Chapter Sixty-Three: The Ruins

"What an enticing scent!"
"Brother, are you courting death? That's the Soul-Reaper's Mirage—get away, quickly!"
A region wreathed in a multicolored, misty aura stretched before them. Any martial artist who passed through would steer clear from a hundred miles away, as if fleeing the plague itself. They all understood that this seemingly beautiful haze was a harbinger of doom, the death god's summons—contact meant instant demise.
Countless martial artists bypassed the area, hurtling toward Blood Spirit Mountain. No one spared a glance for the pitted craters along the mountainside, their surfaces hidden beneath the thick, dreamlike rainbow mist—the very source of the Soul-Reaper's Mirage. Even if someone did notice those holes beneath the shroud, not a soul would dare tempt fate by venturing near.

"Drip... drip..."
Within the mountain, Luo Hao had no notion of how long he had been falling. When sensation finally returned, he realized his descent had ceased.
He found himself enveloped in total darkness. Water trickled from the rock above, splashing onto the savage wound across his chest, sending cold relief and sharp pain through his body.
"Ugh! Cough, cough... Such potent demonic power! If not for this body forged by blood and steel, I might truly have perished here." Suddenly, a tightness gripped his chest, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood. Cold sweat trickled down as veins bulged on his brow, throbbing like coiled dragons.
Although Yang Li's Myriad Demon Bell was but a blood-forged human weapon, it was born of the true ancient Myriad Demon Bell, containing a trace of its divine lethality. The blade that had fallen upon him had magnified that killing intent a hundredfold.
Now, the murderous energy surged through Luo Hao's body like a primordial beast rampaging through his meridians.

His body trembled as the killing aura tore at his meridians, slicing them as if countless sharp blades were rending his flesh from within.
Enduring the excruciating pain, Luo Hao ground his teeth and made not a sound. He could see no light, nor did he know where he was—only darkness and the steady drip of water.
Forcing himself into a seated position, he began silently circulating the Twin Dragons Dominating the World technique. Instantly, the surging dragon force within him clashed with the murderous energy, a relentless tug-of-war.
The dragon force was continually eroded by the killing aura, yet each time it was reborn, it grew purer—sharper, even tainted faintly by the very killing intent that opposed it.

It was as if he was being reforged by fire, drawing life from the brink of death. Perhaps, Luo Hao thought, the end of death is the beginning of life.
With each cycle, the demonic power and killing aura within him diminished, until finally a pure, ancient strand of golden energy began to circulate through his meridians.
Though only a thread, it throbbed with the might of a true golden dragon, its ancient majesty awe-inspiring.
"Roar... roar... roar..."
From within that trace of golden dragon force, the solemn, resonant cry of a dragon echoed like a primordial chant. Had anyone stood by Luo Hao’s side, they would have been shaken to their core.
In that moment, his expression was as serene and imposing as a buddha’s, untouched by joy or sorrow. Though his body was gaunt and battered, a faint dragon’s aura emanated from within—pure and true, belonging only to the ancient dragons.
The true dragons of antiquity were beyond reckoning—invincible across the nine heavens and ten earths, unmatched through all realms. Their might was the stuff of legend, their existence preserved only in ancient tomes and painted scrolls. For hundreds of thousands of years, not a single true dragon—nor even an ordinary member of the dragon race—had been seen upon the Ancient Heaven Continent.

Within the dragon race, bloodline determined all—those of higher lineage exerted absolute dominance over lesser kin. Yet the ancient true dragons were an anomaly: their bloodline could be sublime or humble, sometimes no more than a lesser dragon or even a half-dragon, rising from obscurity to ultimate sovereignty—just as mortals sometimes ascend from nothing to the pinnacle.
The pure golden dragon force within Luo Hao coursed through his meridians like an ancient true dragon, and what was more astonishing, it grew ever stronger—devouring the remnants of killing aura and demonic power to nourish itself, its dominance undeniable.
Faint golden light began to glow upon Luo Hao’s skin. The rending pain in his meridians faded, leaving only the savage wound across his chest. Bathed in dragon force, the wound slowly knit together until only a scar remained.
He did not know how long he sat in the darkness and silence, but in time, the hurt wrought by killing aura and demonic force was purged from his meridians, and even the hidden injuries from battle were healed by the dragon force.

Suddenly, two golden eyes snapped open, shooting beams of light into the darkness before quickly receding. Luo Hao clenched his fists—he could feel his strength fully restored, and without realizing it, he had broken through to the eighth stage of Qi Spirit.
Running his hand over the scar left on his chest, a murderous glint flashed in Luo Hao’s eyes. "Qi Spirit, eighth stage—and still too weak! The debt of Yang Li’s blade, I swear I’ll repay tenfold."
He tore off his tattered clothing and donned a fresh set from his storage pouch. Then, he turned his attention to his surroundings.
A sphere of golden light rose in his palm, illuminating the cramped space he found himself in. To his dismay, Luo Hao saw he was trapped in a sealed chamber, with only the opening above through which he’d fallen. The surrounding stone walls were so smooth not even a handhold could be found—unless he reached the realm of Celestial Power, enabling him to soar through the air, there was no escape.
"Is this truly the end of Luo Hao?" he muttered under his breath. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed something on one of the walls. Under the golden light, he saw that the wall was marked with a series of seemingly chaotic yet subtly profound traces.

"Sword scars!"
The entire wall was covered in erratic sword marks—he ran his hand over them and felt their depth. Though apparently disorderly, the scars had the force of iron brush and silver hook, and the faint sound of sword song seemed to hum in his ears.
His gaze drifted to the wall’s corner and his expression shifted. There, carved into the stone, was a character shaped like a tadpole.

"Archaic script!"
Startled, Luo Hao blurted out the words. He remembered once seeing a book filled with tadpole-shaped writing—'Chronicles of the Ancient Heaven'—while searching for martial techniques in the Divine Armory Pavilion of Sky Sea Sect.
Though he’d only glanced at a translation, he’d memorized a few characters. The tadpole script had arisen during the transition from the Ancient to the Middle Ages, a blank era lost to time.
Were it merely an ancient language, Luo Hao would not have been so unsettled. But the character carved into the wall demanded caution.

"Immortal!"
Immortals were the stuff of legend—mysterious and unfathomable through all ages and realms. He gazed long and hard at the sword scars covering the wall, sensing he was on the verge of a great discovery.
"What are these sword scars hiding? The passage of lost years, or some ancient mark, or..." Luo Hao murmured, but quickly fell silent as a chill gripped his heart, as if invisible eyes were watching from the shadows. Sweat broke out across his back.
He glanced warily at the immortal character and the sword scars covering the wall. His heart suddenly brightened: "These sword scars and the character were left by human hands—there must be a path here, not just a dead end."

With this realization, Luo Hao began searching the cramped chamber. But apart from the wall etched with sword scars and the immortal character in archaic script, the other walls were smooth and featureless.
Unwilling to give up, he searched for an hour, until his gaze again settled on the wall covered in sword marks and the immortal script.
"Both the archaic script and sword scars appear only on this wall. They cannot be here for no reason—there must be more to this wall than meets the eye." Luo Hao’s eyes blazed with light as he stared at the wall, as if trying to penetrate its secrets.