The icy potion slid down Nanfusheng's throat, leaving behind a tingling numbness that sank straight into his soul.
His consciousness suddenly elevated, as if he had risen high into the sky, gazing down upon the entire Tianhai Sports Arena—over the countless spectators who were frenziedly chanting "Water Dragon Team!"
At that instant, a restless agitation surged within him. Images of those he had once parasitized flashed through his mind—joy, anger, sorrow, laughter—all kinds of emotions playing out. For a moment, he felt as though he had become each of those people.
This sensation wasn't unfamiliar. Back when he first began using parasitism, he often experienced it. But he knew clearly—he could observe the emotions of those he parasitized, yet must never drown in them. At most, he could watch them like films playing before his eyes.
"I am Nanfusheng. I am a Thief."
Clutching onto that faint thread of familiarity, Nanfusheng quickly adjusted his mindset, extracting himself from the chaotic emotions. With a cold, detached perspective, he observed it all, refusing to let borrowed feelings sway his will.
As a Thief, one must follow the heart, measure reality with reason, make careful choices, and always maintain emotional balance.
The moment his mind steadied, the potion's power dispersed within his body—like countless sharp silk threads weaving into a net.
All at once, his spirit, flesh, and very being were torn apart into innumerable fragments. An agonizing scream burst forth from the depths of his soul:
"No!"
His thoughts shattered, breaking into splinters that fused with different parts of his flesh—each fragment developing its awareness.
A Nanfusheng is in pain.
A Nanfusheng steeped in arrogance.
A cold Nanfusheng.
A gentle Nanfusheng.
A self-amused Nanfusheng.
Zhang Wuji. Zhang Chulan. Zhang Sanfeng. Even his past-life self…
It was as though his spirit had been thrown into a blender.
Externally, the guise of Zhang Wuji collapsed, reverting to Nanfusheng's true form. If anyone had been watching, they would have seen pale flesh-buds erupting across his face, neck, and hands, swelling as if alive.
From them sprouted translucent worms with twelve glowing rings, writhing across his body. Even beneath his clothes, one could see the skin bulging and squirming, as though at any moment he might disintegrate into a swarm of crawling parasites.
The worms shone in the sunlight, their twelve-ringed bodies reflecting mysterious, overlapping sigils—symbols that pierced through higher realms, linking to the very laws of existence, embodying madness, transformation, power, and knowledge.
An icy wind howled. All around him, phantom twelve-ringed worms drifted in the air.
His soul shattered completely, fragments dispersing into each worm. His mind became a storm of clashing voices—chaotic, contradictory, scattered. His consciousness floated, weightless, as if ascending toward an endless height, where countless phantoms surrounded colossal twisted buildings, shrieking, whispering, and chanting in maddening chorus.
But then, within his fragmented thoughts, memories surfaced.
The memory of being carefully raised by his parents after first arriving in this world.
The memory of starving to death the first time, killing his mother, and turning her into a puppet.
The memory of his first deep parasitism of a soul beast, seeing the world through alien eyes.
The memory of his first deep parasitism of a human, scheming toward his promotion ritual.
Most vividly of all—
The memory of the crowd chanting "Water Dragon Team!"
That voice was real. It was solid. It was an anchor pulling him back to himself.
Who am I?
That question had already been answered long ago—back when he first "starved to death." He understood his identity instantly:
He was a man reborn from Earth by sheer luck.
He longed for freedom, chasing the path to godhood.
He feared danger, but lived as a cautious opportunist who still had his persistence.
Piece by piece, the fragments of his mind converged, gathering into a new clarity—cold, detached, transcendent. His perspective widened, gazing down on the world from countless angles.
This, he realized, was divinity.
He did not resist. Using the translucent worms as threads, he stitched the shattered fragments of his spirit back into a single whole.
Only then did he finally understand the true role of the promotion ritual—
It was a brand, a spiritual anchor.
For the Parasitism pathway, especially, which splintered the spirit so violently, anchors were indispensable. Not faith—not yet. Faith was too chaotic, too muddled with emotions. For now, what he needed was clarity, not devotion.
And what better anchor than the grand spectacle he had orchestrated—a resounding victory, under the gaze of more than eighty thousand spectators chanting his name?
Even the people he had deeply parasitized, Zhang Wuji, Zhang Chulan, and the others, now became anchors securing his fragile humanity against the flood of rising divinity.
Slowly, the fragments knit together.
Knowledge erupted like a tidal wave, flooding into his mind—esoteric truths, mysteries beyond comprehension. His skull felt like it might burst.
But he endured. With a detached, godlike perspective, he passed through the storm.
The worms on his face, hands, and body receded. His features stabilized once more, and he returned to the form of black-haired, black-eyed Nanfusheng.
He clenched his fist, testing the surging power coursing through him.
"So this is the strength of Sequence Four… the Parasitist."
At last, he had stepped into the realm of demigods.