Golden Dragon Prison-Suppressing Strike

Ye Guojie stood in the center of the great hall. Stone dragon reliefs coiled around the surrounding dragon-carved pillars, each with its head lowered and its stone neck curved into an arc. He looked toward the end of the hall, where a man sat upon an iron throne. Golden hair fell to his waist, imperial-gold armor covered him from head to ankle, and his crimson eyes were half-lidded. One hand supported his chin, his posture so lazy that he seemed to be watching a play that had nothing to do with him.

"An illusion—"

"Go on, try moving." The voice from the throne descended, not loud, yet it weighed down the air of the entire hall.

Ye Guojie tried to circulate his soul power, but before the pressure pouring down from the dome overhead, it could not even take shape. The air around him grew heavier. His knees, calves, waist, and back—every inch of him was sinking downward. Nine soul rings rose beneath his feet and began to tremble violently. Dark purple soul power spilled from the edges of the rings like smoke scattered by the wind.

The figure on the throne did not rise. He merely lifted his chin slightly, his lips moving as his voice, quiet but perfectly clear, reached every corner of the hall.

"Mountain Dragon."

The dragon-carved pillar farthest from the throne—the one due north of the hall—began to shake. Cracks spread from its base to its summit, growing denser and denser. The entire pillar resembled an eggshell struck by a hammer, its layers peeling away one after another. A dark cyan glow shone from within, growing brighter as it poured from the top of the pillar to the bottom. The Mountain Dragon King peeled itself away from the pillar. When its four claws landed, they gave off heavy metallic crashes. Its stone scales had already changed from gray to bluish-gray, flexing one by one, their edges rough as weathered cliff walls. It stood less than fifty paces from Ye Guojie, its head slightly lowered, vertical pupils fixed on him.

A sheen of fine sweat appeared on Ye Guojie's forehead. He could not retreat. Retreating within the Golden Dragon King's domain would cause a collapse of the mind to feed directly back into the body; it would be no different from truly being killed. All nine soul rings lit up at once. Grayish-brown soul power exploded from within him, forming a thick mist-like protective barrier around his body. A gray short blade extended into a longsword within the fog, dark purple soul-power patterns crawling along its blade.

"Just a mere projection—"

He swung his sword. Grayish-brown sword energy tore through the air toward the Mountain Dragon King's head. The instant it struck the scales, it produced a piercing metallic scrape. The Mountain Dragon King turned its head, leaving a shallow white mark on those bluish-gray scales—then the mark closed on its own. Before Ye Guojie could make another move, the Mountain Dragon King's tail had already moved. The tail covered in bluish-gray scales swept in from the flank, as fast as a collapsing mountain. He raised his sword to block, but the weight of an entire mountain crashed into the blade. He was sent flying sideways into a dragon-carved pillar, making the pillar shudder three times. He slid down the pillar wall and dropped to one knee, a line of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. A sunken crack had appeared on the left arm guard of his Three-Word Battle Armor.

Grayish-brown soul power surged from Ye Guojie's body once more. His ninth soul ring shone to its utmost brilliance as gray mist expanded outward from around him, spreading in all directions like a tide. Wherever the mist passed, the metal floor hissed with corrosion. His entire body merged into that gray fog, turning into a vague shadow that darted toward the Mountain Dragon King. The Mountain Dragon King's vertical pupils shifted, and its enormous body stepped forward. With one step, the ground sank half an inch. With two steps, a shower of broken stone shook loose from the dragon-carved pillars. The instant its third step landed, its right claw rose—its bluish-gray forepaw spanned several yards as it slammed down toward the area shrouded in gray mist.

Boom—!

A shallow crater sank into the hall floor, the metal tiles split apart, and cracks spread outward from the claw print. Ye Guojie was slapped out of the gray mist and hurled sideways into the wall of the hall's side wing, smashing a dent into it. He bounced off and rolled across the floor several times before stopping. He struggled to rise, but a finger-length crack had appeared in the chestplate of his Three-Word Battle Armor, running from his collarbone to beneath his ribs. Dark gray soul power seeped from the crack, and three of his nine soul rings had dimmed.

"Ninth Soul Skill—Mist Devourer!"

Gray mist swelled from his body, several times denser than before, and a piercing howl came from within it. All of the mist surged in one direction—toward the Mountain Dragon King's body. The mist wrapped around its front leg and half its torso. Corrosive soul power sizzled over the surface of its scales, leaving behind dense gray spots. The Mountain Dragon King lowered its head and glanced at them, its vertical pupils narrowing slightly. Then it raised its head, and its chest began to swell. A muffled sound rolled out from the depths of its throat, growing heavier and louder. The Mountain Dragon King opened its mouth, spewing a bluish-gray beam of light from its throat. Wherever the beam passed, the gray mist shattered and dispersed like gauze torn apart by a blast of hot wind. Ye Guojie was struck head-on by the bluish-gray beam and flung away as though rammed by a mountain. He crashed sideways into the metal floor and rolled several times before stopping. He lay facedown there, half of his Three-Word Battle Armor's chestplate completely collapsed. His remaining soul rings flickered unsteadily around him, while blood from the corner of his mouth spread into a small dark-red patch across the metal floor. After retracting the beam, the Mountain Dragon King quietly returned to the side of the dragon-carved pillar, crouching there with its head lowered and its vertical pupils half-closed.

The great hall fell silent.

The golden figure on the throne had never risen. His crimson eyes remained half-lidded, his gaze resting on some empty point in the center of the palace. His lips moved, and his voice, quiet but clear, fell into every corner of the hall.

"Kid."

When those two words landed through the spiritual connection, Tang Wulin's consciousness suddenly tore free from the chaos.

He found himself sitting there. Upon the iron throne, his hands rested on the armrests, the metal beneath him cold and hard. He had the appearance of a man in his twenties, tall and straight, imperial-gold armor covering his entire body. Black hair fell to his waist, and a steady light churned within his reddish-gold vertical pupils. He lowered his head and looked at his hands—armored knuckles, distinct joints, glowing with a dark golden sheen.

He raised his head. The scene at the far end of the great hall filled his vision—the dragon-scale metal floor stretched beneath him as far as he could see, dragon-carved pillars supported the dome around him, and every giant dragon coiled around those pillars had raised its head. One golden vertical pupil after another lit up, all of them watching him.

Ye Guojie lay sprawled on the metal floor in the distance. His chestplate had caved in, and five soul rings flickered around him. He struggled to prop himself up, but his arms had barely bent before he collapsed again. Only his eyes remained raised as he looked toward the figure on the throne.

Tang Wulin looked at him.

Of course Tang Wulin recognized him. He was one of the people who, together with the evil soul masters, had brutally murdered his parents in his previous life.

He slowly rose to his feet, his gaze cold to the extreme.

Starting beneath the throne, the dragon-scale patterns across the entire hall lit up piece by piece. They shifted from dark gold to reddish gold, spreading outward from beneath his feet like an enormous network of veins pulsing beneath the ground. The dragons on the dragon-carved pillars opened their mouths at the same time. Golden currents poured from every stone dragon throat, converging upon the throne from all directions. Strand after strand wrapped around his raised arm, climbing along the armor's patterns, from his fingertips to his wrist bones, from his wrist bones to the crook of his elbow, until all of it poured into his palm. The currents gathered, spun, and compressed there, shrinking smaller and brighter. Dark red light seeped from the lines in his palm.

Ye Guojie lay on the ground with his head raised. He saw the young man seated upon the throne looking down at him, something buried to the deepest depths churning within those reddish-gold vertical pupils.

"Golden Dragon—"

The moment those two words fell, every dragon on the dragon-carved pillars raised its head, their golden vertical pupils converging in the same direction. The currents pouring in from every side accelerated, and the gravity of the entire hall tilted toward his palm. A dark red orb of light condensed above it, golden patterns churning across its surface. With every pulse, a deep hum came from the dragon-carved pillars, like bronze bells from ten thousand years ago tolling in thunder.

"Prison-Suppressing Strike—"

There was no sound, no shockwave. A dark golden dragon shadow burst from the shattered orb of light and silently crossed the empty distance between them. Its dragon head was held high, its jaws wide open, fangs emerging from its dark red body of light. Two lights glowed in its pitch-black, translucent dragon eyes, sunk to the deepest extreme. It passed through the air without disturbing even the currents, like a silhouette that did not belong to this world.

Ye Guojie did not even have time to blink.

He only saw the dome above the throne darken for an instant, then his body became light. Not the lightness of exhaustion—it was as if the weight of his entire body had vanished in an instant. He lowered his head and saw his chest beginning to turn transparent from the center, like a sheet of paper burned through from within. Fine golden motes curled around the edges.

He opened his mouth. No sound came out. Those fine golden motes drifted from his throat, quiet as mist exhaled with a breath. His palms were dissipating, his arms were dissipating, and his gray robe began to turn into strands of fragmented light, like golden dust scattering from his shoulders. He looked down at his vanishing body. There was no fear in his eyes, no unwillingness—only a hollow emptiness born of having no time to react. It had happened too quickly. Before his consciousness could even begin to process what had happened, his existence had already been stripped away first.

The last wisp of golden dust fell from where he had been standing. It never touched the ground; it had already been completely annihilated in midair. Nothing remained on the metal floor—no ash, no fragments, no trace proving that the gray-robed middle-aged man had ever stood there.

The great hall was silent. The dragons on the dragon-carved pillars slowly closed their eyes. One golden pupil after another dimmed, and their lowered heads settled back against the pillars. Golden motes overhead lit up once more, one after another, like stars igniting in sequence across the night sky.

Tang Wulin sat on the throne, slowly lowering his right hand. The dark red glow in his palm faded to gold, then faded into transparent lingering warmth. He rose and descended the throne's steps one at a time. As he walked, the imperial-gold armor peeled away from his body, and his form shrank back into that of a nine-year-old child. He reached the center of the hall and paused where Ye Guojie had dissipated. He lowered his head for a glance at the spotless, gleaming metal floor, then continued onward.

The instant his dragon wings spread, the golden palace silently dissolved behind him. The grayish-brown alley reappeared before his eyes. Morning light leaked down from above, dyed murky dark red by the blood-colored canopy overhead.

He hovered in midair and lowered his head to look at his hands—those small hands of a nine-year-old, his fingertips trembling slightly as the lingering golden light slowly faded away. He tried flapping his dragon wings, but every beat felt as though thousands of pounds of stone were hanging from their bones. His bloodline power was weakening, like seawater drawn away with the tide, thinner and shallower by the moment.

In the direction of the distant training ground, the blood-colored canopy was still churning. Icy blue and blood red light continuously collided, tore apart, and exploded in the sky. Fragments of light rained down onto the ground like an endless storm. Wu Changkong's Heavenfrost Sword tore one gash after another through the blood-red sky, but every gash was immediately filled by new blood-red light surging in from all directions. Several more cracks had appeared on his Three-Word Battle Armor. A corner of his shoulder guard was missing, and the armor on his left arm had split from elbow to wrist. Dark red blood dripped through the gaps in the armor plates. The two figures opposite him took turns lunging at him, one from the left and one from the right, one from the front and one from behind, like two snakes clamped onto their prey, constantly coiling in and pulling away.

Tang Wulin tightened his grip around the Golden Dragon Spear and tried to fly forward. But the moment he raised his arm, it ached so badly that it trembled. The Golden Dragon Spear grew heavier and heavier in his palm. He tried to draw upon the bloodline power within him, but it felt as though something had blocked it. The power lay buried deep in the bones of his torso, impossible to draw up.

A tremendous crash sounded in the distance. Wu Changkong was struck head-on by the blood-red figure and smashed into the ground below, sending shattered stone and dust flying in a ring. Yet he rose from the dust, Heavenfrost Sword still held across his body, blood dripping from its tip, impossible to tell whose it was.

"Your current body cannot even throw the Golden Dragon Spear," the Golden Dragon King's voice sounded in his mind. "Going over there would only be throwing your life away."

"What about Teacher Wu?"

"He can hold on a little longer." The Golden Dragon King paused, his final note drawn out as though sensing something coming from far away. "But—someone has arrived."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

As space tore apart, the Sky-Reaching Divine Spear shot forth like thunder and stabbed heavily into the red-haired girl's body.