Countless bubbles drifted through the endless void, each one glowing with its own hue of multicolored light. Some shone brilliantly, brimming with vitality, their surfaces pulsing gently like living hearts. Others, scattered farther away, were dim and sickly, wrapped in a faint aura of decay that seemed to gnaw at existence itself.

This deathly qi was insidious. It did not surge or explode; instead, it crept forward at an agonizingly slow pace, like mold spreading across forgotten stone. To an untrained eye, nothing appeared to change. But anyone who looked closely would notice the truth: the bubbles with weaker light were already losing their vitality, their glow thinning and flickering as the rot seeped inward, eroding them from within.

Suddenly, the void trembled.

A sharp, frigid ripple spread outward, followed by the soundless crack of space itself splitting apart. From that fracture, a gigantic sword burst forth—magnificent and domineering, as if forged entirely from condensed golden law. Its blade cut through the void without resistance, leaving behind clean, silent scars in reality that took long moments to heal.

Standing atop the sword was a young man with brows as sharp as blades and eyes filled with unwavering resolve. His posture was straight, his aura restrained yet terrifyingly dense, like a drawn bow held just before release. He wore simple golden robes, unadorned except for a single emblem embroidered over his chest—a sword so vivid it seemed ready to leap free from the fabric.

To anyone from the Upper Realm, his identity would be unmistakable.

A core disciple of the Sword Saint Heaven.

The moment he appeared, the surrounding bubbles reacted. The vibrant ones pulsed brighter, as if stirred by his presence, while the dim, decaying bubbles recoiled ever so slightly, their deathly qi thinning under the pressure of his sword intent. The young man's gaze swept calmly across the void, sharp and discerning, as though he were measuring the state of countless worlds with a single glance.

Then, with a subtle shift of his footing, the golden sword beneath him accelerated—vanishing into the depths of the void, carrying its master toward an unseen destination where fate, decay, and steel were destined to collide.

Noticing the strengthening presence of deathly qi, the young man's brows knit together slightly.

"The rate at which the lower realms are falling to Abyssal corrosion has increased…" he murmured, his voice low and restrained. "And the shift became especially drastic after the fall of the Nether Realm and the collapse of the reincarnation cycle."

A trace of solemnity crept into his eyes as fragments of recent history aligned themselves in his mind. Too many changes. Too many coincidences. When events stacked atop one another like this, it usually meant something far larger was moving beneath the surface.

Each of the luminous bubbles drifting through the void was a lower realm—countless worlds born, flourishing, declining, and dying in silence. From afar, they looked tranquil, even beautiful. But he knew better. The faint dimming of some bubbles was already a death sentence written in slow motion.

As he continued forward, the void around him warped and folded, layers of space peeling back like thin sheets of paper. After a long stretch of travel, he slowed, his gaze settling on a cluster of bubbles whose fluctuations stood out sharply from the rest.

"Hmm…" His eyes narrowed in mild interest. "So this is the Seven Cloud Converged World."

A faint smirk tugged at his lips.

"No wonder it's drawn the attention of so many major powers."

His gaze lingered for a moment longer, probing deeper, as if trying to glimpse the tangled threads of destiny within that single world.

"Dragon Race inheritance, huh?"

He exhaled softly. Anyone ignorant of the distinction between Dragon Race inheritances might dismiss it as just another rumor, but he knew better. Long ago—before the first great calamity shook the Upper Realm—the Dragons had reigned supreme. In that era, humans were little more than livestock, surviving at the whim of draconic moods.

That age had ended in blood and fire, its echoes buried beneath countless layers of history. Yet even now, the remnants of the Dragon Race carried enough weight to stir the Upper Realm.

Still, that wasn't why he was here.

"First Sword Saint Heaven was once an hegemon…" he muttered, irritation seeping into his tone. "But that was ages ago. I really don't understand why the Heaven Master keeps sending disciples down here."

He shook his head lightly, annoyance flashing across his sharp features. Whatever grand scheme the higher-ups were playing, it clearly wasn't something he'd been deemed worthy of knowing.

But orders were orders.

Having been raised within Sword Saint Heaven since childhood, loyalty was carved into his bones. Questioning commands was one thing. Disobeying them was another entirely.

"…Tch. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

As he drew closer to the Seven Cloud Converged World, the massive golden sword beneath his feet began to shrink. Its overwhelming presence condensed inward, layers of divine law folding neatly upon themselves. Within a few breaths, it had reduced to the size of a small chamber—then to a glimmer—before vanishing completely, as though it had never existed at all.

The young man hovered silently in the void, eyes fixed on the world ahead, unaware that the path he was stepping onto was already drenched in blood, fate, and forces far beyond even his expectations.

Seven Cloud Convergence World — Azure Dragon Continent

Phoenix and Dragon City.

Several months had passed since the war ended and the demons retreated with their tails firmly tucked between their legs.

In the aftermath, Song Patriarch made a decision that could only be described as peak shamelessness.

Using what Wang Chen generously assumed was his entire remaining brainpower, the man renamed the city Phoenix and Dragon City, openly declaring the Song Clan nothing more than caretakers operating under the Phoenix and Dragon Dojo.

It was blatant opportunism.

When Wang Chen first heard of it, he didn't even know what expression he was supposed to make. Anger felt excessive. Amusement felt inappropriate. In the end, he chose the most practical option—silence.

The truth was simple. Phoenix and Dragon City was now one of only two remaining cities on the entire continent. Refugees would pour in endlessly, disputes would explode daily, and administration would become a nightmare. Wang Chen had zero interest in becoming a city lord buried under mortal politics.

If Song Po was willing to shoulder that burden, Wang Chen was more than happy to let him.

And based on past interactions, the man might be shameless—but he wasn't stupid. He knew exactly where the line was and had no intention of crossing it.

As expected, the population of Phoenix and Dragon City skyrocketed.

Stories spread like wildfire. Exaggerated, embellished, half-true—but all centered around a single fact no one could deny:

the thousand-meter-long Original Demon had been slain.

Many had witnessed it firsthand. Others heard it from trembling survivors who swore on their Dao hearts. Either way, the conclusion was the same.

If there was any place left in the Azure Dragon Continent worth living in, it was here.

A city protected by a living legend.

Unbothered by the bustling chaos beyond the gates, Wang Chen lay back in his familiar rocking chair, eyes half-closed as it creaked gently beneath him. The sunlight filtered lazily across the courtyard stones.

A short distance away, Lin Huang sat cross-legged in meditation, sword intent flowing quietly around him like a restrained tide.

Wang Chen's gaze drifted briefly toward the distant city entrance before he let out a soft sigh.

"So," he said calmly, breaking the silence,

"you want to go to the Soaring Dragon Continent, huh?"

He repeated Lin Huang's earlier words slowly, as if weighing their meaning.

Looking at Lin Huang's solemn expression, Wang Chen couldn't help but sigh inwardly.

With his mastery over Time and Existence, how could he fail to notice the violent turbulence of fate gathering around his disciple lately? It was no longer subtle. Invisible waves surged and collapsed around Lin Huang like a storm barely restrained, as if heaven itself had begun paying him special attention—and not the benevolent kind.

After the battle, Lin Huang had broken through to a transcendent-grade Foundation, choosing Sword Dao as his core path. His spiritual space had expanded to an astonishing six hundred meters, several hundred meters wider than Wang Chen's own had been at the same stage. Even by Wang Chen's standards, it was monstrous.

Yet that was precisely the problem.

Since that breakthrough, Lin Huang hadn't advanced even a single step further.

His sword intent was sharp, refined, and terrifyingly pure—but it no longer moved. No matter how much he cultivated, the edge refused to deepen. His Dao heart, once blazing with momentum, had stalled. The confidence that once carried him forward had begun to twist inward, forming cracks invisible to others.

A heart demon.

Wang Chen could see it clearly.

Not an external one born of fear or temptation, but something far more dangerous—a stagnation born from comparison, pressure, and unspoken doubt. Worse still, heaven's hostility toward Lin Huang was becoming increasingly obvious. The more exceptional he became, the more the world itself seemed to resist him.

For now, there was nothing Wang Chen could forcibly do.

A heart demon couldn't be cut down with power, nor erased with authority. It required collision—impact strong enough to shatter hesitation and force growth.

Wang Chen's gaze sharpened slightly.

Perhaps…

It's time.

Time for Lin Huang to leave the nest.

Time for him to face the Ten Thousand Sword Sect—

and let fate decide whether his blade would break… or be reborn sharper than ever.

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