The night of the new moon was a black, suffocating blanket over Heaven Dou City. The new facility on the eastern outskirts was a dark, silent silhouette, its imposing form a man-made mountain against the starless sky. The only light came from the faint, rhythmic glow of the patrolling guards' spirit lamps, tiny, lonely fireflies in a vast, oppressive darkness.
Eight shadows detached themselves from the surrounding forest. They were not just men; they were forces of nature, gods of thunder and steel, and they moved with a supernatural silence that was a testament to their Titled Douluo power. They were the eight chosen elders of the Dragon-Hammer alliance, the vanguard of a new, secret war.
They reached the outer wall, a formidable, thirty-meter-high structure of reinforced stone that would have been an insurmountable obstacle for any normal army. For them, it was a minor inconvenience.
Tang Haien, the fiery, impatient elder of the Clear Sky Sect, stepped forward. He did not summon his hammer. He did not unleash a grand, explosive attack. He simply placed his palm flat against the cold, hard stone. A single, almost imperceptible tremor, a silent, focused application of his immense power, rippled through the wall. The faint, magical hum of the seismic alarm sensors that were embedded deep within the stone faltered, then died.
Yu Luomian, the leader of the Blue Lightning contingent, just smirked. With a silent, almost lazy gesture, he and the other seven Titled Douluos simply… floated. They rose into the air, their control over their own spirit power so absolute that they made no sound, disturbed not a single leaf on the nearby trees, and passed over the massive wall, landing on the other side with the soft, silent grace of falling shadows.
It felt… too easy. The security, which had seemed so formidable from a distance, was proving to be a paper tiger. But their own arrogance, their absolute, unwavering belief in their own overwhelming power, allowed them to dismiss the feeling.
'They are merchants, not warriors,' Tang Haien thought, a contemptuous sneer on his lips. 'They build high walls, but they do not know how to truly defend them.'
They encountered their first patrol a moment later. Four powerful Spirit Saints, their armor gleaming in the faint light of their spirit lamps. Before the guards could even raise an alarm, before they could even register the presence of the eight silent, deadly shadows that had materialized before them, they were dispatched.
A flicker of lightning from one of the Blue Lightning elders, a subtle, crushing blow of pure, kinetic force from one of the Clear Sky elders. The four guards collapsed without a sound, their minds wiped clean by a precise, non-lethal application of spiritual power, their bodies unharmed.
They moved through the outer courtyard, a silent, deadly unit. They saw the smoke rising from the "alchemy wing," a thick, fragrant plume that smelled of a hundred different exotic herbs. They heard the rhythmic clang of hammers from the "engineering wing," a steady, industrious symphony of creation. It all seemed perfectly, beautifully, and wonderfully, joyously normal.
They reached the central plaza of the compound. As per their plan, they split into two teams.
Team Alpha, led by the fiery, impatient Tang Haien and the other three Clear Sky elders, their eyes blazing with a greedy, triumphant fire, headed for the central vault, the massive, imposing structure of black iron that was their main prize.
Team Bravo, led by the more cautious, but no less brutal, Yu Luomian and the other three Blue Lightning elders, headed for the alchemy wing, their own target a single, priceless individual. The master alchemist. Elder Yang Wu.
As they separated, a sudden, cold gust of wind blew through the silent courtyard. It was a strange, unnatural wind, a breath of pure, arctic cold that seemed to come from nowhere. The spirit lamps, which had been burning with a steady, unwavering light, all flickered, then died, plunging the entire compound into a deep, profound darkness for a single, heart-stopping moment.
A flicker of something, a hint of a deep, primal unease, passed through even the most arrogant of them. But it was gone in an instant, dismissed as a simple trick of the wind.
The two teams reached their respective targets. The central vault was a silent, black monolith, its meter-thick door a silent, arrogant challenge. The alchemy wing was a large, brightly lit building, the sounds of activity, of shouted orders and the bubbling, hissing of a hundred different cauldrons, spilling from its open windows.
The trap was about to be sprung.
Team Bravo, the four Titled Douluos of the Blue Lightning Clan, did not bother with the door. They were dragons, and dragons do not knock.
With a single, silent gesture from Yu Luomian, a controlled, high-frequency bolt of pure, violet lightning, no thicker than a needle, shot from his fingertip. It struck the large, reinforced glass of the main window. There was no shatter. No explosion. The glass simply… dissolved, turning into a fine, white powder that was carried away on the cold night air.
The four of them poured through the open window, four silent, deadly phantoms of draconic power.
The room they entered was a vast, chaotic space, a true alchemist's nightmare. Dozens of massive, bubbling cauldrons, each one the size of a small carriage, filled the room, their contents a thick, murky, and almost black sludge that gave off a sweet, cloying, and deeply, profoundly, and an almost sickeningly fragrant aroma.
But there were no guards. There were no alchemists scrambling to defend their precious creations.
There was only a single man.
He stood in the center of the room, a solitary, and surprisingly calm, figure. He was not the wizened, stooped old man they had been expecting. He was a middle-aged man, his back ramrod straight, his face a handsome, chiseled landscape of pure, unadulterated arrogance. He wore the simple, unadorned robes of the Breaking Clan, but he wore them with the air of a king.
He just stood there, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a calm, almost welcoming smile on his face.
"I have been expecting you," he said, his voice a calm, even sound that held not a hint of fear. It was the voice of a man who was in complete, and absolute, control.
Yu Luomian and his brothers just stared, their minds momentarily unable to process the scene. This was not the chaotic, desperate defense they had expected. This was… a reception.
And then, they saw him. Truly saw him. The aura that radiated from this man… it was not that of a Spirit Douluo. It was a pressure so immense, so profound, so utterly, completely, and terrifyingly powerful, that it made their own, newly ascended Titled Douluo auras feel like the flickering of a candle in a hurricane.
"You…" Yu Luomian breathed, his voice a choked, disbelieving whisper. "You are not Elder Yang Wu. You are… Yang Wudi. But… you are a Titled Douluo."
Yang Wudi's smile widened. It was not a pleasant expression. It was the cold, sharp smile of a predator that has just seen its prey walk willingly into its trap.
"Level 94," he said simply, his voice a quiet, final, and utterly, completely, and soul-shatteringly devastating sound. "A single, final step away from the rank of a Super Douluo. A secret I have been keeping, at the request of my new Sect Master, for a few, very productive, months."
The four brothers stared, their minds a screaming, white-hot vortex of pure, unadulterated, and almost comically profound disbelief. A Level 94 Titled Douluo. A being on a level that was second only to their own Clan Leader. Hiding in a fake facility, pretending to be an elder of his own clan.
It was then that they noticed the smell. The fragrant, herbal aroma they had smelled from the outside was now a thick, cloying, and deeply, profoundly, and an almost sweetly sickening scent. It was the smell of death.
And they noticed the color of the liquid in the vats. It was not the clear, vibrant color of a potent elixir. It was the dark, murky, and almost black sludge of a pure, concentrated, and utterly, completely, and terrifyingly lethal poison.
Yang Wudi just smiled. "A gift," he said, his voice a low, final sound, "from the Breaking Clan. For our new… business partners."
He held up his hand. In it, he held a small, simple, and terrifyingly final-looking spirit tool detonator.
"Enjoy the fruits of your labor," he whispered.
And he pressed the button.
The cauldrons did not explode in a shower of fire. They simply… hissed.
A thick, colorless, and utterly odorless cloud of pure, concentrated neurotoxin erupted from the vats. It was not a slow, creeping fog. It was an instantaneous, inescapable wave of pure, chemical death.
The four Titled Douluos, for all their immense, draconic power, for all their so-called immunity to poison, were not immune to a creation of this magnitude. It was a poison born from the fusion of the Breaking Clan's ancient, alchemy arts and the divine, immortal herbs of the Ice and Fire Yin Yang Well. It was a poison that could kill even a Titled Douluo.
They roared in a mixture of rage and a new, dawning, and utterly, completely, and terrifyingly profound agony as the poison attacked their nervous systems, their spirit power, their very souls.
At the same time, on the other side of the compound, Team Alpha, the four Titled Douluos of the Clear Sky Sect, were having a much easier, and far more satisfying, time.
They did not bother with subtlety. They did not bother with finesse. They were the men of the Clear Sky Sect. They were a hammer. And the world was their anvil.
Tang Haien, his eyes blazing with a greedy, triumphant fire, simply unleashed the full, unrestrained power of his Clear Sky Hammer.
BOOM!
The massive, black iron door of the central vault, a structure that had been designed to withstand the assault of a Titled Douluo, was blown from its hinges, a twisted, smoking ruin.
They poured into the vault. And they saw it. A treasure trove beyond their wildest dreams.
Racks upon racks of neatly rolled blueprints. Shelves upon shelves of gleaming, intricate spirit tool cores. It was the heart of the Seven Treasure Glaze Tile Sect's new, technological empire.
They did not hesitate. They were like children in a candy store. They began to grab everything they could see, their hands a blur of motion as they stuffed the priceless secrets into their storage tools.
Tang Haien, as the leader of the team, went for the main prize. He saw a single, beautifully illuminated display case in the center of the vault. In it, resting on a velvet cushion, was a single, magnificent blueprint, its title written in elegant, flowing script: "The Final, Perfected Design of the Spirit Power Amplification Array."
He let out a triumphant, guttural roar. He shattered the case with a single, contemptuous blow of his hammer and grabbed the blueprint.
And as he did, his foot, in his haste, in his greed, landed on a small, almost invisible pressure plate on the floor.
A soft, almost musical chime echoed through the vault.
The dozens, the hundreds of gleaming spirit tool cores that lined the shelves all began to glow. A faint, pulsing, and deeply, profoundly, and an almost beautifully ominous red light.
For a single, heart-stopping moment, the four Titled Douluos just stared. Their minds, which had been a whirlwind of greedy, triumphant excitement just a moment before, were now a blank, white haze of pure, unadulterated, and almost comically profound confusion.
And then, the realization hit them.
They were not in a vault.
They were in a bomb.
The spirit tool cores did not explode in a simple, conventional way. They did not erupt in a shower of fire and shrapnel.
They detonated in a final wave of pure, annihilating light.
The central vault of the facility, the very heart of the compound, was vaporized. A brilliant, searing dome of white light expanded outwards into a religiously profound apocalypse. It consumed the engineering wing. It consumed the alchemy wing, and the four poisoned dragon spirit masters within it. It consumed the very walls of the compound itself.
The entire facility, the beautiful trap that Ning Fengzhi had so carefully constructed was gone.
Replaced by a single profound smoking crater.
The searing white light of the explosion faded, but the world did not return to darkness. A low, echoing hum vibrated in the very air, and a hellish, orange glow emanated from the massive crater that had once been a state-of-the-art facility. The smell of ozone, burnt metal, and cooked flesh hung heavy in the moonless night.
From the jagged edges of the crater, a figure stirred. A low groan, more animal than human, broke the ringing silence. One by one, eight broken, battered figures began to pull themselves from the wreckage. They were alive. They were Titled Douluos, and their immense, powerful bodies, their last-second, instinctual defensive auras, had saved them from being vaporized.
But they were far from unharmed.
The four elders of the Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Clan were a pathetic sight. Yu Luomian managed to get to his knees, his body wracked with violent, uncontrollable spasms. His skin, usually a healthy, tanned color, was now a pale, sickly green. Arcs of chaotic, sickly green lightning snapped between his trembling fingers. He tried to speak, to roar his fury, but only a wet, gurgling sound escaped his lips as his throat seized.
The neurotoxin was a merciless fire in his veins. It was not a simple poison that attacked the body; it attacked the spirit. His spirit power was a sputtering candle in a hurricane, a chaotic, flickering mess that he could not control. He was a dragon, chained and dying from within.
His three brothers were in a similar state, twitching on the ground, their draconic features flickering in and out of existence as if their very spirits were trying to tear themselves from their bodies. They were powerful, yes. But they were also poisoned. Severely.
The four elders of the Clear Sky Sect were in a slightly better, but no less dire, state. They had been at the very heart of the main explosion. Their defensive spirit abilities, the innate, terrifying resilience of their hammered-steel bodies, had saved their lives. But they were burned. Badly.
Tang Haien, the fiery, impatient Seventh Elder, pushed himself to his feet, a roar of pure, unadulterated agony torn from his throat. His proud, arrogant face was a mask of scorched, blackened flesh, his features melted into a grotesque parody of their former pride. His elegant, formal robes were a tattered, smoking ruin, fused to his skin in places. The smell of his own cooked flesh filled his nostrils, a sickening, sweet aroma that almost made him vomit.
'A trap…' Yu Luomian's mind, a screaming, white-hot vortex of pain and disbelief, finally managed to form a coherent thought. 'All of it… the scout… the convoy… the alchemist… it was all a performance. For us.'
He looked at his poisoned brothers, then at the burned, battered forms of the Clear Sky elders. He looked at the smoking, empty crater. And he began to laugh. A raw, ragged, and utterly, completely, and soul-shatteringly hopeless sound.
"NING FENGZHI!" Tang Haien roared, his voice a raw, broken sound of pure, impotent fury. "YOU COWARDLY MERCHANT! SHOW YOURSELF! FACE US LIKE A MAN!"
It was then that they felt it.
A new, and infinitely more terrifying, pressure that descended upon them from all sides. The very air around them seemed to grow heavy, thick, and suffocating. It was like trying to breathe through water.
A faint, nine-colored light began to shimmer in the air, weaving itself into existence. It was a beautiful, intricate, and utterly, completely, and inescapable cage of pure, brilliant light that formed a massive dome over the entire crater. It was the domain of a Support System Titled Douluo. It was the Domain of the Nine Treasure Glaze Tile Pagoda, a power of support that had just been turned into an unbreachable prison.
And then, they appeared.
On the lip of the crater, silhouetted against the dark, moonless sky, nine figures faded into existence from the shadows. Their arrival was silent, a slow, deliberate materialization that was somehow more terrifying than any sudden, explosive appearance.
At their center stood Ning Fengzhi. His usual gentle, benevolent smile was gone, replaced by something cold, hard, and as sharp as broken glass. His handsome, elegant face was a mask of pure, regal fury.
To his right stood Chen Xin, the Sword Douluo. He had not moved, but the killing intent that radiated from him was a physical force, a blade of pure, cold steel at their throats.
To his left stood Gu Rong, the Bone Douluo. He let out a low, rattling chuckle, a sound like bones grinding together that sent a shiver of pure, primal fear down their spines.
And behind them, a silent, implacable wall of pure, overwhelming power, stood the other six Titled Douluos of the Seven Treasure Glaze Tile Sect. The two new ones who had been publicly known. And the four others, the secret, hidden pillars of their new, terrifying strength. A total of nine Titled Douluos.
The eight broken, battered figures in the crater below just stared, their minds a blank, white haze of shock. Nine. There were nine of them. Not five. Nine.
Ning Fengzhi looked down at them, at their burned, poisoned forms.
And he smiled.
It was not a smile of warmth, of kindness. It was the slow, deliberate lifting of the corners of his mouth, a gesture that held no humor, only a profound satisfaction. His eyes, usually so kind, so full of a gentle, paternal warmth, now held a cold, amused light, the look of a scholar observing a particularly interesting insect writhing on a pin.
He looked at the broken, battered figures of the most powerful men of the two greatest attack-type sects in the world. And he spoke.
"Looking for something?" he asked, his voice a quiet, polite sound.