The Heaven-Earth Aqualume is the true core of the Western Extreme Pureland; Chaos Divine Water is merely an emanation of it. The efficacy of Chaos Divine Water is many orders weaker than the Aqualume—yet even so, Perfection experts of the West Extreme dared not touch the Divine Water. When Lin Moyu once emerged from the Chaos Divine Water, he shocked a crowd of apex Perfectionists.
Now Lin was directly wielding the Heaven-Earth Aqualume, turning it into tsunamis—its might far beyond the Divine Water. If those Perfectionists were swept in, the Aqualume's corrosive power would erode both flesh and soul; even if they survived, they'd be gravely wounded, their realm collapsing, Perfection no more.
"Retreat—back! Back!" someone shrieked. They didn't recognize the Aqualume, but instinct screamed that the waves were terrifying and untouchable. They fell back fast, yet a few unfortunates were struck. Screams rang out as their tough, powerful hides were corroded in an instant, their souls wounded as well; their auras plunged. The sight made the rest go cold.
"What is that water? How can it be this horrific?"
"Such overwhelming corrosion—could it be the Chaos Divine Water from the Western Pureland?"
"No. Chaos Divine Water isn't this fierce. I've never seen anything like it."
Driven back by the tidal waves, they were once more encircled by Undead Servants.
After a single surge, Lin recalled the Heaven-Earth Aqualume; it became a water dragon coiling at his side. He casually washed his hands in it. To the East Extreme Perfectionists watching, that scene was bone-chilling. They couldn't make sense of this young man—where he'd come from, how he could be this terrifying. The Time-Soul Python obviously answered to him; the streaking band of gold—still too fast to see—was another ally whose form they couldn't discern; there was that nameless yet apocalyptic water; and those casual open-handed slaps. Despair took them. There seemed no path to life.
Under Lin's drubbing, the Dog-Rat Patriarch was a ruin—head pulped, body ragged, not a sound patch left. He mustered Domain power; a Domain phantom rose behind him—Lin ignored it and slapped the phantom directly. It shattered; the Patriarch took a grievous hit. At that point he seemed to resign himself—he stopped screaming and struggling, curling up like a lump, as if giving up.
A Perfectionist "gives up"? Lin didn't buy it. These men had walked out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood; their Dao-hearts were not comparable to common cultivators'. Sure enough—barely a dozen breaths later, cyan-blue radiance exploded from him. A ribbon of blue light lanced through the Undead Servant ring straight toward Lin—his "final strike," meant to deliver a fatal blow. Yet the far end of the blue light shot toward the East Extreme war fortress—that was his real aim: flee back to the fortress.
"Everyone, back to the fortress—break out under its cover!" his shrill voice rang through the void, snapping his people awake. All East Extreme forces rushed for the fortress.
Lin swept his hand; the water dragon formed by the Aqualume surged along the blue beam. The blue light corroded away at once, boiling up dense smoke; even the Patriarch's infamous venom could only be eaten through by the Aqualume.
"Rely on the fortress to break out? You wish."
The water dragon chased down the beam toward the fortress. The blue light slowed the Aqualume, so its pace wasn't blazing. Following the Patriarch's shout, most East Extremes made it back inside.
In less than ten minutes of battle, over ten thousand East Extreme Chaosrealm Great-Achievement fighters had lost a third; of a hundred Perfectionists, more than ten had fallen, and with three controlled besides, the toll had hit double digits. The East and Central Domains hadn't even fully gone to war yet—this single ambush had cost the East Extreme dearly. Perfectionists aren't cabbages; losing a dozen at once is no small loss.
Once the crowd reentered, their added power spun the fortress up to full. Blazing batteries hammered out; swathes of Undead Servants were blasted apart. The fortress angled toward the East Extreme, trying to punch out. The Undead Servants surged to block—able to slow its breakout, not stop it. The Time-Soul Python with his three thralls also assailed it; the fortress arrays held. Xiaopeng slammed into it again and again, but it was a hard turtle shell—no easy crack.
Lin wasn't anxious. With a thought, he had the Time-Soul Python and Xiaopeng pull back.
The Heaven-Earth Aqualume had already followed the blue beam to the fortress. The fortress's attacks struck the Aqualume and vanished without a trace—like mud cows plunging into the sea. When the Aqualume crashed onto the fortress hull, its exterior arrays came under the corrosive flood and began to fail. They were strong—able to hold the Aqualume off for a time, which made them top-tier arrays—but in Lin's eyes, still not enough.
"Little Tree!"
At his low call, Little Tree tore time-space and dropped straight through the fortress' defenses, landing atop it—opening a direct tunnel for Lin Moyu.
Lin didn't enter himself; what went in was a mass of World-Scorching Flame. It can refine worlds, sear souls, ignore bodily defenses. The fire detonated into a sea and engulfed the fortress. It seeped through, and soon shrieks filled the structure. Countless East Extreme souls were aflame, in sheer agony; even Perfectionists felt it. The fire didn't destroy their souls outright, but it made them taste soul-pain—and nothing they tried could dispel it. They could only pour more soul power to strengthen their defenses and dull the torment.
The fortress' breakout slowed.
The Heaven-Earth Aqualume finally etched through the great array, layering water curtains over the fortress—Lin had given them a cage; they weren't leaving.
"The material's good," Lin said, eyeing the hull. "Just right for my purposes." He intended to take the fortress apart and give the materials to the Silverlight Rabbits to nurture their Domain.
A figure tried to bolt out—what emerged was only a skeleton. Even a Great-Achievement skeleton gleamed gold, seemingly indestructible—but his flesh and soul had already been utterly corroded the instant he passed through the Aqualume. He was dead—only bones remained.
"If you've got nothing else," Lin said softly, "then die here."
In barely over ten seconds, heavy corrosion marred the outer hull. Fine material or not, it couldn't withstand the Aqualume forever. With damaged arrays, the fortress' power plummeted, and its breakout slowed further. At this rate, it would break apart before long, and those inside would be dissolved by the Aqualume.
Lin was sure they had other cards—he wanted to see what they'd choose.
Back at Wang East Boundary, everyone was stupefied—especially the Four Seas Elders. As Perfectionists, they could read the fight most clearly. They didn't understand some of Lin's methods, but they understood how terrifying they were. One man had reduced the enemy to this—unbelievable. And Lin had scarcely moved—just a few waves of the hand. His true combat power remained a mystery. Elder Tianhuo felt that even their Sect Master would struggle to this degree. Apex Perfectionists are fearsome, yes, but against a hundred peers plus a freak like the Dog-Rat Patriarch, even the Sect Master would pay a price—if the enemy tried to run, he couldn't kill them all. Not like Lin, who stood still and, without "really" taking action, had them in tatters.
As things stood, barring surprises, the East Extreme force would likely be buried here.
The war fortress fell quiet. Its grand arrays were shredded; its swagger as a treasure gone; the power dwindled. It finally hovered in space, motionless. No sound came from within—as if accepting fate. But everyone knew it wouldn't be that simple. Perfectionists who've cultivated for eons always have life-preserving trump cards. To have them sit and await death? Nearly impossible.
Moments later, a strange aura trickled from the fortress. The chaotic space began—disturbingly fast—to stabilize. Beams lanced out from the fortress; wherever they swept, the spatial turbulence smoothed. The Chaoswing Array's effect was canceled. The fortress began to spin, throwing its light across the field—then suddenly vanished, reappearing a million miles away. A fortress that size had just short-range-teleported.
Lin raised a brow. "Knew you had something."
Inside was a Space-Fixing Array to rigidify space. Earlier, to flee, they had shut it down—then ran into Lin's Chaoswing Array and couldn't evacuate. Now, trapped inside the chaos, they had to re-activate the Fixing Array to counterbalance it and re-stabilize space. But balancing those forces isn't easy. It meant there was an array master aboard—and a strong one—tuning the Fixing Array to achieve equilibrium with Lin's chaos. Once space stabilized, the fortress could teleport away. At the current rate they'd have a few seconds at most.
Lin finished his analysis and chuckled. "Interesting."
A flicker of disdain colored his tone. Their array master wasn't bad—but compared to him…
He tapped a finger; several Chaos Sigils shot out and seeded the void. The Chaoswing Array changed at once; space that had just smoothed turned turbulent again. To stabilize, the two arrays had to balance; Lin altered his array, broke the balance, and space devolved back into chaos. Whether space was roiled or rigid, the fortress couldn't teleport.
Beams from the fortress shifted yet again—matching the Chaoswing's new parameters, striving to stabilize. Lin drew more sigils, again altering the array's strength. He didn't use the Chaos Wings—he even folded them away—fighting purely with the Chaoswing Array. Array master against array master; he offered his unseen opponent the respect due a peer—respect only formation adepts understand.
Lin adjusted; the other side responded swiftly. In under a minute, the formations had been retuned over ten times.
The Four Seas Elders stared, dumbfounded.
Elder Tianhuo muttered, "Elder Lin is an array master as well?"
Someone nearby said, "Not an ordinary one. His sigil casting speed is the fastest I've ever seen."
Another retorted, "He's not 'drawing' most of them—most are formed in a single thought. Only a few complex ones need penning."
Indeed, at this point Lin could thought-forge the majority of Chaos Sigils; only a handful of intricate ones required strokes—and even those took but an instant. With a bit more soul strength and insight, he'd form every last one by thought alone.
Tianhuo didn't know much about arrays. "Which of them is stronger?"
"Elder Lin," came the prompt reply. "Each of his changes takes a single breath; the other side needs three. The gap is huge. Elder Lin's just toying with him—and probably about done."
Sure enough, a moment later Lin sighed. "Fun's over."
In an instant, Chaos Sigils poured like rain. Before, he'd cast a few at a time; now, thousands flashed forth—sigils formed at the speed of thought. Streams of light shot into the void. Space devolved into chaos across a trillion-mile span, cut into thousands of zones, each with a different turbulence profile. In that state, the fortress couldn't teleport out of its own pocket; at best it could hop within its cell. To flee, it would have to fly—and if it flew, the Undead Servants, the Time-Soul Python, and Xiao Jin would hardly oblige.
Screams erupted again. Under the ceaseless burn of the World-Scorching Flame, many Great-Achievement cultivators within the fortress couldn't hold on—their souls burned to ash.
A roar rolled out from within. "Do you truly mean to fight us to the death?"
Which meant—no more good options. If they had one, they weren't certain of it.
Lin ignored them. The Undead Servants and Time-Soul Python renewed their assault. The Heaven-Earth Aqualume seeped in, corroding deeper. Those inside understood Lin's intent and stopped shouting.
A formidable aura rose within the fortress. A giant stepped into the void.
Lin blinked. The giant—was none other than the Jiyan Venerable.