Ignatius’s brows knitted into a knot of flame. Gerald’s fingers froze upon his beard. Every Earthfire Pavilion elder bore the same heavy look. Winslow’s warning weighed more than stone. If the prophecy proved true, level eleven would soon face its own apocalypse.
Ignatius cleared his throat, voice rough with hidden worry. “Jared… You have crossed blades with Malevolent Path Hall, and with the man that became the Soul-Devouring Puppet… Tell us, what is your judgment?”
Every eye circled back to Jared. He released a slow breath that seemed to draw all tension toward his lungs before letting it drain away. Then he stepped into the center of the hall, meeting faces etched with despair, fear, and a fragile, desperate hope.
His gaze finally locked on Winslow and asked, “Mr. Walden, do you know why Malevolent Path Hall is ripping divine souls from living flesh in such numbers?”
Winslow shook his head. “Only that it feeds the Door of Reincarnation. He means to sacrifice them, trading their essence for power, or for some darker purpose we have yet to name.”
“Door of Reincarnation…” Jared began, words hanging like a blade yet to fall.
Gerald hesitated, the flicker of dread in his eyes hardening into grim certainty. His voice rang across the hall, deliberate and loud enough that no syllable could be doubted. “That Door of Reincarnation is no holy artefact of rebirth… It is a doorway, nothing more than a tunnel into a realm of unyielding laws, a furnace where all divine souls are broken down and rebuilt into instruments of slaughter…”
“Rebirth, eternal life, those are lies woven to bait the desperate. Soul Devourer is only the opening note of this dirge. He is not the first, and he will also not be the last.”
The declaration struck the audience chamber like a hammer on an iron gong.
Gasps collided with murmured oaths. Robes rustled, chairs scraped, and the vault of red-lacquered pillars seemed to tremble beneath the sudden, swelling uproar.
Among the survivors from level twelve, faces blanched as if all blood had fled.
Elio, the one-armed cultivator once famed for steady courage, shook so violently that his teeth chattered. “Y-You… What did you say? The Door of Reincarnation is a lie? Then what happened to our masters, disciples, and others?”
“Their divine souls are scattered to dust. Nothing of their true essence remains,” Gerald answered, each word a frost-rimmed blade despite his ember-rich tone. “Some were drained as fuel to keep that accursed purgatory turning. Others will be butchered and fashioned into new puppets for Malcolm’s slaughterhouse.”
Boom!
The broken lyre cradled against Lyla’s chest exploded with a roar, splinters flashing like dying stars. She swayed to her feet, crimson tears carving streaks down her cheeks.
“Malcolm Vayne, Malevolent Path Hall… I want them to pay for this!” she thundered, her screams ringing like tortured steel, drowning even the crackle of settling debris.
Several younger cultivators collapsed where they stood. Knees struck marble, shoulders quaked, and raw sobs poured out, grief so sharp it carved straight through the din.
They had fled with hope gripped between their teeth, hoping that captured comrades were merely chained, biding time until a rescue. Sadly, that final, fragile thread now snapped, curling away into the dark like smoke from a snuffed candle.
Jared stared at Gerald, stunned.
When the old man first spoke of the Door of Reincarnation, none of this horror had been mentioned… How many more secrets is this old geezer still hiding from me?
“Great Elder Earthfire, is this truly so? Why keep such things from me?” Jared asked. His voice was steady, but embers of accusation glowed beneath each word.
“Because I did not wish to speak of it,” Gerald replied, flat, unyielding, a stone wall dropped across further inquiry.
Winslow closed his eyes, a snow-haired figure carved from fatigue.
Long moments passed before he inhaled and lifted his gaze, tears glittered in ancient pupils that had withstood millennia.
“So that is the reason…” he whispered, voice hoarse with understanding. “No wonder… Not one of our seized comrades managed to leave even the faintest soul imprint behind.”
Forcing the ache back into his chest, Winslow squared his shoulders and regarded Gerald with new respect. “It seems, my friend, you know far more than the rest of us combined.”
“To tell you the truth, I once walked the Reincarnation Realm myself and saw the Door of Reincarnation’s blasphemy with my own eyes. More importantly…” Gerald said before turning, his dark gaze settling on Jared. “What are your plans, Jared?”
Jared faced Ignatius and Gerald, then gave a deep bow. “I humbly request permission to enter level twelve and confront Malcolm before his carnage spills into the eleventh.”
Hearing this, Ignatius surged upright, the brazier flames mirrored in his furious eyes. “W-What? Jared, do you grasp the chaos unfolding within level twelve now?!”
“That Soul-Devouring Puppet rivals a Top Level High immortal Realm Level One. Tens of thousands of Soul Hunters obey its every gesture. Approaching them now would be like walking into a death trap. Have you forgotten that puppets feel neither pain nor fear? Their true strength only ever climbs.”
“Which is precisely why someone must move now.” Jared retorted as he straightened, irises hard and bright as tempered blades. “If we wait for Malevolent Path Hall to marshal its full strength and storm level eleven, we’ll be crushed…”
“The only way forward is to strike first, disrupt them while they still don’t have full control of level twelve, and we might yet tip the balance… Besides, Malcolm already knows I carry chaotic celestial energy. A man like him won’t allow me another breath of growth. So instead of waiting for him to come to me, why not take the initiative to hunt him down?”
Ignatius started to argue, but Gerald lifted one gnarled hand, a quiet, unquestionable command that froze every further word in Ignatius’s throat.
Slowly, Gerald rose. Each movement seemed to creak with age, yet his presence weighed on the hall like a mountain of smoldering coal.
He stepped close to Jared, clouded pupils roaming over him inch by inch, as though reading not flesh, but the seams of destiny stitched beneath it.
After a long, brittle pause, the old man asked, “Can you guarantee success?”
Jared’s answer came without hesitation. “I cannot. But some things aren’t done only when you’re certain of success.”
Gerald’s stare held for another heartbeat, then softened into a faint, almost wistful smile, one part pride, one part fatal resolve. “Very well… I shall join you on this mission.”
“What?” Ignatius gasped, color draining from his face.
The elder waved him off. “Ignatius, I’ll leave Earthfire Pavilion in your hands. Protect it well. My body has recovered, and it’s time for me to stretch these limbs. Besides…”
His gaze swung back to Jared, a spark of curiosity brightening the murk in his eyes. “A successor to chaotic celestial energy appears once in ten millennia. I intend to see with my own eyes just how far he travels.”
Vermilion Demon Lord pushed to his feet, crimson irises already burning with battle lust. “Count me in. Helping you is reason enough, but I also need the Nine-Orifice Divine Soul Herb hidden somewhere in level twelve. My partner’s life depends on it.”
“Mr. Vermilion…” The demon lord bared a line of ivory teeth. “Ha! Stop dithering… You’ve done me a great favor, and for now… I’m staking everything on you.”
