a calamity wearing mortal skin.
To others, he looked like a walking opportunity—and a walking grave.
...
On the third day after Lan Yunzhu's seventh fate palace opened, Necropolis' air changed.
At first, it was only a rumor floating through inns.
"Have you heard…? Nightsea's surface is clear."
"At first light, the ferries reported it. They say you can see straight down past ten thousand zhang. Yang Nightfish are jumping like silver rain!"
"You're talking nonsense. Nightsea has been an ink-black death ocean since long ago. How could it clear?"
"Old undyings have woken in their graves," another voice whispered, lower, as if afraid of being overheard by the stones. "They say this change heralds a deeper realm beneath it opening. A world within the sea!"
Words spread like oil on water.
Whispers turned into shouts.
Disciples ran through streets, faces lit by greed and fear.
Sect masters summoned elders and opened long-sealed chests. In high pavilions and shadowed bone halls, decrees flew out like flocks of paper cranes.
Even sentiments—those ghostly remnants who had chosen to continue "living" in Necropolis—paused in their routines. Tea cooled in porcelain cups. Skeletal hands stopped in mid-carve over jade. Empty eye sockets flickered toward the distant direction of Nightsea.
Yang Nightfish were more than strange creatures; in Necropolis, they were currency, opportunity, fate. And if old undyings whispered of deeper realms…
The whole Sacred Nether World felt the tug.
High above one bustling street, Ling Feng sat with his back against a balcony railing, one leg dangling over the drop, watching the city ripple.
Below, bone lanterns swayed as crowds surged in new directions. The air itself carried the buzz of countless calculations: risk, benefit, backing, face. Human sects from distant Distant Cloud; Ghost Immortals from Yin Moon; beast tribes, devil lineages, Blood Race clans… all began to move.
Xu Pei leaned on the rail beside him, chin propped on her hand, gaze on the ant-like people below.
"Everyone's going crazy again," she sighed.
"That's what big news does," Ling Feng replied lazily. "Shake the tree, watch all the monkeys start screaming."
Li Shangyuan's lips twitched, the faintest smile breaking through her calm. She had heard that tone before, right before he crushed what others called untouchable.
Chen Baojiao snorted a laugh. "Monkeys who think they can snatch peaches from the hand of a dragon."
Qiurong Wanxue approached, Snow-Shadow elders trailing discreetly behind her. Her hair caught the ghost light, making her figure seem like a piece of frost carved out of moonlight. The white shadow behind her flickered once and then stilled.
"News from the docks," she said, voice composed but eyes sharp. "Nightsea has indeed turned clear. The ghost ferries are swamped. Many powers have already moved. Our people report that Golden Child is heading there with his tribe's elites. Divine Spark Prince has taken his country's disciples as well. Hundred Clans Child, Ghost Monk… they are gathering."
The names would have made many Ghost Immortals and humans tense even in whispers.
In Ling Feng's balcony, they drifted through the air like a light breeze.
Golden Child—golden bones gleaming, flames in empty eye sockets, the pride of the Hundred Bones Sacred Tribe.
Ghost Monk—the monk whose ghost lotus step could make even old monsters wary.
Hundred Clans Child—the walking convergence of countless bloodlines from the Hundred Gods Country.
Divine Spark Prince—the bearer of divine rings blazing like miniature heavens, always walking half a step behind someone else's prestigious backer.
Ling Feng's expression didn't change at the first three.
At the fourth, his lips twitched.
"Divine Spark," he drawled. "That loudmouth again."
Lan Yunzhu, who had just stepped out onto the balcony, looked over in mild surprise. "You know him?"
"Know?" Ling Feng chuckled. "Not really. Just heard him shouting for half a day in another street. Apparently his royal sister and her man are the sky and ground of this world, and the rest of us are supposed to kneel whenever he coughs."
Divine Spark Country's ties spread in every direction—Divine Spark Phoenix Maiden, Di Zuo, Immortal Emperor heritage. In the mouths of others, such connections were mountains; in Ling Feng's mouth, they were nothing more than background decoration on the road.
"I'm kind of looking forward to meeting those two," he added, eyes narrowing with a trace of wolfish interest. "One day, when they finally come out… I'll see how hard their heads are."
Li Shangyuan glanced at him sidelong. She recognized that tone. It was the same one he had used before killing True Gods as if swatting flies.
Qiurong Wanxue spoke again. "There is more. Scouts say Titanic Crescent Saint Child is rushing toward Nightsea as well. And Ghost Insect Evil Child."
At that name, Ling Feng raised a slight brow. He recalled those two arrogant loudmouths from the path this world would have taken without him.
Ghost Insect Evil Child—the terrifying heir of the Insect King line, a genius whose cruelty made ghost children cry in the night.
Titanic Crescent Saint Child—the direct descendant of Immortal Emperor Ju Tian, a prime descendant wreathed in the crescent glow of tides.
Lan Yunzhu's brows drew together. "Those two…"
Ling Feng shrugged.
"So the bug kid and some sacred ground's Saint Child are coming too. Let them." His voice was calm. "If they don't bother me, I don't care. If they do, then they won't be famous for long."
He waved a hand, brushing the topic aside as if flicking dust off his sleeve.
"Anyway. Nightsea."
He shifted, turning to face his group fully.
"We're going," he said.
There was no drama in his tone. Just simple certainty.
No one objected.
Xu Pei's eyes lit up at once. "I want to see Nightsea. They say it looks like an ocean made from diluted darkness, and the Yang Nightfish—"
"—are the main currency down there," Chen Baojiao cut in, grinning. "So if we catch a lot, I can use them to knock some arrogant ghost faces around at the auctions later."
Bing Yuxia lightly tapped her fan against her palm. "Nightsea, Ghost River, Ancestral Flow… in the end, you truly intend to stir this entire city."
Su Yonghuang's lips curved faintly. "If the tides have changed, if the deeper realm is opening… this is no small matter. If you're going, Ling Feng, I will naturally follow."
Bai Jianzhen simply nodded once, hand resting lightly on her sword hilt. Her eyes, clear and cold, said what her mouth did not: wherever your dao steps, my sword will keep pace.
Lan Yunzhu exhaled, the part of her that was Thousand Carp's princess already weighing dangers and benefits.
"Nightsea's changes will draw everyone," she said quietly. "Chaos will be inevitable. But… if you are going, I will go as well."
He looked at her, smile softening.
"Good," he said. "I'd be disappointed if you ran away now."
Qiurong Wanxue inclined her head, white shadow flaring faintly behind her like a ghostly banner. "Then I shall lead the way. Snow-Shadow Tribe knows the safest paths through Necropolis' underways to Nightsea. We will avoid unnecessary entanglements."
Ling Feng nodded, then let his gaze drift toward the distant skyline.
In the original flow of this world's fate, by this day the Coffin-Tapping Imp's auction would have already shaken Necropolis. Youths would trade odd items for terrifying treasures.
He had skipped it entirely.
Not because it lacked value, but because he simply did not feel like playing by someone else's entertainment schedule. Besides, if he truly wanted something from that courtyard, he had his Chaos Force.
As for Nightsea… there were things there that interested him far more than any auction.
He rose to his feet.
"Wanxue, take point," he said. "We'll head for the docks."
...
Under Necropolis, Nightsea lay like a wound in the world.
The path Qiurong Wanxue chose wound through shadowed streets and narrow stairways spiraling downward, past levels of the city most travelers never saw. The deeper they went, the quieter it became. The roar of markets faded, replaced by the muffled thud of distant coffins and the low susurrus of the dead breathing in unison.
Bone lanterns changed color as they descended—from pale white to a deep, bluish hue, their flames flickering like drowned souls.
Snow-Shadow scouts moved ahead, their white shadows gliding across walls long carved by ghost claws. Whenever a hint of malice stirred from a crack or alcove, Wanxue's aura flared faintly and the presence shrank back, cowed by the saintess' bloodline and the man walking at her side.
The stairs ended.
The world opened.
Nightsea
Nightsea stretched out beneath Necropolis in an impossible, endless expanse.
Once, it had been an ink-black ocean of death, its surface swallowing light, its depths hiding secrets older than the Sacred Nether World's recorded history.
Now, its surface was no longer pure ink.
It had clarified into a vast, dark crystal sea.
The water glowed faintly from within, threads of cold light weaving under the surface like buried veins of stars. From the docks, one could see down and down—past the floating shadows of Yang Nightfish, past swaying forests of ghost algae, into depths that seemed to merge with the sky of another world.
Schools of Yang Nightfish darted through the water like streaks of silver lightning, their scales flashing with eerie brilliance. Each motion left faint afterimages in the water, like coins tossed into a bottomless well.
Here and there, vast shapes glided in the deeper layers—too far to see clearly, but large enough that even Enlightened Beings would feel small.
Ghost piers lined the shore: jetties carved of old bones and black stone, stacked in levels like the ribs of a dead titan. Chains as thick as ancient trees disappeared into the darkness, hooked to anchors buried in who-knew-what below.
Ferries rocked gently, their hulls made from coffin wood, their ribs the bones of unknown beasts and cultivators. Dao patterns, old and dense, wrapped around them in layers, binding them to the Nightsea's strange laws.
Ghostly boatmen stood on decks—some little more than robed skeletons with faint soul fires in their sockets, others sentiments in tattered uniforms from dynasties long gone. Their voices were rough, echoing across the docks:
"Ten Yang Nightfish a head!"
"One Life Wheel master, three Enlightened Beings! Fill the boat and I'll cross you for a King Medicine shard!"
"Those without payment, get lost! Nightsea doesn't pity the poor!"
The air buzzed with movement.
Powers from every corner of the Nether Border had gathered. Banners snapped in the cold wind, each one a declaration of heritage.
Titanic Crescent Sacred Ground's crescent moon sigil hung above a cluster of ivory pavilions floating in midair, crescent light spilling down like pale tides.
The Insect King Imperial Lineage's eerie, chitinous crest writhed atop a living palanquin carried by beastly figures with too many arms.
Divine Spark Country's blazing divine seal glowed like a miniature sun above a flying altar of gold and jade, its divine rings turning slowly.
Hundred Bones Sacred Tribe's grim bone standard rose from a cluster of skeletal figures clad in metallic ossuaries; their golden leader shone like a forged weapon.
Hundred Gods Country's banner, woven from thousands of tiny clan emblems, billowed above a crowd whose every elder carried a different, frightening bloodline.
Zen Ghost Tribe's ghostly lotus flag swayed soundlessly above a group of monks whose shadows did not match their bodies.
Snow-Shadow Tribe's white shadow banner fluttered near the docks, Wanxue's people already establishing a perimeter, their pale silhouettes distinct even among Necropolis' oddities.
Ghost Immortal tribes, Blood Race lineages, demonic clans, human sects, sentiment families—they all jostled for space, their auras turning the dock into a boiling cauldron of killing intent and greed.