To summon a Divine Spirit was to wield an art beyond mortal reach, a supreme skill reserved for powerhouses who had ascended to the Divine Spirit Realm or beyond. It was not merely a flourish of the Dao but a sublime expression of a cultivator's soul, its intricate brilliance eclipsing the crude strokes of ordinary techniques.
Song Changge's Divine Spirit burst into being—a marvel of celestial fury, the Skylight Sword of the Heavenly Vault. Originating from Extreme Sun Peak, it was one of the peak's three supreme arts, a legacy as unpredictable as a storm tearing through the heavens. The air seemed to yield before it, shimmering with threads of radiant gold as the spirit unfurled, its edges gleaming with the promise of chaos and ruin.
Until that moment, Qin Ting had dominated the duel, each strike a lash of authority that forced Song Changge to scramble. But the unveiling of the Skylight Sword shifted the crowd's favor like a gust scattering fallen leaves. Murmurs of doubt rippled among the disciples.
True, Qin Ting was a prodigy blessed by the heavens, his battle prowess proven against foes beyond his realm. Yet the Divine Spirit Realm stood as an impassable divide—a crucible where the Dao Foundation transcended mortal limits, forging a cultivator anew.
An ancient adage echoed in their minds: Those below the Divine Spirit Realm are but ants. For all his brilliance, Qin Ting's Divine Wheel Realm seemed a flickering candle against the blaze of Song Changge's ascent.
'Your turn to bow down, Qin Ting,' Song Changge thought, a savage glint flashing in his eyes as he summoned the Skylight Sword again.
The spirit quivered, then split into forty-nine streams of sword energy—each a blade of searing light, sharp enough to rend mountains and boil seas into mist. They streaked toward Qin Ting from all directions, a web of destruction closing with relentless precision.
Qin Ting's hands wove through seals, swift as a river's flow, conjuring a wall of ice that gleamed like frozen moonlight. But the Skylight Sword struck with unyielding force, shattering the barrier into a cascade of crystalline dust, relentless and merciless.
A playful chuckle escaped Qin Ting's lips, light and carefree, as if the chaos of battle were a mere game. At the center of his brow, a divine wheel flared to life, its golden radiance igniting the air with a halo of celestial fire. The wheel spun faster, weaving threads of light into a towering nine-story pagoda—a monolith of divine will that seemed to pierce the heavens.
The pagoda enveloped him, its shimmering walls pulsing with ancient runes like veins of molten gold, absorbing the surrounding light until the world dimmed in its presence. Then came the Skylight Sword—a streak of blinding fury slashing toward him.
The collision shook the Battle Stage to its core, a thunderous roar erupting as if the mountains themselves had joined the fray. Power exploded in a tempest of gold and white, sword energies clawing against the pagoda's unyielding frame, each strike a scream of defiance against its might.
For a fleeting moment, the pagoda stood resolute, a bastion of unbreakable grace. Then, with a sound like fracturing crystal, it shattered, dissolving into a cascade of ethereal sparks that twinkled briefly before fading into the void. Yet the Skylight Sword faltered too, its radiant edge dulled, its ferocity spent in the cataclysmic clash.
A heavy silence fell, pressing against the crowd like a living force. Eyes widened, breaths held, the onlookers frozen in the aftershock of such titanic power. Then, from the throng, a disciple's voice broke through, trembling with awe. "So strong… Senior Brother Qin is unbelievably strong."
'He defied a Divine Spirit art,' another thought, heart pounding beneath his robes. 'With just the Divine Wheel Realm—what kind of monster is he?'
The elders sat straighter, their weathered faces etched with astonishment and calculation. The True Disciples, perched like hawks in the stands, narrowed their eyes, the weight of Qin Ting's power settling into their bones.
Song Changge's breath hitched, his triumph souring as Qin Ting emerged from the fading glow—untouched, unbowed. His face darkened, a storm brewing beneath his furrowed brow.
The Skylight Sword of the Heavenly Vault—a Divine Spirit art that should have shattered Qin Ting's defenses—had faltered, its brilliance extinguished by that accursed pagoda. His breakthrough to the Divine Spirit Realm, a triumph clawed from the jaws of disgrace, was proving insufficient.
The distant roar of the crowd, once a chorus of awe, now grated against his pride like a blade on stone. To falter here, mid-battle, was to forfeit what little credibility he still held within the Xuantian Sect. Retreat was unthinkable—only victory could erase the stain of his past defeat.
'You've forced my hand, Qin Ting,' he snarled inwardly, his chest tightening with bitter resolve. 'If I can't crush you with skill, I'll bury you with power.'
His glare cut toward Qin Ting, sharp as a drawn blade, and a faint glow flickered at his forehead. From that spark erupted a formation diagram—a swirling mandala of light that unfurled like a scroll of creation. Thousands of phantom mountains rose in jagged splendor, rivers coiled like silver serpents, and the sun and moon wheeled through an illusory sky.
In an instant, the diagram expanded, its edges humming eerily, and swallowed Qin Ting whole, trapping him in a pocket realm where reality bent to Song Changge's will.
With a surge of spiritual energy, Song Changge poured his fury into the diagram. The illusory world trembled—mountains crumbled to dust, rivers boiled into mist, and the sun and moon shattered like glass, their fragments raining down in a cataclysm of light. The false cosmos began to collapse, intent on grinding everything within to oblivion.
A gray-robed elder bolted upright, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. "A sacred weapon!"
The words hung heavy, rippling through the stands. Sacred weapons were relics of immense power, mystical artifacts so rare they shone like stars in a cultivator's grasp. Only those who had reached the Divine Spirit Realm could awaken their might, yet their scarcity made them treasures coveted even by Divine Platform and Divine Palace Realm masters.
Li Zhenren—Song Changge's master and a sect leader—possessed only a handful, none bearing the mark of this Array Diagram Sacred Weapon. Its origin was a mystery, its presence a shock.
The True Disciples rose as one, their faces solemn. Feng Qianhan's icy gaze narrowed, while Luo Yuan's hand hovered near his sword, fingers twitching. They exchanged fleeting glances, a silent understanding passing between them.
The crowd might speculate, but they knew the truth—this weapon traced back to that person, a shadow few dared name.
On the surface, Qin Ting's fate seemed sealed, ensnared in a collapsing realm with no escape. The elder overseeing the duel stood motionless beside the Battle Stage, his weathered face unreadable. Tradition demanded he intervene, yet his eyes remained fixed on Qin Ting, glinting with something inscrutable—curiosity, perhaps, or expectation.
'He's not moving,' an elder thought, brow creasing as he studied the overseer. 'Does he see something we don't?'
Within the diagram, the air thickened with the weight of annihilation, and the crowd held its breath, teetering between dread and wonder.
"Ah, Senior Brother Jiang… so it was you all along." Qin Ting stood at the heart of the formation diagram, its swirling runes coiling around him like a tempest poised to devour a lone duckweed. Yet no trace of fear marred his serene features.
His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile as he gazed at the intricate patterns pulsing beneath his feet. Lowering his head, he let out a soft chuckle, his voice a velvet murmur laced with steel. "I've toyed with this fool Song Changge long enough. At last, your hand is laid bare."
Jiang Zhongbai—the eldest True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect, a name spoken in hushed reverence. Less than a century had passed since he joined the sect, yet he had ascended to the Divine Platform Realm, his cultivation a towering testament to rare talent.
Once, he had been the uncontested heir to the Holy Son's mantle, his brilliance a beacon across the Eastern Wilderness. But then Qin Ting emerged—a supernova eclipsing his light—and Jiang's star dimmed. He had cloaked himself in humility, avoiding rivalry with the younger prodigy, even claiming seclusion during this spectacle. Or so the sect believed.
The truth bloomed like a venomous flower: Jiang Zhongbai had orchestrated this moment, using Song Changge's breakthrough as a blade to halt Qin Ting's rise.
Qin Ting's eyes sharpened, twin shards of ice glinting with resolve. 'With the puppetmaster exposed, this pawn has outlived his use.' Song Changge was now a discarded piece.
With unshakable calm, Qin Ting stepped forward, strolling out of the formation diagram as if it were a child's scribble. The once-menacing array flickered, its power fading like a candle in the wind, until it collapsed into a lifeless sketch on tattered parchment. Qin Ting plucked it from the air, twirling it between his fingers with a playful smirk, as if inspecting a curious trinket.
"No, this is impossible!" Song Changge's voice cracked, his wide eyes trembling with disbelief. He had disabled his trump card—the Array Diagram Sacred Weapon. To see it unravel so effortlessly at Qin Ting's hands defied reason. "What sorcery is this?"
The crowd mirrored his shock, a collective gasp rippling through the stands. A sacred weapon—capable of reshaping the heavens—reduced to nothing by Qin Ting's casual gesture? Whispers erupted, tinged with awe and dread.
Feng Qianhan's face hardened, his icy composure fracturing as he stared at the scene. Qin Ting's counter had eluded even his keen perception. More unsettling, the techniques Qin Ting wielded were mere staples of the Xuantian Sect's arsenal—ordinary Dao arts known to every disciple. Yet in his hands, they blossomed with a potency that defied their origins, each move resonating with an elder's mastery.
'He's turned the mundane into the miraculous,' Feng Qianhan thought, a chill threading through his spine. 'What depths does this Junior Brother hide?'
A spark of suspicion flared in Feng Qianhan's mind, sharp and unbidden. His gaze darted to Luo Yuan, catching the faint crease of concentration on his fellow True Disciple's brow. Their eyes locked, a shared disbelief flickering—raw, unguarded, and laced with fear.
'Could it be that Qin Ting has already…' Feng Qianhan's heart stuttered, the thought too vast to grasp.
'…stepped into the Divine Spirit Realm?' Luo Yuan's mind echoed, his breath catching as the impossible loomed.
On the Battle Stage, Qin Ting's lips curved into a smile—slight, serene, yet edged with a predator's certainty. He regarded Song Changge with a tilt of his head, his voice smooth as polished jade. "Senior Brother's flair is commendable," he said, each word a deliberate prod, "but when it comes to real power… well, it speaks rather poorly."
Before the echo of his words faded, Qin Ting's aura erupted. A torrent of purple astral light cascaded around him, like a river of stars spilled from the heavens. The air shimmered with an ethereal glow—dreamlike, radiant, and overwhelming.
It crashed against Song Changge's presence with the force of a tidal wave, snuffing out his aura like a candle in a gale. The pressure bore down, relentless and suffocating, forcing Song Changge to his knees with a choked grunt. His chest heaved, each ragged breath a struggle, yet Qin Ting stood untouched—his expression languid, almost bored, as if debating the merits of lotus cakes over spiced porridge.
The stands erupted in gasps. Female disciples leaned forward, their eyes alight with fervor—some sparkling with awe, others glowing with unspoken adoration. Qin Ting's figure, framed in celestial splendor, was a vision they'd etch into their dreams.
Song Changge's face contorted, a mask of rage and shame as Qin Ting's aura pressed him deeper into the stage's stone. 'This can't be my fate,' he thought, his mind a storm of defiance and dread. 'Not after everything I've surrendered!'
Then, a shiver of awareness pierced him, his eyes widening in shock before narrowing in wild incredulity. His voice rasped out, jagged and desperate: "You… you've reached the Divine Spirit Realm too?! How—what are you? This defies all reason!"
The crowd exploded into pandemonium, a roar of disbelief and wonder surging through the tiers. They were still reeling from Qin Ting's demolition of the Skylight Sword, and now this—a revelation that shattered possibility. At eighteen, Qin Ting had stormed the Divine Spirit Realm?
A disciple near the stands faltered, his words stumbling. "D-Divine Spirit Realm? At eighteen? No… that's not—it can't be true, can it?"
All eyes turned to the elders, seeking an anchor in the chaos. The venerable figures sat rigid, their faces carved from solemnity and streaked with incredulity. One elder's hand trembled on his staff; another's jaw tightened as if biting back a curse. The truth sank in, heavy and undeniable: Qin Ting, True Disciple of the Xuantian Sect, had ascended to the Divine Spirit Realm at an age when most were still fumbling with their first meridians.
'A freak of nature,' one elder mused, his thoughts cloaked in awe and unease. 'This isn't talent—it's a force the heavens themselves might fear.'
The wave of shock receded, leaving a stark truth dawning on the elders like a cold moon over a battlefield. Across the Eastern Wilderness—where legends were forged in blood and spirit—no cultivator had pierced the Divine Spirit Realm before their twentieth year. None, save Qin Ting.
Even his father, Emperor Qin, a colossus whose dominion shook the heavens, had claimed that realm at twenty—a milestone revered as the edge of mortal genius. Now, his son had eclipsed it, a feat that rewrote possibility.
The elders froze, their breaths catching as the weight settled. Then, as if ignited by a shared spark, they erupted in unison, voices trembling with elation: "A supreme heavenly pride graces us! With him, the Xuantian Sect will ascend to eternal splendor!"
A deathly stillness gripped the stands, as if time paused to bow before the revelation. The crowd sat frozen, eyes wide, hearts pounding. Even the True Disciples—Feng Qianhan, Luo Yuan, and their ilk—felt the ground shift beneath them, their poise crumbling under the enormity of Qin Ting's feat.
Song Changge's power, though it had flared brightly moments ago, dwindled in their estimation. His breakthrough, propped up by his master's alchemical crutches, was a house built on sand—shallow, unstable, unworthy of the awe it had briefly commanded.
Qin Ting, by contrast, was a fortress of the Dao. His aura radiated purity, a cascade of light and power without fracture or flaw. The True Disciples probed with their senses, searching for any weakness, any threadbare seam in his foundation. They found nothing but perfection—a Dao so resolute, so majestic, it seemed to hum with the cosmos itself.
'He's not just a prodigy,' Feng Qianhan thought, his gaze narrowing as a bead of sweat traced his temple. 'He's a force we can't measure…'
Luo Yuan, beside him, let out a slow breath, a faint tremor in his exhale betraying his awe. His sword hand relaxed, and a wry smile curved his lips as he murmured, "Junior Brother Qin Ting… you're something else entirely."