The sky above the Dead Land turned darker than night itself. The countless souls Meng Meng had released still floated in the air, forming a vast ocean of shimmering phantoms that blanketed the heavens.
But then, something unimaginable occurred.
In the blink of an eye—
Every single soul vanished.
The air trembled. Silence fell. Even Meng Meng's eyes widened in disbelief. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming, but the heavy pressure around him told otherwise.
He took a deep breath, calming his mind, and sat cross-legged in the lotus position, trying to gather his qi. Yet the moment he tried to cultivate, a sinister chill swept through his veins.
The Dead Land rejected cultivation.
A terrifying death aura filled every inch of the air, suffocating his meridians and corroding his spiritual veins. The energy of life simply could not exist here.
Meng Meng clenched his fists tightly and spat blood.
He cursed his fate bitterly.
It seemed the heavens truly had abandoned him.
When he tried to stand, a violent gust of wind struck him. The pressure crushed his body like a hammer. His knees buckled, and another mouthful of blood spilled from his lips, staining the dusty ground beneath his feet.
His vision blurred. His body trembled. But even as his eyes dimmed, he ground his teeth and forced himself to stay conscious.
If he didn't act now—he would die.
He gathered his will and made a desperate choice.
He decided to shatter one of his soul stars to convert its essence into pure qi energy, just to survive.
With a trembling hand, he circulated his remaining spiritual power inward.
Crack!
A faint sound echoed from within his soul sea.
The star shattered—
and a torrent of energy burst forth, flooding his body.
The pain was unimaginable. For any cultivator, soul stars were their very foundation—their vitality and life itself. Shattering even one was equal to cutting away a part of their soul.
Yet Meng Meng had no other choice.
His breathing steadied slightly, but the power wasn't enough. His face turned pale again.
"Damn it," he muttered, and without hesitation, he bit his tongue and shattered another star.
More energy surged through him, allowing him to breathe again.
His will to survive roared to life, and one name burned in his mind—
Meng Ping.
Each step he took felt like walking on knives. His vision blurred from exhaustion, but he kept moving forward, guided only by that single thought: to survive for her.
He had fallen from Golden Core to Qi Refinement, and now his cultivation had dropped even lower—to the fifth step of Qi Refinement—barely above a mortal. His meridians cracked, and his life force thinned like a fading flame.
If he hadn't shattered those stars, he would have long perished.
The wind screamed through the Dead Land, whipping against his blood-stained robes. Time passed like flowing water, and his strength waned with every step.
By the time he realized it, only three dim stars remained orbiting around his soul orb. His face was ghostly pale, his breath unstable. Yet somehow, he still stood.
His lips were torn from biting down repeatedly to stay calm; blood dripped down his chin, but his eyes burned with fierce will.
The wind grew colder, sharper—almost conscious. As he trudged forward, Meng Meng saw countless remains of fallen cultivators half-buried beneath the sand. Fragments of weapons, broken talismans, and dried bones whispered the tales of an ancient war.
It felt as though death itself was watching him.
His body trembled, his vision dimmed. His lips parted, and he muttered two faint words before collapsing—
"...Meng Ping."
The world fell silent.
His body, carried by the howling wind, drifted aimlessly across the barren land until it slammed against a mountain cliff. The impact cracked the stone, jolting him back to consciousness.
He coughed violently, forcing himself upright despite the agony, and clenched his fist.
"I, Meng Meng…" he roared hoarsely, "...will never die until I reach the end!"
His roar echoed through the entire mountain range, shaking dust and loose rocks from the cliffs. In a final desperate act, he shattered all his remaining soul stars.
An unimaginable surge of power burst forth, tearing through his body like wildfire. His veins screamed in pain, but he stood tall, defiant against heaven and earth.
Blood streamed down his mouth, yet his eyes glowed with a faint golden hue.
Suddenly, a bone-chilling presence crept from behind. A low growl rumbled through the air, making his entire body freeze.
When he turned, his heart almost stopped.
A Fifth-Grade Demonic Beast—a Black-Horned Tiger—stood behind him, its golden eyes burning with killing intent. Its sheer aura was enough to rival a Golden Core cultivator.
Meng Meng's hair stood on end. Every instinct screamed death.
Without thinking, he turned and ran. His body moved faster than it ever had, fueled by raw terror and burning life force. Each breath felt like fire, each step a struggle against death.
He didn't dare look back.
In the distance, he spotted a massive cave, dark and silent, like the open jaws of a slumbering beast.
Pouring every last drop of strength into his legs, he dove inside just as the demonic beast halted before the entrance.
The Black-Horned Tiger stopped abruptly, its claws digging into the ground. A deep, guttural growl rumbled in its throat—but then it hesitated.
A strange, primal fear flashed in its eyes. It stared into the depths of the cave for a long moment, then backed away slowly.
Even such a fearsome beast dared not enter.
Inside, Meng Meng collapsed to his knees, panting heavily. Darkness surrounded him, heavy and ancient, filled with an unknown pressure.
He didn't know what kind of danger awaited within the cave.
But one thing was certain—
Whatever was inside was far more terrifying than death itself.