A volcano rises like a burning god from the heart of the Fire Island, its peak lost in coils of crimson smoke.
Lava rivers crawl down blackened stone, carving molten veins across the island as if the earth itself bleeds fire.
The sky above glows murky red, stained by ash clouds that churn and pulse like a living storm.
Every breath here tastes of sulfur and heat, thick enough to scrape the throat and scorch the lungs.
The waves around the island boil where they meet the shore, steam hissing upward in ghostly pillars that warp the horizon.
Flames leap from fissures in the ground like hungry beasts, and ancient trees of hardened magma stand frozen in twisted shapes—remnants of eruptions long past.
In the distance, the volcano rumbles, not erupting but breathing, a slow and heavy sound like a slumbering titan dreaming of disaster.
Around the volcano, cities, towns, and villages cling to heat-baked earth like sparks around a forge.
Fire Island—one of the Three Great Islands, alongside Poison Island and Thousand Tree Island—stands as the beating heart of flame in this world.
Its inhabitants are born of fire, shaped by it, sworn to it.
And above them all rules the Blood Phoenix Clan, chosen by the Divine Phoenix itself.
Inside the Phoenix Court, beneath a throne carved of molten gold and living flame, nobles kneel in orderly rows as an oppressive heat presses the air still.
A scout kneels, voice tight.
"...There are signs the foolish Human Empire is releasing the seal on the Evil God of War."
Silence falls like ash.
Jinyi, lean and pale-eyed, the Fire Crow Clan's pride, reclines lazily in his seat with arrogance so thick it burns.
"The human race… why can't they just die properly? Must they always struggle?"
A low snort rumbles across the hall.
Turang of the Lava Spirit Clan, broad-shouldered and iron-blooded, glares down his nose like a mountain judging a spark.
"I don't know where your clan finds such arrogance. Yet you dare speak of a race with a true God?"
Jinyi's killing intent seeps like black flame.
Turang does not flinch, only raises a brow, daring him to move.
The emperor and nobles watch, entertained by the clash, heat curling lazily around the throne like phoenix feathers.
Jinyi inhales, forcing down rage.
"That human God only survived because of the Divine Core we cast aside."
Turang answers without hesitation, voice like cracking stone.
"And are our races lacking Divines? Yet I see none of you stepping into the Demigod Stage."
Jinyi's face tightens. Truth cuts deeper than flame.
His mouth opens, ready to retort—
But Emperor Feng Jing speaks, voice layered with calm authority and ancient heat.
"Enough. Petty quarrels cannot scorch what approaches."
His gaze burns through the hall.
"We must discuss how to prevent the awakening of the God of War—Kratos."
Jinyi sneers, voice sharp like heated metal.
"What is there left to discuss? It is already too late. Only the Lord can stop Kratos's resurrection now."
Turang grunts, nodding once.
"I dislike agreeing with this crow, but he speaks truth. No one but the Lord can halt Kratos's return."
Feng Jing's brow furrows, heat flickering behind his calm.
"You all understand the consequence of waking the Lord prematurely."
A slow, rumbling voice breaks through the hall.
Gunan of the Fire Giant Clan, towering and stone-eyed, speaks with blunt weight.
"Feng Jing, you are emperor. You carry the burden of waking the Lord."
Feng Jing's gaze hardens, heat flaring.
"You—"
Turang cuts him off, voice cold.
"Do not forget whose support placed you on that throne."
The Blood Phoenix Clan may carry divine sanction, but the throne of Fire Island belongs to the choice of nobles—and they do not hesitate to remind him.
Jinyi folds his arms, feathers shimmering like smouldering embers.
"When you begged for our support, you swore responsibility for the Lord."
Feng Jing's face tightens, flame-heat pulsing in the hall.
To wake the Divine Phoenix Lord at the wrong time is to gamble with divine wrath—punishment in pure flame. Ash would be merciful.
A gentle, fox-tail voice slips into the tension.
Tuqing of the Fire Fox clan, elegant and sly.
"Emperor—this information will have already reached Poison Island and Thousand Tree Island. Their leaders now face the same dilemma."
Her tail sways, eyes glinting.
"If all three islands awaken their Lords together, divine judgment will not fall on one alone."
A beat—then understanding sparks in Feng Jing's eyes, flames reflecting hope.
"Good. Very good."
He rises, heat rippling like wings behind him.
"Send envoys. Summon the Poison Pit Lord and the Great Elder of the Tree Council. We will meet at the Ancient Temple."
Two phoenix-armoured envoys kneel and depart at once, fire trailing behind their steps.
Beyond the pillars, the volcano sighs—
as if the island itself senses gods about to stir.
Elsewhere, in the frozen refuge village where Li Niyue and the survivors rest, night falls heavily.
Snow screams across the roofs, weird cries echo like dying beasts, and wind claws at every door.
Then—
A thunderous crack splits the sky.
A colossal red energy palm descends from above, crushing through the blizzard like judgment.
Before it can strike—
"Chen Xing, don't go too far!"
A second palm—wood, iron gears, puppet-lightning—rises from the village.
The two forces collide mid-air, detonating a shockwave that rips clouds apart and scatters snow like shattered glass.
Everyone rushes to stand behind the Great Elder of the Puppet Hall.
Eyes lock on the eastern sky as crimson mist spreads, rolling like demon blood.
A host emerges.
Chen Xing, Master of the Demon Hall, wings spread like night-blades, tail coiled, skin crimson etched in black, fangs gleaming, horns curved, eyes burning with dark divinity.
Behind him, elders hover; below, Demon Hall members sprint across snow—an army of half-weird Warlocks.
None in the village flinches at his monstrous shape.
Great Warlocks do not resist weirdness—
they become it.
Memory and spirit are the only chains keeping them human.
An elder steps forward, voice sharp as a blade:
"Hand over Zhang Wenrui, or—"
Li Niyue steps out.
Cold snow swirls around her, but her eyes burn like steel.
"Or what? What can you do?
Do you dare touch me?"
The elder scoffs.
"We don't fear titles. Even if you are a princess of the Great Zhou Dynasty, we will kill you. Demon Hall does not—"
Confidence masks the storm in her heart.
"Truly? Even if my name is *Li Niyue*?"
He snorts again.
"What does your name matter—Li Niyue or—"
A hand jerks him back.
"Genxuan, she is the *Princess Royal*."
Genxuan snorts—
"We don't fear Great Zhou!"
The other elder's voice drops cold.
"She is also *Ji Jingxuan's wife*."
Silence falls like a blade.
Genxuan freezes.
Days ago—
A grey ocean appeared over Ding Town.
A sign seen across the land.
A sign of someone stepping into *Great Warlock*.
Rumour followed:
Ji Jingxuan was seen in the Frozen Wasteland—
here.
Terror crawls into Genxuan's bones.
He bows hurriedly, voice trembling.
"M-my apologies, Madam Ji. I— I did not know who you were."
Li Niyue snorts inwardly; she had only spoken her name to buy time for the ritual.
The show of fear from the Demon Hall unnerves her more than comforts her—she had not expected Jingxuan's name alone to carry so much weight.
Chen Xing recovers his composure and repeats the demand, voice iron-cold: "Madam Ji, hand over Zhang Wenrui and we promise not to slaughter you."
Behind Li Niyue, Ming leans close and whispers, "Princess, do as they say. Hand him over."
Old fears, older betrayals, press at her chest, but she forces her voice like steel. "No."
She steps forward, gaze fixed on the Demon Hall. "We will not hand over Wenrui."
A murmur runs through Chen Xing's ranks. Genxuan leans to Chen Xing and hisses, "Leader, if Jingxuan is truly in the north, our fight will be noticed—he will come."
Another elder offers a plan: fake a withdrawal, let the villagers drop their guard, then strike and seize Wenrui.
A third warns it might cost Li Niyue her life.
A younger elder scoffs, "Why such fear of Jingxuan? Our leader is a Great Warlock as well—Jingxuan only broke through days ago."
Genxuan's face tightens. "Jingxuan's vision spread half the western empire when he broke through—his perceptive range dwarfs most. If his sight reaches here, we lose the advantage."
On the opposite side, the survivors argue and fear.
Many plead to give Wenrui up—to end the threat. Voices rise; guilt and pragmatism claw at each heart.
Neither camp makes a move; both look to their leaders.
Chen Xing and the Great Elder of the Puppet Hall lock eyes, an unspoken agreement forming between them.
At Chen Xing's subtle signal, the Great Elder steps forward.
"Chen Xing," the Elder calls, voice steady. "Fight me. If I win, the Demon Hall hands over the last two pieces of the Ancient Demon's body. If you win, I will hand over Zhang Wenrui."
Chen Xing's lips pull back in a grin like cracked obsidian. "Then ready yourself to lose." He spreads his bat-wings; the air itself seems to dread him.
The Great Elder lifts off calmly and meets him in the sky.
They rise—higher, and higher—until cloud and storm swallow them. The three moon-sign runes emblazon themselves across the heavens as both powers bloom.
Where the Great Elder had been a frail, aged man, the air now reveals his true form: metallic skin that plates and shimmers like hammered bronze, lenses for eyes, ears like tuned horns, and a pulsing red core at the centre of his chest.
His human guise had been an illusion—his puppet body is the truth.
Around his limbs, filigreed gears whirr and strings of ghost-light hum; puppets—tiny as beetles and towering as giants—stir and twitch at his will.
The Great Elder's voice brushes Li Niyue's mind. "Princess, the ritual circle is ready. Go with Xia He. He knows how to begin."
Li Niyue's heart tightens, but she nods and turns. Xia He steps beside her, pale yet steady, and together they slip toward Wenrui's chamber.
Above, battle blooms like a star tearing itself apart.
Chen Xing's roar splits the sky. "Law Spell: Blood War Axe."
His power surges, the Laws of Blood and War boiling through him. A colossal crimson axe forms, dripping with killing intent, and crashes toward the Great Elder.
The Great Elder's voice answers like grinding steel. "Law Spell: Gear Defence."
Laws of Wood and Metal mesh; countless wooden and metal gears interlock in a vast rotating shield. Axe meets mechanism—spells shatter, shockwaves rip the clouds apart.
Chen Xing does not pause. "Law Spell: Crimson Beam."
Since stepping into the Great Warlock realm, he forged his own Law—Crimson—by merging Blood, War, and Fire.
A blazing scarlet beam erupts from his fingertip, ripping space as it streaks toward the elder.
The Great Elder counters, calm and terrible. "Law Spell: Puppet Sword."
He forged the Puppet Law by binding the Laws of Matter and Spirit; any matter below third-grade is his to command.
Clouds shear apart like silk under blades of intent.
The puppet sword meets the Crimson Beam—then both tear open, reality bending as Law collides with Law.
The sky shivers. Snow melts into steam. Frost re-forms as razor ice.
Blood-red flames coil like serpents.
Phantom gears grind through the air, turning clouds into metal dust.
Spells clash like worlds grinding.
Chen Xing bellows, "Law Spell: Crimson Spear."
A spear of burning blood and ruin screams across the sky, war and slaughter braided into its core.
The Great Elder answers, voice cold. "Law Spell: Puppet Tyrant."
Wind hardens into iron, clouds shape into a towering puppet king clad in wood-steel armour. It raises a gear-hammer and meets the spear. Space trembles. Mountains groan. Snowstorms split apart, then swirl again, tinted crimson and metallic grey.
Below, unseen, Jingxuan arrives.
His eyes sweep the sky—silent, expression unreadable.
He hides his presence like a blade sheathed in darkness, watching.
In the village, Xia He kneels before runes etched in blood-ink and frost.
He whispers the final mantra.
The ritual flares to life—pale threads of spirit light curl upward.
Li Niyue stiffens as her consciousness stretches, touching Wenrui's spirit.
Their souls brush—cold fear, burning will, tangled fate.
Above, power crests.
Both warlocks release their vision.
Reality peels.
Shen Xing's world erupts into existence—an endless battlefield of fire and blood. Crimson suns burn overhead, and from molten rivers rise armoured demons, eyes blazing with war hunger.
Opposite, the Great Elder's vision blooms—a boundless clockwork dominion.
Skies of brass.
Ground of polished iron.
Titanic gears are turning in every direction.
Puppets of every shape—blade-limbed, cannon-armed, spectral-veined—march in disciplined legions.
The two armies crash.
Steel and flame.
Gear and claw.
Crimson roars shake the heavens. Puppet formations rotate like living siege engines, crushing forward.
Shen Xing's spirit-voice threads through the battlefield, cold and sharp.
"Gu Yan, I have deduced the realm beyond Great Warlock."
Gu Yan does not pause; puppets surge, gears thunder, law-metal reshapes the sky.
His reply hums like steel under strain.
"The best news I've heard in a century. Speak."
Outside, their bodies continue clashing—crimson arcs and metal tides tearing snow and cloud apart—while within the vision world, their minds remain locked together.
Shen Xing's spirit pushes forward, crushing through puppet ranks.
"To advance further, we must regain a physical body. Then we step into the God stage."
Gu Yan's mind stills for a heartbeat—then rushes.
Understanding floods him; with the Law of Matter at its peak in the third stage, he sees the path instantly.
Bones.
Blood.
Re-forging the true vessel.
Transcending the weird body to reclaim flesh, then break through.
He shares that realisation with Shen Xing—partners wearing the mask of enemies.
Their armies clash harder, hiding the truth.
Gu Yan breathes out in spirit, weary and resigned.
"How many Life Origin Pills could you refine?"
High in the distance, Jingxuan watches, arms folded, expression like ice.
He has already seen enough—the formation beneath the puppet hall was never meant to defend, but to harvest life and soul from those who died on it.
Their act.
Their destruction of their own sect.
Their secret pact.
"Gu Yan's life is fading," Jingxuan thinks, gazing hard.
"He needed bodies to refine life-extension pills. And Chen Xing helped."
A new pulse erupts below.
Spirit light bursts from a cottage; the roof shatters as Wenrui erupts skyward, aura surging, a newborn Law trembling around him.
He joins Gu Yan, side by side, striking at Shen Xing with newly forged power.
Shen Xing sees his opening.
A ripple.
A flash of cruel resolve.
He releases Kratos's head—an ancient, malevolent relic of war—which shoots into Wenrui like a spear of fate.
Then he turns and flees.
The Demon Hall vanishes like blood smoke in the wind.
Wenrui descends.
The survivors gather around him with cheers, relief trembling in their voices.
He meets Li Niyue's eyes—his soft with warmth, hers dark with guilt.
And then—
Pressure falls over the world.
Snow freezes midair.
Breath stops in every chest.
Jingxuan lets his aura unfold.
Silent.
Absolute.
He steps off the sky and descends toward the village.
Gu Yan's pupils contract the moment he sees him.
For a breath, the old warlock freezes—because in Jingxuan's eyes he sees it:
A gaze that cuts through flesh, soul, and lies, reaching the secret he thought buried beneath a century of schemes.
*He knows.*
The thought slams through Gu Yan, and panic claws at his chest before pride shoves it down.
Even if he discovered it, what can he do?
Their sacrifice was not in vain.
I will break through.
I will step beyond Great Warlock.
He steadies, eyes burning with fanatic resolve.
Jingxuan lands silently at the village entrance, boots sinking into snow.
Behind him, the first light of the Dark Sun bleeds over the horizon, dyeing frost in hellish crimson.
The survivors bow at once.
"Lord."
Jingxuan's gaze only grazes Li Niyue, then slides away—cold, indifferent.
To him, she is not someone he protects.
Not someone he loves.
She is anchor and poison, the lust-chain he must keep to hold the madness at bay.
If she slips from his grasp, this body loses control
And Lin Yu's true spirit will never form.
And without cultivation—endless, eternal, suffocating cultivation—his dream of immortality dies.
Nothing matters more than that obsession.
---
A day later, they enter Polaris City.
Stone gates rise like frozen fangs, the streets thick with early winter mist.
Moving through the crowds toward the temple complex—toward the Divine Domain's teleportation circle—Jingxuan leads, Li Niyue at his side, the others following.
Footsteps halt.
A shadow steps forward.
Wenrui.
Li Niyue's breath catches; shock floods her eyes.
Wenrui's voice cuts through the cold.
"Jingxuan, I challenge you."
The crowd stills.
Frost hangs motionless in the air.
Jingxuan looks at him—no anger, no surprise, only ancient calm carved into ice.
Then, softly:
"A week later. Outside Ding Town. I will be waiting."
He walks past without another glance.
Li Niyue moves after him; as she passes Wenrui, their eyes meet—his filled with stubborn fire, hers with a storm of guilt and dread.
Two men.
Two paths.
A collision written in fate.
Snow falls.
The temple bells toll.
And somewhere in the depths of destiny, a thread trembles.