The deeper chambers of Xuánlóng Shénjìng were no longer merely passages of crystal and qi—they were the breathing veins of a living cosmos.
Each step Tiān Lán and Yao Xiangyi took sent tremors of light rippling through the walls, as if the realm itself felt their presence and answered with a pulse of ancient will.
The air shimmered with condensed elemental energy.
Rivers of frost-blue qi flowed like molten glass beneath translucent bridges.
Shadow swells pooled in the corners of the chamber, stretching and curling as though tasting their fear.
Threads of lightning flickered along the ceiling like restless serpents, throwing sharp reflections across endless spires of crystal.
The Spirit Crystal in Tiān Lán's palm throbbed with a rhythm that matched the beat of his heart.
Its glow braided seamlessly with the faint luminescence of the Primordial Artifact, each pulse a soft gong echoing through marrow and soul.
He felt every vibration as a call—an invitation and a warning.
Yao Xiangyi moved a step ahead, her sword already lifted.
The blade's silver edge traced delicate runes in the air, each sigil blooming into a translucent barrier before fading like a sigh.
Her breath came slow and even, but her eyes—sharp as a hawk's—never ceased scanning the mist-draped expanse.
A low tension coiled through the chamber.
Something unseen stirred beneath the glow.
"Something's wrong," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the gentle hum of flowing qi.
"The currents… they're distorting. We're not alone."
Before Tiān Lán could speak, the mist rippled like a disturbed pond.
Out of its shifting depths stepped Zhou Mingyu, silver hair gleaming with frost-light.
Behind him emerged four elite disciples of rival sects, their auras jagged and violent enough to fracture the crystal underfoot.
The very air warped as their combined qi converged, bending light and making the chamber groan.
Zhou Mingyu's blade flashed once—lightning crawling along its edge like a chained dragon—and his eyes locked onto Tiān Lán with the cold precision of a predator.
"You've grown," Zhou said, each word a knife of frost.
"But don't mistake growth for greatness. The Primordial Artifact—this entire realm—will belong to me."
The Spirit Crystal flared in Tiān Lán's hand, its glow sharpening into a cold star.
He stepped forward, his calm radiating a quiet authority that seemed to steady even the trembling spires.
"You never learn," he said, voice low but carrying across the chamber.
"Xuánlóng Shénjìng does not bow to greed. This realm tests mastery and balance. That is a language you still cannot speak."
The air split with the sound of shattering thunder.
Zhou Mingyu struck first—a spiraling cyclone of frost and lightning, so dense it seemed to drag gravity itself in its wake.
At the same instant, his disciples flared with killing intent, launching attacks from every angle: spears of condensed qi, blades of shadow, torrents of wind and flame.
Tiān Lán moved.
Shadows unfurled from his feet like ink in water, forming barriers that drank in hostile qi.
Frost spirals burst outward, fracturing incoming lightning into harmless sparks.
Lightning arcs of his own danced between his fingertips, meeting each strike with surgical precision.
The Primordial Artifact pulsed like a second heart.
Every flick of his wrist, every twist of his stance came amplified—frost sharper, shadows deeper, lightning faster than mortal sight could follow.
Yao Xiangyi joined the storm without hesitation.
She flowed beside him like a phantom blade, her movements so fluid they seemed choreographed by the realm itself.
Her sword left streaks of pure energy in its wake, each cut severing hostile pulses before they could converge.
Together they fought as one body, one rhythm—two halves of a single, unstoppable force.
Zhou Mingyu's eyes narrowed to icy slits.
He gathered his qi in a single devastating surge, summoning a secret technique that bent the chamber's reality.
Frost and lightning condensed into a colossal lance, its tip shimmering with the weight of annihilation.
When he thrust it forward, the chamber screamed—crystal spires splintered like fragile glass, rivers of elemental qi surged upward in a luminous flood.
Tiān Lán answered with calm inevitability.
He drew on the fusion of frost, shadow, and lightning, channeled through both the Spirit Crystal and the Primordial Artifact.
The resulting strike was not an attack but a statement—a perfect intersection of stillness and storm.
The two forces collided in a detonation so bright it erased the chamber's colors, leaving only raw white.
The shockwave rolled outward in concentric rings, tearing apart lesser spires and sending Zhou Mingyu skidding back, boots grinding against the fractured crystal floor.
His disciples were thrown into the air like leaves in a hurricane, barely clinging to their weapons as they tumbled across the glowing bridges.
But Zhou Mingyu was not finished.
He bit down on a talisman, blood mist rising around him, and summoned a hidden art.
The shadows behind him writhed and multiplied, shaping themselves into an army of clones—each a perfect copy capable of wielding his frost-lightning techniques.
The chamber descended into chaos.
Clones surged from every direction, their attacks overlapping in a blizzard of flashing blades and thunderous arcs.
Each strike distorted the air, fracturing light into jagged shards.
The floor beneath Tiān Lán and Yao Xiangyi heaved like a living thing, threatening to swallow them whole.
Tiān Lán's body responded before thought could catch.
The realm itself whispered through the Spirit Crystal, feeding him fragments of forgotten knowledge.
His eyes flickered with sudden comprehension as glowing inscriptions awakened along the chamber walls—ancient characters that pulsed with secrets lost for eons.
Techniques unfolded in his mind like a thousand blooming lotuses.
New pathways of qi, elegant and deadly, rewrote themselves into his meridians.
"This changes everything," he murmured, his voice lost beneath the roar.
His next movements were no longer merely reactive—they were prophetic.
Each strike anticipated the clones before they attacked, intercepting their trajectories with mathematical perfection.
Frost spirals locked their limbs, shadow tendrils coiled like serpents around their cores, lightning threaded through every counter to shatter their forms from within.
Yao Xiangyi gasped as she parried a clone's desperate strike, catching a glimpse of Tiān Lán moving beyond mortal rhythm.
"You've… evolved," she breathed, awe shimmering in her eyes.
"I've never seen anyone fight like this."
One by one, Zhou Mingyu's clones disintegrated into glittering dust, their cries swallowed by the chamber's living silence.
Zhou staggered backward, his silver hair disheveled, his once-proud aura flickering like a dying flame.
"No… this isn't possible! The artifact—how are you—?"
Tiān Lán stepped through the fading mist, his voice carrying the weight of mountains and storms.
"Because power without control is emptiness. Xuánlóng Shénjìng rewards balance… not hunger."
He raised his hand.
Frost spiraled upward, shadow unfurled like an endless night, and lightning burst from the Primordial Artifact in a single, incandescent arc.
The three forces merged into a cataclysmic surge, a storm so pure it silenced the chamber's hum.
The explosion ripped through the battlefield, annihilating the last of Zhou Mingyu's disciples and hurling their leader backward into the retreating mist.
When the light cleared, only Tiān Lán and Yao Xiangyi remained, standing in the tranquil aftermath of unimaginable violence.
The realm itself exhaled.
Rivers of qi settled into gentle currents.
Crystal guardians hidden in the walls flickered to life, their faint luminescence bowing in silent acknowledgment.
Yao Xiangyi lowered her blade, chest rising and falling, the sharp scent of ozone still burning in the air.
"We… we did it." Her voice trembled between exhaustion and wonder.
"But those inscriptions—there's more hidden beyond this place. Techniques, artifacts… truths we can barely imagine."
Tiān Lán looked to the glowing sigils, the Primordial Artifact pulsing warmly in his grip.
"Exactly. Xuánlóng Shénjìng still hides its deepest mysteries. We've only begun to read its scripture."
The Spirit Crystal answered with a sudden, violent pulse.
A warning.
The realm's closing time had leapt forward—its final weeks already ticking away.
Tiān Lán turned to Yao Xiangyi, their silhouettes framed by the living glow of crystal and storm.
"Every step from here matters more than the last. No hesitation."
Her eyes met his, steady as tempered steel.
"Together," she said.
They stepped forward as one, their figures swallowed by the luminous corridor that opened before them—a path leading deeper into the immortal heart of Xuánlóng Shénjìng, where the final secrets awaited those brave enough to claim them.