Three ships cut through the fog-drenched sea from three directions—each a vessel of a different lord, each carrying the weight of one of the Three Great Islands.
The mist grows thicker as they near the island, swirling like breath from an unseen god. Beneath the surface, shadows stir—then rise.
Weird monsters, half-fish and half-nightmare, lash upward with claws of bone and tendrils of blood.
The Phoenix Court's ship, forged from molten gold and crowned with a burning mast, spreads its gilded wings. Flames ignite across the sea.
A wave of golden fire sweeps outward, scorching the mist into steam, reducing the attackers to ash.
Their remains dissolve, leaving behind glowing cores that drift on the water before floating gently toward the ship, drawn in by unseen power.
From the other side, the Poison Pit's vessel, a grotesque hive of chitin and black metal, pulses with green light.
A toxic miasma spreads across the waves, hissing, devouring flesh and spirit alike. The slain weirds melt, their cores rising through the poison mist, landing softly on the deck like drops of dew.
And from the third direction, the Tree Council's ship—an immense floating garden of ancient bark and divine flora—unfurls its petals.
Blossoms scatter into the wind, each flower a blade sharper than death.
The petals slice the sea itself, tearing through the monsters until all that remains are cores, which float upward like seeds returning home to soil.
When the mist clears, the three ships halt at equal distances around the island—three thrones of light facing a shrouded heart.
The island itself looms silent and strange.
Gigantic trees twist into each other, their vines knotted like veins of the dead.
The forest canopy is so thick it seems to cage the sky.
A beam of gold shoots upward from the Phoenix ship.
A beam of grey follows from the Poison Pit's hive.
And from the garden ship, a beam of deep green.
The three lights meet above the island's centre and collide—bursting into a rain of shimmering dust.
The island groans.
Roots shift.
Stones rearrange as if a puzzle remembers its true form.
From its heart rises a mountain, dragging a temple from the soil—a structure carved of bone and iron, crowned by black fire.
The ships' passengers disembark, their steps sinking into the cold, wet sand. They stand before the monstrous peak, the air heavy with silence and rot.
Then the ground stirs.
Chains clatter beneath the surface.
Sand falls away as three figures emerge—rag-cloaked wraiths, bones gleaming through tattered flesh, eyes burning with faint grey light. Chains bind their limbs, trailing deep into the earth.
Their mouths move as one, voices like rusted metal grinding against stone:
"What brings the Phoenix Court to the Corpse Temple?"
"What brings the Poison Pit to the Corpse Temple?"
"What brings the Tree Council to the Corpse Temple?"
The question echoes threefold across the fog-swept shore, hollow and heavy like a death chant.
At once, three voices answer from three sides of the island, unified though worlds apart.
"We seek an audience with the High Priests."
The corpse guardians' skulls creak as they tilt their heads, sockets flaring faintly with grey light.
"An audience with the High Priests… then tell us—have you brought the offerings?"
Feng Jing, standing tall at the head of the Phoenix Court, claps once.
Behind him, the golden ship lowers its ramp.
From within disembark a hundred human women—barefoot, dressed in sheer white robes, faces serene yet empty, each carrying a faint scent of incense and despair. They step onto the sand in perfect order, eyes lowered, smiles carved by training, not choice.
The same occurs across the beach on the other two sides—each faction delivering its "tribute" in human form.
The corpse guardians move.
Chains rattle as they shuffle closer, their movements unnatural, boneless, wrong.
Bugs crawl from the sand—spiders, centipedes, worms—and creep across the women's skin, examining them with alien precision.
None dares to scream.
After the inspection, the corpse guardians' voices rise again, rasping and inhuman.
"You may enter."
The three delegations leave their offerings behind and step inland, each following a path that winds toward the heart of the island.
Behind them, the beach stirs.
The sand collapses inward, swallowing the women and the corpse guardians alike into the hungry earth.
---
High above the cloud line, a ghostly vessel glides silently—a ship shaped like a dragon's skeleton, its masts curved like ribs. Black fire burns at its prow, and ghostly sails flutter in no wind.
On the deck stand five figures—three humans in dark robes, and two from the Soul Clan.
The Soul Clan are not like mortals. Their skin is translucent, veins glowing with golden ichor, eyes swirling with colours that see into spirit and truth. Their long, pointed ears twitch as the mist shifts around them.
The younger one, proud and fierce, the eighth son of the Soul Clan leader, speaks with imperious ease.
"Let us head directly to the temple on the mountain. Why waste time skulking behind these savages?"
The elder beside him—a veteran of countless spirit wars, hair the colour of smoke—bows slightly, his tone calm but grave.
"No, my lord. If we enter without permission, they will kill us."
The youth's expression twists with indignation and disbelief.
"They *dare*?"
"They dare, my lord," the elder repeats, unflinching.
The youth glances aside, embarrassed, especially under the eyes of the three human envoys from the Soul Hall. The elder, noticing his lord's discomfort, speaks again to explain.
"Before the Cataclysm, the power of the Corpse Temple and our Soul Empire were equal."
One of the humans—Zhi Qingluan, a Soul Hall elder wrapped in a cloak of black silk—narrows his eyes.
"Then what happened to them?" he asks, voice low, heavy with intrigue.
The elder Soul clansman's gaze drifts toward the fog below, where the three ships still burn faintly on the water.
"What happened," the elder says slowly, his voice carrying the weight of buried centuries, "is that the Corpse Temple fell to infighting after their leader—Draconis, the God of Thunder and Destruction—was struck down by the Cataclysm's shock. When the heavens burned and the void split, most of the powerful gods fell into slumber. The temple turned upon itself."
The young Soul clansman lets out a contemptuous snort. "They cultivated all the way to the God Stage, only to fall into mortal squabbling. Pathetic."
The elder's golden eyes narrow, glowing faintly beneath his translucent skin. "You speak as one who has not seen that era. After the Cataclysm, in the Corpse Temple, only four Divine Beings of the First Stage remained awake. Three chose to merge with the Weird Energy—to reshape themselves through corruption. The fourth sought to purify itself, to remain untouched." His tone darkens. "That choice ignited a war among the gods. And in the end, the one who sought purity was sealed away."
The youth crosses his arms, impatient. "And still, a hundred thousand years have passed since the Cataclysm. None of the others has awakened."
The elder's gaze drifts toward the horizon where the mist parts in flashes of dying light. "Who knows," he murmurs, "whether they slumber still… or simply choose not to be seen."
The youth scoffs, the arrogance of immortality flickering in his tone. "Enough of their ghosts. We'll enter as they did."
The Dragon Bone Ship descends. Its spectral hull glides through the clouds and lands upon the sea without a ripple—no sound, no disturbance, as though the ocean itself dares not protest.
---
At the foot of the mountain, where the sand gives way to dark soil and the mist thins into spiralling light, the three delegations finally converge.
Feng Jing of the Phoenix Court stands with the poise of fire restrained—his golden armour gleaming under the red haze, his wings faintly outlined by divine flame.
He glances toward the other two leaders and snorts. His gaze stops on Wu Ma, the Naga lord of the Poison Pit, then slides toward Shu Juang, the Great Elder of the Tree Council.
"Great Elder," Feng Jing says, voice sharp and mocking, "you still lead the Tree Council? I would think by now you'd have granted the young some chance to prove themselves."
Shu Juang smiles faintly. His bark-like skin glimmers with green veins, his long vine-hair shifting gently with the wind. "Lord Feng, I too am weary of this title. But what can I do? Among my juniors, I've yet to find one able to shoulder the burden."
Wu Ma laughs, a sound like metal scraping stone.
His scaled body glints under the red sky, his long tail coiling lazily behind him. "Shu Juang, you're still as sanctimonious as ever. Why not admit you enjoy the power? With your strength at the peak of the Demigod stage, none of your little seedlings can challenge you anyway."
Feng Jing's lips curl into a smile—sharp, venomous. "Ah, so it's true, then. The Great Elder has reached the peak. How fortuitous." He leans forward slightly, eyes glinting. "The Seed Ceremony must be close. You must be quite pleased, Shu Juang, that the time has come to become the *fruit* of the Ancient Life Tree."
The words hang between them like poison in the air—half jest, half truth, half threat.
Behind them, their followers shift uneasily. The volcano above exhales another plume of molten breath, its tremor rolling through the ground like the heartbeat of a buried god. The air thickens with heat and tension—until, suddenly, space ripples at the base of the staircase.
A figure materialises.
The three leaders turn at once. A hush falls.
The newcomer is a *living dead*—pale grey flesh stretched tight over its bones, but its three eyes still burn faintly with red flame. It wears the robes of a priest, half-rotten yet spotless, and its voice, when it speaks, is dry as ashes.
"Enough of your petty squabbles. The High Priest is waiting."
Feng Jing, Wu Ma, and Shu Juang exchange glances, sneering but silent. None dares show open disrespect. Together, they step forward, their retinues following behind like rivers converging toward a single abyss.
---
As they ascend, the stairway twists around the volcano like a serpent carved into stone. The air grows colder, though the mountain breathes fire below.
Along the cliffs, thousands of living dead watch in silence—skeletal giants and half-rotted beasts, undead elves and broken titans, once-proud races now bound to the Corpse Temple's will.
And farther above, they see the remnants of the *Destruction Divine Court*—ancient sigils etched in the rock, half-erased by centuries of decay.
Before the Cataclysm, when the world collapsed into the underworld, this temple had been the seat of the gods who ruled Destruction itself.
Fifty thousand years ago, they changed their name—no longer Destruction, but *Corpse.*
No longer divine, but something older, quieter, and infinitely more patient.
Masters of Death.
Keepers of what lies beyond Life.
---
The stairway ends before the grand doors of the central temple.
They push open with a whisper that sounds like a sigh from the void.
Inside, murals stretch across the black stone walls—depicting the rise of the Destruction Divine Court, gods carving mountains with their will, stars falling like embers, the war that ended heaven.
At the far end of the vast, empty hall stands the *High Priest*.
A living dead of the human race—his skin bone-white, his eyes sunken yet burning faintly with blue fire.
The air bends around him. His presence alone carries the pressure of divinity; even the Demigods among the three bow instinctively, heads lowered.
"Why," the High Priest asks, voice calm but carrying the weight of a tomb, "have the three islands come here?"
Feng Jing, Wu Ma, and Shu Juang exchange glances, then explain—the resurrection of *Lord Kratos*. The shifting of Weird Energy across the north. The signs that the God of War stirs once more.
They speak the name with reverence and dread, knowing even to utter it courts danger.
The High Priest listens in silence. When they finish, his eyes narrow.
"And what," he asks slowly, "does that have to do with *us*? The Corpse Temple still worships Lord Kratos."
Shu Juang bows deeply, his bark-like skin creaking. "High Priest, we only ask that you allow us to communicate with our own Lords."
Feng Jing, ever proud, lifts his head. "And besides," he says coldly, "Lord Kratos never accepted the Weird Energy. He cannot be part of the Corpse Temple."
For a heartbeat, the hall grows silent.
Then the High Priest's third eye opens.
A pulse of invisible force ripples through the chamber—Feng Jing screams, thrown back like a leaf in a storm, crashing against the wall hard enough to crack it.
He kneels, trembling, blood dripping from his lips, every instinct screaming to heal—but he does not dare.
The High Priest's gaze burns through him. "Only the *Great Lord* decides who is, and who is not, part of this temple."
Feng Jing bows lower, voice shaking. "Yes… My Lord."
"Good." The High Priest gestures lazily. "You may stand."
The High Priest's hollow gaze lingers on the door.
"We have guests."
The massive obsidian gates creak open, spilling cold mist into the temple's gloom. From the fog emerge five figures—the two Soul Clan emissaries and three humans from the Soul Hall. The air bends faintly around them; even the dead spirits in the walls stir uneasily at the pressure of their combined presence.
The High Priest gestures toward the blackstone floor. "Speak."
The delegation bows and begins. For hours, words echo softly through the endless hall—hollow bargains cloaked in reverence. The Corpse Temple listens; the Soul Clan offers. Promises of shared research, relic exchange, and forbidden knowledge weave between veiled threats and cautious silences.
At last, as the dim blue flames of the temple torches wane, the Soul Clan and Soul Hall turn and depart. Their shadows melt into the mist beyond the doors, vanishing back toward the Dragon Bone ship that waits beyond the mountain.
The silence they leave behind is thick with calculation.
Feng Jing exhales sharply. "Are we truly agreeing to their terms?"
Wu Ma's forked tongue flicks, his voice a low hiss. "They will give us the method to *filter the will* from Weird Energy. If they can truly separate will from essence, it will be worth more than a thousand sacrifices. Losing this millennium's offering is no loss."
Shu Juang's vine-like hair shifts, leaves whispering dryly as he sneers. "If they succeed, yes. But if the Soul Clan fails this year's sacrifice—as they failed the last—the method will die with them. We must have the technique *first*."
The High Priest nods slowly. "Then we are agreed." His gaze sweeps over the three. "The three Lords must be informed."
Their expressions harden, reverence replacing cunning. Each bows in silence.
Together, they turn and walk deeper into the temple's core, where light and sound fade, and only the faint rhythm of the mountain's heartbeat remains.
---
Elsewhere—
In a chamber blacker than shadow, a vast mirror ripples like liquid glass.
Twelve silhouettes shimmer into existence, their forms vague but immense—the gathered Great Warlocks of the twelve sects surrounding the Great Zhou Dynasty.
Whispers echo between them like wind through graves.
And among those twelve, one shadow sharpens—his shape revealing metallic veins beneath his flesh, his eyes faintly glowing with red light.
*Gu Yan.*
The Great Elder of the Puppet Hall stands motionless, his half-metallic face glinting faintly in the dark mirror's dim light. Around him, the other eleven shadows waver—twelve Great Warlocks of the twelve sects encircling the Great Zhou Dynasty, bound together by secrecy and ambition.
The meeting of the Twelve begins.
From one corner of the chamber, a voice rumbles low and impatient. Ji Chang of the Earth-Flame Sect, his silhouette flickering with molten veins, steps forward slightly. "Gu Yan," he says, "you called this gathering. What is the reason?"
Gu Yan's voice carries evenly, calm yet heavy with purpose. "The target has obtained all of the Ancient Demon's parts… except the torso."
Li Qin of the Silver Rain Sect, her outline veiled in drifting mist, lets out a sharp breath. "Wasn't there already a plan for that?"
Gu Yan inclines his head. "The plan proceeds as expected," he says, "but I have two matters—pressing enough that all of you should know."
He gestures, and lines of light trace through the air—forming sigils, symbols, and streams of strange energy. "First, intelligence recovered from the imperial domain. The humans have revived an ancient cultivation system. They call it *National Martial Art*."
The chamber stirs. Ji Chang's molten eyes flare brighter. "Then it must be erased quickly. Anything that threatens the Warlock system threatens our order."
Across from him, Mu Ziyi of the Shadow Tree Sect—his body like a silhouette sprouting roots and tendrils—leans forward, voice deep and echoing. "Gu Yan. The second matter."
Gu Yan's tone lowers. "The deduction made by Shen Xing of the Demon Hall. He claims to have found the realm beyond the Great Warlock."
A ripple of silence falls. The Great Warlocks close their eyes—spirits flickering, laws churning. For a moment, twelve divine intellects turn inward, calculating the truth behind the words.
Then Ji Chang laughs—a rough, volcanic sound. "Then the Li family's hold ends here. If this path leads beyond Great Warlock, we no longer need to bow to them."
Mu Ziyi's vines tighten and creak. "Careful. Until one of us *truly* breaks through, we still act under the Li family's shadow."
Li Qin, who has remained silent till now, raises her hand. Her mist shifts into a slow, spiralling rain. "Everyone," she says softly, "I have discovered my own."
The others turn their attention to her.
Li Qin continues, "The *National Martial Art* system may hold more value than we think. I believe… it could help us preserve our humanity."
Ji Chang scoffs, his voice sharp. "Preserve humanity? The system rejects Weird Energy. Cultivating it would tear apart our bodies."
Li Qin shakes her head. "Not now. But *after* we regain our material forms, if we cultivate the National Martial Art, then—it might refine the residual Weird Energy within us. It could erase the corruption, purify our cores."
The room falls silent again.
Gu Yan's eyes gleam faintly red. "A body purified of Weird Energy…" he murmurs, "would be closer to what Shen Xing described. A step toward the God Stage."
The mirror dims, swallowing their reflections one by one—
until only Gu Yan's remains, his face unreadable, his eyes burning with the faint glint of machinery and madness.