Chapter 81 Evil Corpse Mutation, Unknown Origin

“Brothers!!”

“Rest here for now. The stargazer predicted last night—”

“Three hundred miles east, a great rain is about to fall.”

“Survive a little longer, and there will be water to drink, food to feast upon!!”

The ragged, starving band of survivors, looking more like beggars than brigands, were none other than the remnants of Yellow Heaven Camp.

Once numbering in the thousands, their numbers had been whittled down to mere hundreds.

Through endless marches, starvation, and merciless struggles, only the strongest and most desperate remained.

If not for Carl De Molinos’s iron grip, the camp would have disbanded long ago.

But even now, they were at their breaking point.

Their food was gone.

Their water was gone.

Their hope was fading.

Carl De Molinos stood beside the old mystic, using him as a tool to maintain morale.

Of course—there was no rain.

The three hundred miles east rumor?

A complete fabrication.

Carl De Molinos’s true plan was simple:

• If they were lucky, they would find food and water along the way, scavenged from other desperate refugees.
• If they found nothing, he could simply blame the old mystic—
• And then sacrifice him to restore order.

The old mystic had already outlived his usefulness.

When the camp reached its next crisis, he would serve one final purpose—

His death would buy Carl De Molinos another chance to hold the camp together.

Over the past year, Carl De Molinos had hardened beyond recognition.

The once-idealistic leader had shed his mercy—

And in its place, a ruthless warlord was taking shape.

“We have hope!!”

Upon hearing Carl De Molinos’s proclamation, the camp erupted with renewed spirit.

Had they been at full strength, they might have doubted his words.

But hunger, exhaustion, and fear had dulled their senses.

Even if it was a lie, they needed to believe.

A false hope was better than no hope.

As long as Carl De Molinos could provide even the smallest glimmer of faith, his band of survivors would not scatter.

His survival depended on them.

Without the camp, he would be just another lone, starving man.

Even if he found resources, he would never be able to protect them alone.

His power, his influence—

All of it was tied to the existence of this camp.

“This cannot last forever.”

Even though he had rallied the camp for now, Carl De Molinos knew that this life of endless wandering would eventually kill them all.

He was constantly on edge, fearing that any day could be his last.

He needed a permanent stronghold.

A city, a fortress, a home.

Somewhere with water, fertile land, and walls to defend against the desperate masses.

If he could find such a place, he could build an army… and rise to power.

Over the past year of hardship, Carl De Molinos had been honed by fire.

He had learned to command, strategize, and wage war.

Had he been a cultivator, he would have already carved out his own kingdom.

But in this cruel world—

Power belonged to those with cultivation.

And Carl De Molinos… had none.

“No matter what… I will not die here.”

With a deep breath, Carl De Molinos looked toward the east.

His gamble had begun.

The camp would march again.

And this time—

He would not stop until he found a place to claim as his own.

Lacking cultivation, Carl De Molinos could accomplish nothing.

Originally, he had hoped to travel across Aragon Country, leading his clan and loyal followers, searching for ancient techniques, or perhaps even creating his own cultivation method.

After all—one must dare to dream.

But then this cursed disaster arrived.

Now, every single day was a desperate struggle just to survive.

How could he seek enlightenment when he was starving to death?

When life was pushed to the brink, even fantasy became a luxury.

As he led the remnants of Yellow Heaven Camp into an abandoned village, his mind raced with thoughts of survival.

His current goal was clear—head east.

For the camp, he was their leader, their guiding hope.

For himself?

The Eastern Avaloria Empire was his spiritual anchor.

His decision to go east wasn’t just blind faith—

It was a logical choice.

Why Go East?

Pyrenees Mountain Prefecture was a land of scarcity, hit hardest by the drought and famine.

Even if he turned back toward the De Molinos Family’s territory, the journey would be impossible.

His entire camp would starve to death before they got even halfway.

But if they moved east—

They would pass through wealthier towns, cities, prefectures, and provinces.

Even in times of disaster, there would still be chances for survival.

As soon as they entered the village, Carl De Molinos sat on a sand-covered stone slab, his exhausted body leaning on his longsword for support.

But before he could catch his breath—

“Dead body! There’s a dead body here!!”

Several gaunt, emaciated members of the camp shouted in alarm.

Carl De Molinos frowned, and the rest of the camp looked annoyed.

“So what if there’s a corpse?”

“How many dead bodies have we seen on this journey? Stop screaming over nothing!”

A burly brigand snapped impatiently.

But Carl De Molinos didn’t speak.

Instead, he forced himself to stand, leaning heavily on his sword as he slowly approached the scene.

By now, they were all used to death.

They had walked through fields of white bones, climbed mountains of rotting corpses.

For these men to react so strongly, something had to be wrong.

And the moment Carl De Molinos saw the body, he felt a chill run down his spine.

Lying motionless in the dirt was a corpse shrouded in black mist, its skin covered in unnatural red fur.

It was still intact, its face eerily frozen in a twisted expression of pain.

And at its waist—

A cultivator’s storage pouch.

In its hands—

A worn, yellowed parchment scroll.

Carl De Molinos’s face darkened.

His instincts screamed danger.

But it was too late.

The curious camp members had already breathed in the black mist.

Within moments—

Their expressions twisted in agony.

A sickening, gurgling laughter bubbled from their throats.

And then—

Red fur began sprouting all over their bodies.

Immediate Action

“SHIELD WALL—NOW!”

“FIRE CROSSBOWS—BURN THEM!!”

Carl De Molinos didn’t hesitate.

As he retreated to a safe distance, his men snapped into formation.

WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH!

Flaming crossbow bolts pierced the afflicted men—

And the moment fire touched them—

They ignited like dry kindling, their bodies consumed in an unnatural blaze.

They did not scream.

They just laughed…

Until there was nothing left.

“What… the hell was that?!”

A hulking brigand, his face drenched in sweat, clutched his farming hoe like a weapon.

“That… thing… what was it?”

The elder mystic, standing calmly amidst the chaos, slowly shook his head.

“That corpse… belonged to an evil cultivator.”

“I’ve read of such things in ancient records.”

“When a demonic cultivator dies, their body often becomes a vessel of corruption.”

“If one knew the proper techniques, such a corpse could be refined into a powerful undead puppet.”

Carl De Molinos’s eyes narrowed.

A cultivator’s storage bag.

A mysterious parchment.

And a corpse overflowing with unnatural energy.

This…

Was not a normal death.

Someone had died here seeking power.

And now—

That power lay at his feet.

 

Chapter 82: Carl, who refines corpse puppets and becomes a cultivator

The moment the old mystic’s words fell, a flicker of intrigue flashed through Carl’s heart.

If they could refine a corpse puppet from the body of a cultivator, then from this day forward, Yellow Heaven Stronghold would possess a force capable of rivaling true cultivators.

Though Carl had no cultivation of his own, he was far from ignorant. His gaze immediately fell upon the storage pouch fastened to the corpse’s waist.

Ordinary Body Tempering Realm cultivators—no matter how skilled—had no way of using storage pouches. Though they could absorb and circulate spiritual energy, they lacked the ability to freely manipulate mana, making it impossible to unlock the spatial treasures.

In other words, this corpse—covered in crimson fur and exuding ominous black mist—had at least been a Level 1 Realm cultivator before death.

A corpse puppet refined from such a body might not retain the full strength of its former self, but even so, it would be unmatched beneath the Level 1 Realm—an indomitable force.

And yet, what captivated Carl the most was not the fallen “heretic cultivator” nor the storage pouch strapped to its waist.

It was the book lying not far from the body.

“Divine Demon Nirvana Technique.”

A mere glance at the title was enough to confirm—it was a cultivation method. Most likely, a forbidden art.

But even so, Carl could not suppress the desire burning within him.

Cultivation methods are neither righteous nor evil—the heart of the practitioner determines all.

It was said that certain forbidden techniques ignored talent and spiritual roots altogether. As long as one had the opportunity, one could cultivate.

Deep within, Carl longed to be a cultivator more than anything.

Perhaps… I should try.

His gaze remained fixed on the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique, his heart pounding.

Failure. Success. Or death.

These were the only possibilities that awaited him.

But if he succeeded…

If he became a cultivator, everything would change.

Corpse refinement. Securing land with stable water sources. Seizing control over his own fate.

A thousand plans, all hinging on this one decision.

“A man’s life is defined by the choices he makes.”

“The greater the risk, the greater the reward.”

After a brief internal struggle, Carl made his choice.

Cautiously, he extended a wooden stick, dragging the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique toward him.

He had no intention of stepping any closer to the crimson-furred, black-misted corpse—not yet.

Once the technique was in his hands, he dismissed most of the Yellow Heaven Stronghold members, leaving behind only a few of the strongest men to stand guard.

None of them dared to approach the body.

The fate of the men who had tried earlier still lingered in their minds.

Carl kicked open the door of an abandoned village house and settled himself inside.

Crossing his legs on the cold floor, he wasted no time.

He flipped open the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique.

As his eyes fell upon the first lines of ancient, cryptic text, a shiver ran through his entire body.

It was as if his very soul trembled at the revelation.

That night, he did not sleep.

As the golden sun rose and the moon faded from the sky, Carl still sat in the same spot—his expression one of intoxicated obsession.

Then, suddenly, he let out a burst of wild laughter, clutching the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique to his chest.

“Keh keh keh—!!”

“Marvelous. Absolutely marvelous!”

“Heavens bless me… the heavens truly bless me!”

As his laughter echoed in the cold, barren landscape, black mist began to seep from his body.

Chaotic and formless, it writhed like living shadows—glimpses of crimson light flickering within the darkness.

From afar, Carl appeared as though he had stepped into the abyss itself.

This was the same threshold that the infamous Ten Thousand Master had once crossed.

And in that moment, he had perished—his body erased from existence.

Carl’s cultivation progress far exceeded that of the infamous Ten Thousand Master.

It had taken the Ten Thousand Master several months to cultivate his eerie black mist.

Carl had done it in one night.

As the black mist corroded his body, he could feel himself changing. His very flesh and blood twisted under the influence of this power.

By the time dawn arrived, his cultivation had stepped into the Body Tempering Realm—Skin Tempering, Early Stage.

But unlike ordinary cultivators, his strength did not come from absorbing spiritual energy from heaven and earth.

Instead, he drew power from the chaotic forces of gods and demons that lurked within the vast cosmos.

Upon reaching the Early Stage of Skin Tempering, his strength, physical endurance, and vitality had all soared to unprecedented heights.

“To think I searched high and low, only to have fortune fall right into my hands…”

Clutching the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique, Carl let out a slow exhale, satisfaction washing over him.

This technique…

It was not without risks.

In fact, every breakthrough was akin to walking a tightrope over the abyss.

It was, without question, a supreme cultivation method—one that, if mastered without failure, could lead to the transcendence of the mortal body, allowing one to seize the very fabric of creation and ascend to eternal godhood.

But the deeper one ventured into this path, the greater the danger.

Each major realm breakthrough was an ordeal of rebirth through nirvana—a step closer to death with every success.

For those who failed, the only outcome was complete and utter annihilation.

And yet…

Even knowing the countless risks and the fatal flaws of this technique, Carl would never abandon it.

His ambition, his destiny, demanded strength.

It was not an option—it was a necessity.

“Next… it’s time to refine a corpse puppet.”

Ending his cultivation, Carl stepped out of the ruined house.

The bone-chilling winter sunlight reflected off his figure as he approached the corpse of the Ten Thousand Master.

Unlike before, he no longer felt any discomfort from the demonic aura surrounding the body.

The Divine Demon Nirvana Technique contained a detailed record of corpse refinement techniques.

It was a supreme art, one that defied fate itself, capable of stealing the workings of creation—but it was far from righteous.

To call it a heretical demon art would be an understatement.

Yin harvesting, corpse refinement, soul devouring…

Every depraved and forbidden technique one could imagine was written in excruciating detail within its pages.

Those who practiced it for too long were inevitably driven to madness.

But Carl had no intention of stopping.

He believed in his own willpower.

He would walk this path—step by step, until he stood at the peak.

“Take this technique and study it well. You’re the only kin I have left.”

“Strive to become a cultivator soon. Then, together, we will conquer the Eight Desolations and establish a glorious new dynasty!”

As he began the corpse refinement ritual, Carl tossed the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique to a young boy—a frail youth of fifteen or sixteen.

The boy’s name was Lucian De Molinos.

He was one of Carl’s few remaining blood relatives.

Once, he had followed Carl out of the De Molinos Clan, thinking it would be nothing more than a brief journey, a chance to explore before returning home.

Yet fate had other plans.

Along the way, strong warriors of the De Molinos Clan had perished one by one.

Only Lucian, by some stroke of luck or fate, had survived each disaster.

And now, he was the only one left.

Taking the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique into his hands, Lucian hesitated.

His brow furrowed, his mind filled with doubts.

This technique…

Could it really be cultivated?

Was it even worth the risk?

But as he glanced around at the desolate, empty village—the ruined homes, the silent streets—he clenched his fists.

If he wanted to survive, he had no other choice.

If he wanted to return to the De Molinos Clan alive, to see his family again—

He had to grow stronger.

Originally, he had followed Carl on a whim, thinking he would roam the land for a short time before returning home.

But then came the ancient teleportation array.

Then came the heaven-sent catastrophe.

And now, there was no going back.

 

Chapter 83 The natural disaster gradually passed

Anyone who has walked the fine line between life and death will eventually change.

Even a youth raised in the safety of a sheltered home will, when thrown into the abyss, grow hardened and ruthless.

Lucian was no exception.

The boy who had once followed Carl with nothing but curiosity was long gone.

Now, he understood.

If he continued walking this path, he might die.

He might even be discarded—used as a scapegoat.

Carl, his so-called cousin, would stop at nothing to fulfill his ambitions.

Lucian had seen through his true nature a long time ago.

The only reason he was still alive, the only reason Carl had given him the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique, was because he had played his role perfectly—harmless, obedient, useful.

And more importantly—because he was the last blood relative Carl had left.

Shhhhhh…

The freezing wind howled across the barren land, kicking up clouds of dust.

It stung against Lucian’s face—a face that was still young, but had long lost the softness of childhood.

He had seen fields of corpses, he had seen people devour their own kin, he had seen the depths of human cruelty.

And he had seen his own people fall, one after another.

Had he not foolishly followed Carl out of the clan, perhaps he would still be living comfortably.

The De Molinos family had ancestral protection, powerful elders to maintain order, and deep enough foundations to weather the catastrophe.

Even in the face of disaster, the clan still had warmth.

But outside the walls of great clans, Lucian had learned the truth of the world.

Catastrophes like these turned small factions, common mortals, and low-ranking cultivators into living ghosts—neither man nor beast.

But for those with power, status, and resources, a catastrophe only served to strengthen their unity.

The strong remained above the fray, untouched, able to judge and scorn the weak for succumbing to desperation.

Lucian would never forget the moment he realized this.

Not long ago, when he and Carl were fleeing for their lives, a noble disciple from a prestigious sect had descended on a flying sword, sneering down at them.

The cultivator had mocked them—mocked the mortals who had eaten their own kin, who had scraped at the earth like beasts for a mouthful of water.

But he knew nothing.

He did not know the year of suffering the world had endured.

He had never starved. He had never watched his people die.

Taking the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique from Carl’s hands, Lucian lowered his head in a respectful bow.

Then, he silently retreated.

Carl, having now begun his own cultivation in earnest, had no intention of leaving immediately.

With the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique in hand, and the preparations for corpse refinement underway, he ordered the Yellow Heaven Camp to remain in the deserted village for a few days.

His plan was simple—

He would refine his first corpse puppet, all while continuing to lead his men toward their next destination.

But fortune smiled upon them.

While looting an old burial site, they unearthed an unexpected treasure trove—

Hundreds of sealed jars of wine.

Gold, silver, and precious trinkets.

And most importantly—

Dried meat.

At first, the Yellow Heaven Camp members feared it might be human flesh, buried alongside the dead as a sacrificial offering.

But upon closer inspection, they found it was beast meat—food meant for the deceased noble’s journey into the afterlife.

It was a grim find.

And yet—

Hunger left no room for dignity.

The wine had been well-sealed, still drinkable despite the years.

The meat, however…

It was as hard as stone.

Preserved by smoke and time, each bite was a test of one’s teeth and sanity.

In the end, they had no choice but to soak the meat in wine, softening it enough to be eaten.

Water had long run dry.

The only things left to their names were gold, silver, weapons, and the clothes on their backs.

After seven or eight days, though supplies still remained, Carl finally gave the order to move.

This time, his confidence burned like fire.

He had no reason to fear anymore.

Because in the short time they had remained, his cultivation had advanced even further—stepping into the Mid Stage of Skin Tempering.

And more importantly—

The corpse of the Ten Thousand Master had been successfully refined.

A puppet of the dead—his first true creation.

He called it—

The Crimson Corpse King.

A name inspired by its appearance—its entire body covered in red fur, making it resemble a monstrous crimson ape.

Its strength was terrifying.

With a single swipe of its hand, it could shatter objects weighing millions of Aragon.

It was, without a doubt—

A Level 1 Realm corpse puppet.

Though it lacked the ability to wield spells, its physical power and resilience were on par with an ordinary cultivator of the same realm.

Of course—

To think it could truly stand against a living, breathing cultivator of the Level 1 Realm would be wishful thinking.

Not yet.

But soon…

Very soon.

But for Carl, this was already more than enough.

With this corpse puppet, he no longer had to run and struggle like before—not even in a world devastated by catastrophe.

With this undead servant, he could conquer formidable cultivation factions instead of avoiding them.

Even the Yellow Heaven Camp members, who had once been his greatest assets, no longer seemed as important in his eyes.

From this moment on, even if he stood alone, he could rise in the chaos.

“Increase our pace.”

“Forget the plan to travel three hundred miles east.”

“Two hundred miles from here lies a city! Let’s see how I carve my way through its gates—so that you all may feast and drink to your hearts’ content!”

Carl’s voice rang with absolute confidence.

Now that he possessed the power of a cultivator, what was there left to fear?

Feeling the torrential force surging through his body, and the corpse puppet standing at his back, awaiting his command, Carl’s heart swelled with unrestrained pride.

At this moment, he felt as if he had crossed the mountains with ease, standing at the pinnacle of his own triumph.

The world belonged to him.

Watching Carl grow increasingly arrogant, the old mystic sighed inwardly.

Then, his gaze shifted—to Lucian.

Compared to Carl’s ruthless ambition, Lucian’s potential was far greater.

Despite his young age, he already understood the values of humility and patience.

Lucian had also started cultivating the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique—and in secret, had already reached Mid Stage Skin Tempering.

His talent, temperament, and comprehension far exceeded Carl’s.

In the old mystic’s heart, following Lucian would lead to a far better fate than following Carl.

But just as the mystic’s doubts began to take root, and just as Carl basked in his moment of triumph—

The drought that had swept across Aragon Country began to show signs of receding.

Above the vast, desolate lands, wisps of dark clouds gathered in the sky.

A silent omen.

The end of the great catastrophe was near.

Meanwhile, at the Blood Wolf Hall’s Stronghold—

Over time, the area surrounding Blood Wolf Mountain had been transformed.

A city had risen within a fifty-mile radius, a settlement vast enough to rival the capitals of old.

And at its center, Arius had given this city its name—

Telles City.

“Eternal peace. Everlasting prosperity.”

But Arius had no intention of expanding Telles into a sprawling empire.

His plan was precise and deliberate—

To slowly shape Telles into a true city of cultivators.

After all, for the De Molinos family to establish itself as a great immortal family, it needed order, stability, and purity—not the distractions of common mortals.

The task of sheltering wanderers, absorbing common cultivators, and managing the chaos of the world…

That responsibility belonged to Purple River City.

 

Chapter 84 The Battle of the Eight Kings, on the Eve of the War

The De Molinos family had set clear boundaries between its two main strongholds.

Purple River City was designated as an open trade hub, where all manner of commerce, auctions, and exchanges would take place.

Meanwhile, Teelles City, built around the Blood Wolf Mountain, would serve as the clan’s core territory—a sacred stronghold that would remain at its current size, never to be excessively expanded.

At this moment, outside the secluded treasury where Arius was in closed-door cultivation, a vast artificial lake had been excavated under his command.

At the center of the lake, an elegant, ancient-style pavilion stood atop the tranquil waters.

By the lake’s shore, Arius had personally cultivated several patches of spiritual farmland, scattering rare medicinal herb seeds across the soil at his leisure.

During his moments of rest, Arius would either tend to the spiritual herbs or sit within the pavilion, sipping tea and fishing.

As an ancestor of the clan, he had long since embraced a life of comfort and refinement.

Cultivating one’s body and mind, savoring fine tea, enjoying the serenity of fishing amidst the misty lake—this was true living.

Lying back in a grandmaster’s chair, Arius gazed across the fog-covered lake, his heart at peace.

In his past life, he had struggled relentlessly for mere scraps of silver, endlessly toiling in a world of debauchery and hardship.

Even in this life, he had spent over a hundred years struggling through unimaginable hardship, never daring to return home for fear of falling behind in cultivation.

Now, with both lifetimes combined, he had lived for over two centuries.

And yet, true peace of mind had only come after stepping into the Level 1 Realm.

His current approach to cultivation was no longer about isolated meditation in closed chambers.

Instead, it was found in fishing, sipping tea, and reading ancient tomes—all of which had now become part of his path of enlightenment.

The higher one ascended in the Dao, the more cultivation became a matter of one’s heart and understanding of the world.

If one gained sufficient insight and comprehended their path fully, it was even possible to ascend in an instant, soaring beyond mortal limitations.

Throughout history, countless legends spoke of instant enlightenment leading to ascension.

Of course, most were fabricated tales.

Small epiphanies were easy.

True understanding was rare.

The path of cultivation was not filled with miraculous breakthroughs, no matter how gifted one was.

Every cultivator, no matter their innate talent, had to walk the path step by step—to experience, to comprehend, to struggle.

Only once true understanding was attained could one move forward.

Those who failed to grasp it would remain stagnant for a lifetime.

“Ancestor.”

Just as Arius was basking in his peace, immersed in contemplation, a fatigued figure approached from across the lake.

Stepping onto a small wooden boat, Simon carefully made his way toward the pavilion, his exhaustion evident in his every movement.

“Simon, you’ve come…”

“Sit. Pour yourself some tea.”

Arius gave his fishing rod a lazy tug—

A golden-scaled carp leaped from the water, instantly snatched from the lake and tossed into a nearby bucket.

Without even pausing, he flicked the baitless fishing hook back into the water.

“An empty hook for those who are willing.”

Just as Simon’s attention was drawn to the fishing line, a small wooden box suddenly flew from Arius’s sleeve, wrapped in a layer of mana, landing gently beside him.

His focus immediately shifted.

Arius’s calm voice followed:

“Simon, you’re not young anymore.”

“All these years, you’ve worked tirelessly for the clan—you’ve suffered enough.”

“Inside that box are pills that extend mortal lifespans. Take them.”

“And if there is someone suitable within the clan, you must begin grooming them as your successor.”

“It’s time you rested.”

As he spoke, Arius slowly rose from his grandmaster’s chair.

For the past six months, Simon’s physical condition had steadily declined.

Every day, he was buried in endless affairs of the clan, and despite already being of advanced age, the burden had only made him appear even older.

He wanted to step down.

But the De Molinos family still needed him.

And so, he had no choice but to endure.

The De Molinos family’s elder generation—those who were still capable of succeeding, Simon—were either older than him or in even worse condition.

As for the younger generation, those in their thirties and forties, most lacked the necessary competence.

For too long, the De Molinos family had been rooted in Nezier Town, and many of these individuals were still trapped in outdated mindsets.

Their rigid thinking and limited experience made them completely unfit to take over leadership.

If one of them were made patriarch, the De Molinos family would likely fall into chaos within half a month.

Ironically, the only candidates who had demonstrated true potential and ability were a few of the younger generation—those in their teens and twenties.

But they were too immature. Too impulsive.

To govern a clan, one must discard personal emotions.

If one allowed personal feelings to cloud their judgment, every decision made would lead to unforeseen consequences.

“Thank you, Ancestor.”

Simon accepted the wooden box with a solemn nod.

He had long desired to retire.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

After a moment of silence, he straightened his back and spoke once more.

“Reporting to Ancestor—”

“The Albigensians Sect of Pyrenees Mountain Prefecture has begun mobilizing troops.”

“Not long ago, Pyrenees Mountain Prefecture sent an envoy demanding that our De Molinos family provide thirty thousand elite soldiers and at least ten cultivators.”

“It seems the Pyrelis is preparing to make his move.”

“Gathering a mortal army and low-level cultivators… this is likely just a probing skirmish.”

“But within three years at most, their full-scale battle will erupt.”

Simon’s expression was complicated—half concerned, half relieved.

The good news—

Albigensians Sect had recognized the De Molinos family’s dominance over the Purple River region.

Ever since the De Molinos family annihilated the Ashfell Clan and Blood Wolf Hall, Albigensians Sect had not interfered.

Instead, they had acknowledged the De Molinos family as the true hegemon within thousand miles of Purple River City.

The other factions—the Song Clan, the Benn Clan, the Sullivan Clan—had all been implicitly relegated to subordinate forces under the De Molinos family.

The bad news—

Albigensians Sect expected the De Molinos family to contribute soldiers and cultivators for their campaign.

Such an important matter had to be reported.

“The Eight Kings’ Struggle?”

Arius remained unmoved, as if he had anticipated this all along.

For years, the Eight Kings had been locked in conflict, waging wars both in the shadows and in the open.

Now that the imperial bloodline had been wiped out, their next step was inevitable—

A war to claim the Mandate of Heaven and seize the throne of Aragon Country.

Of course, this struggle for legitimacy would not be settled in a day.

It would take decades—perhaps even centuries—to reach its conclusion.

Wars between great powers did not immediately escalate into all-out slaughter.

They began with small skirmishes, political maneuvering, and trade wars—gradually building toward an unstoppable conflict.

Some of the weaker princes would not even survive long enough to fight in the final war—collapsing internally before the true battle even began.

As for the struggle for Aragon Country’s throne, Arius was completely disinterested.

For now, he lacked both the power and the desire to get involved.

The De Molinos family’s current priority was simple—

“Fortify our walls, stockpile resources, and expand quietly.”

They needed to train more cultivators, solidify their power base, and wait for the opportune moment.

Once the time was right, whether they chose to advance or retreat, they would do so without fear.

“Handle it yourself.”

Arius waved a hand, his voice calm.

“Withdraw the required soldiers from the Benn Clan, Sullivan Clan, and Song Clan.”

“As for the cultivators, select them from among the subordinate factions.”

“Tell them this order comes from me. If they refuse…”

“I will personally visit them.”

His tone was casual—yet undeniable.

A single statement, yet it carried the weight of absolute authority.

Simon’s heart settled.

This was what he had been waiting for.

The final word from his ancestor.

Now, he could act without hesitation.

 

Chapter 85 Consuming Spiritual Stones to Upgrade Earth Spiritual Roots

After Simon left, Arius also departed from the pavilion at the heart of the artificial lake.

His next plan was simple—consume spirit stones and upgrade his spiritual root.

The accumulated resources from Blood Wolf Hall, along with the spirit stones looted from its cultivators, amounted to several dozen pieces in total.

It was barely enough, but it should suffice to elevate his spiritual root to Earth Grade.

With an Earth Grade Spiritual Root, breaking through to Level 2 would be as certain as iron—he wouldn’t even need a Level 2 Pill.

Most cultivators with an Earth Grade Spiritual Root were able to reach Level 4, and a rare few even had the slightest hope of advancing to Level 5 Realm.

However, beyond the Level 5 Realm, the importance of spiritual roots gradually diminished.

Entering the treasury, where vast resources lay piled high, Arius carefully retrieved the Appraising Immortal Treasure Mirror.

Then, without hesitation, he began consuming spirit stones—piece by piece, including smaller stone fragments.

After expending nearly twenty pieces of lower-grade spirit stones, Arius grasped the Appraising Immortal Treasure Mirror and turned its reflective surface toward himself.

In the instant that the mirror’s light enveloped his body, he felt a profound transformation take place.

His Profound Grade Spiritual Root—

Had completely evolved into an Earth Grade Spiritual Root.

Compared to his previous state, his ability to absorb spiritual energy from heaven and earth had increased nearly tenfold.

Where once he had felt the bottlenecks of each breakthrough, he now felt as though his entire meridian system had been purified and unblocked.

With every inhale and exhale, massive torrents of spiritual energy flooded into his body.

At this rate of cultivation, bolstered by both the spiritual veins of Blood Wolf Mountain and the Gathering Spirit Formation, Arius estimated that he would break through to Level 2 within fifty years at most.

And if he had the assistance of alchemical pills and rare medicinal treasures—

His advancement could be even faster.

Having successfully upgraded his spiritual root, Arius wasted no time.

He immediately entered seclusion to cultivate, determined to reach Level 1 Perfection before even considering Level 2.

As Arius entered deep cultivation, the drought that had plagued Aragon Country for two long years finally began to recede.

For months, the land had been scorched into desolation, turning vast territories into lifeless deserts of cracked earth and barren dunes.

But then—

Rain finally fell.

And with it, the surviving refugees were given their first breath of relief.

Dead lands that had once been void of life began to sprout greenery once more.

Hope flickered in the hearts of those who had endured famine, death, and despair.

Many returned to their homelands, eager to rebuild—eager to start anew.

But before their hope could take root—

They were crushed beneath the weight of new burdens.

The first decree came swiftly:

Seventy percent of all harvested crops must be surrendered as tax.

The blacksmiths—forgers of tools and weapons—were forcibly conscripted, drafted into war factories to produce armor and weapons.

The engineers and masons—masters of fortifications—were seized and forced to construct war defenses.

The Eight Kings, vying for the Mandate of Heaven, had no choice but to squeeze the common people dry to fuel their ambitions.

Their battles would be waged at the cost of mortal suffering.

This was how dynasties rose and fell.

For the powerful, war was a distant game of politics.

For the commoners, war was an inescapable nightmare.

The high-ranking cultivators—unwilling to risk their own lives—commanded the low-level cultivators to fight in their stead.

The low-level cultivators, in turn, hesitated to throw themselves into battle—

And so, they pushed the burden downward.

They ordered the martial artists and warriors to lead the charge.

But even these warriors, capable as they were, still held some value to their overlords—

And so, in the very front lines—

The first to die were always the ordinary mortals.

Common men and women, thrown into battle as mere fodder, sacrificed before the war had even begun in earnest.

The masses bled, so the elite could claim their throne.

This was the nature of power.

For most ordinary mortals, there was no choice in their fate.

Obey the orders—survive the battle, and perhaps they could keep their lives, maybe even receive a reward.

Defy the orders—be executed on the spot, and drag their families down with them.

The Gathering of the Doomed

Outside Yong’an City, under the unshakable might of Arius, the subordinate forces—such as the Song Clan and others—ultimately did not dare resist.

They gathered thirty thousand armored soldiers and ten cultivators, all of whom now stood in formation, awaiting Simon’s inspection.

This march to war was a death sentence.

At the outset, cultivators and martial artists would be spared from immediate combat.

The mortals—the foot soldiers—would be sent in first.

Only when these mortal armies were completely exhausted would cultivators enter the battlefield.

And if a faction was forced to deploy cultivators too soon, it meant their mortal forces had already collapsed.

Standing before the assembled troops, Simon let out a deep sigh, his heart weighed by the absurdity of the Eight Kings’ War and the hypocrisy of the so-called righteous sects.

If high-level cultivators simply fought among themselves, the war could be resolved in an instant—without the needless slaughter of millions.

But the Eight Kings…

What were they thinking?

Or perhaps, they simply did not care about the mortals they ruled over.

Perhaps the entire Aragon Imperial Line and the so-called prestigious sects deserved to be wiped away.

In Simon’s eyes, neither the Eight Kings nor the top-tier cultivation sects—who viewed mortals and low-level cultivators as disposable pawns—were fit to rule a nation.

While the Eight Kings waged war, far from their conflicts, in a cultivation marketplace located 200 miles from Purple River City, several sinister figures gathered at the highest floor of the Pavilion.

Their auras were chilling, oppressive, and wicked.

Clearly, they were all heretical cultivators—

And their strength was not weak.

Among them, several had even reached the Level 1 Realm.

“Reporting to the Uncles—”

A gray-robed cultivator, standing at the center of the room, spoke with deep reverence.

“This disciple advises against establishing a stronghold within the De Molinos Clan’s territory.”

“The De Molinos Clan was able to devour Blood Wolf Hall and dominate a territory spanning ten thousand miles—their foundation is unfathomable.”

“Unless a Level 2 elder descends upon us, attempting to create a base within De Molinos Clan lands is far too risky.”

The gray-robed man—who had only reached the Peak Organ Tempering Realm—was none other than the market master of this cultivation town.

For years, he had operated quietly in Purple River’s outskirts, carefully building this market as part of a greater sect mission.

His sect—

Was none other than the Velmorian Sect.

Despite its deceptively righteous name, the Velmorian Sect was, in truth—

The number one heretical sect in the Kingdom of Velmora.

The Difference Between Velmora and Aragon Country

Unlike Aragon Country, where imperial rule still held some weight, the Kingdom of Velmora was entirely free from royal authority.

There were no princes.

There were no dukes.

The entire kingdom was governed by one supreme force—

The Velmorian Sect.

At present, Velmora also lacked Level 5 cultivators, but compared to the fractured state of Aragon Country, Velmora’s overall strength and stability placed it at a clear advantage.

If the Eight Kings continued their internal struggle, leaving Aragon Country in endless civil war, then even if the Velmorian Sect had originally planned to wait several decades—perhaps even a century—before making a move…

They could no longer afford to wait.

For years, the heretical forces had been secretly plotting an assault on the Righteous Nations Alliance.

If the Velmorian Sect successfully devoured Aragon Country, then even if the righteous factions retaliated later, the heretical side would still have allies to support them.

The longer Aragon Country remained in chaos, the bolder the Velmorian Sect would become.

“Laughable. A mere De Molinos Clan?”

Hearing the market master’s concerns, a female heretic cultivator scoffed in disdain.

She was at the Early Level 1 Realm, dressed in extravagant, brightly colored robes, her expression filled with contempt.

“Seven of us are in the Level 1 Realm—are we supposed to fear a lowly De Molinos Clan?”

“What Level 2 cultivator could they possibly have?”

Her arrogance was palpable.

Coming from a prestigious heretical family, she had never taken small factions like the De Molinos Clan seriously.

To her, they were nothing more than insects.

While the De Molinos Clan fortified its foundations,

While the Eight Kings slaughtered each other,

While the mortals suffered the price of war,

A greater storm loomed on the horizon—

A storm that would soon engulf all of Aragon Country.

 

Chapter 86 Velmora Kingdom

The market master of the cultivation town sighed inwardly as he looked at the proud, high-spirited female heretic cultivator before him.

Her grandfather was a Peak Level 3 Realm expert, and her father was one of Velmorian Sect’s most outstanding prodigies.

With such a background, she was revered wherever she went in Velmora Kingdom, basking in endless adoration.

Even Level 2 cultivators, and at times, Level 4 grandmasters, would willingly grant her favors.

Her family had a Level 4 Ancestor, and her grandfather was all but guaranteed to reach Level 4 soon.

As for her father—he possessed a Heavenly Spiritual Root.

If nothing went wrong, he was destined to reach the Level 5 Realm.

And once he did, he would become the strongest cultivator in the Velmora Kingdom.

With her family’s power only growing, her status would rise even further.

“Junior Sister, we should be cautious.”

A handsome, refined-looking heretic cultivator stepped beside her, speaking in a gentle, coaxing tone, as if soothing a child.

“If something goes wrong, we won’t be able to bear the consequences.”

The female cultivator had sneaked away from her clan, secretly following them on this journey.

If she were injured, or worse, killed, then all of them would bear the blame.

And responsibility, in this case, meant certain death.

None of them had the backing to survive such a disaster.

The market master lowered his voice, his expression both humble and wary.

“Uncles, I strongly advise establishing our base within the Furrylens Clan’s territory in Florence City.”

“Though the Furrylens Clan appears more established than the De Molinos Clan, they lack a Level 2 cultivator to oversee them.”

“Moreover, the resources, population, and cultivation environment around Florence City far surpass those of Purple River City.”

“If we take control of the Furrylens Clan, we will have one-twentieth of Pyrenees Mountain Prefecture in our grasp.”

His gaze swept toward the Velmorian Sect’s Level 1 Realm cultivators, filled with silent pleading.

The De Molinos Clan was too unpredictable.

And Arius’s sudden rise left the market master uneasy.

He had already made arrangements to relocate the market town out of De Molinos Clan territory.

Arius might not know he was from Velmorian Sect, but he certainly knew he was a heretic cultivator.

If the De Molinos Clan decided to take action, they would have both reason and justification.

Even with Aragon Country in chaos, the words “heretical cultivator” still carried universal condemnation.

Seeing the market master’s wary expression, the heretic cultivators finally grasped the weight of the situation.

Neither Purple River City nor Telles City held any real value to the Velmorian Sect.

No Level 2 cultivator would waste their time securing a barren land.

And for the Level 1 Realm heretics, provoking Arius’s forces without knowing their full strength was a gamble none of them wanted to take.

If the female cultivator weren’t here, they might have considered testing Arius’s limits.

But with her present—

It was like carrying a ticking time bomb.

If she was hurt or killed, the entire Velmorian Sect would descend into chaos.

Her father and grandfather would tear apart everyone responsible.

“Junior Sister, better safe than sorry.”

A red-haired cultivator, draped in lavish robes, finally spoke.

He was the strongest among them, a Peak Level 1 Realm heretic—and known for being utterly reckless and unhinged.

Yet even he, one who thrived on danger, cautioned restraint.

“We should establish our base in Florence City, within the Furrylens Clan’s domain.”

“There’s no need to provoke the De Molinos Clan unnecessarily.”

His words left no room for argument.

And just like that, their target shifted—away from Arius’s territory, toward a new prey instead.

This time, he did not dare act recklessly.

With the female heretic cultivator as a burdensome tagalong, even someone as utterly insane as him had to tread carefully.

He coaxed her with gentle words, but inwardly, he cursed his rotten luck.

Two or three days ago, upon discovering that she had followed them, he had immediately dispatched a junior disciple back to Velmorian Sect to report the situation to her father.

But Aragon Country and Velmora Kingdom were separated by vast distances.

Even if her family sent a Level 2 expert to retrieve her, it would take months before they arrived.

Aragon Country and Velmora Kingdom belonged to opposing cultivation factions—righteous and heretical.

Thus, no large-scale teleportation arrays had ever been established between them.

If heretical cultivators wished to enter Aragon Country, they had to do so in secrecy.

Even in its current state of disarray, Aragon Country remained territory of the righteous path.

Even an ordinary Level 4 heretic cultivator would not dare openly traverse its lands.

After much persuasion from the assembled Level 1 Realm heretics, the female cultivator finally agreed to relocate their operations to Florence City, within the Furrylens Clan’s domain.

Seeing this, the market master silently exhaled in relief.

It was not his fault that he had been dragged into this mess.

But that did not make it any less of a disaster.

As the Velmorian Sect rapidly expanded its covert operations, infiltrating Aragon Country, the war between the Eight Kings began in earnest.

Beyond Pyrenees Mountain Prefecture, the first clash of mortal armies erupted.

And as expected—

The forces of the Murrican King were utterly crushed.

Of the Eight Kings, the Murrican King was the weakest.

His cultivation was merely Early Level 4, and the sect and clan support behind him was meager at best.

In contrast, the other seven kings held roughly equal power—both in their own strength and the forces they commanded.

Though the conflict was dubbed “The War of the Eight Kings,” the truth was clear to all—

The Murrican King would not last more than two or three years before being completely annihilated by the Sea Sand King, Pyrelis.

The only reason the Sea Sand King had not wiped him out instantly was because he still had to account for the other six kings, unwilling to commit his full strength.

Yet even so—

The Murrican King’s mortal armies and cultivation forces were falling back with every battle.

Meanwhile, within the grand Sea Palace of the Murrican King—

A magnificent throne room, bathed in golden light, stood at the heart of his kingdom.

Before the throne, two figures—one tall, one short—each leaning on a staff—gazed at the Murrican King with calm confidence.

Their voices were slow and deliberate, spoken in unison.

“Your Majesty Murrican.”

“What are you hesitating for? If you continue delaying, your power will surely be destroyed by the Sea Sand King.”

“Join our sect, and we will help you ascend the imperial throne.”

Their words were laced with an eerie persuasion.

These two were none other than elders of the Velmorian Sect—both Level 2 cultivators.

They had been sent specifically to lure the Murrican King into their grasp.

The Velmorian Sect had chosen Murrican King as their target precisely because he was the weakest.

His lack of allies made him easier to control.

Velmorian Sect had two strategies for seizing control of Aragon Country.

The first plan—a direct invasion, conquering the nation through sheer force.

The second plan—a gradual infiltration, manipulating events from the shadows.

By installing a puppet ruler, the Velmorian Sect could govern Aragon Country in secrecy, slowly twisting it into a stronghold of the heretical path.

Both strategies were being executed simultaneously.

Drawing the Murrican King to their side was merely one step in the process.

Seated upon his gilded throne, clad in a robe embroidered with the patterns of a flood dragon, the Murrican King furrowed his brows.

He did not immediately accept their offer—

But he did not reject them outright either.

 

Chapter 87 Two Years, Late Soul Enrichment

As the two heretic cultivators had said, his situation was dire.

At any moment, the Sea Sand King could move to annex him completely.

And when the final battle arrived, the other six vassal kings would undoubtedly swarm in, tearing apart his territory like ravenous beasts.

But turning to the heretical path carried its own risks.

Should he submit to the Velmorian Sect, he could one day find himself hunted down by the Righteous Alliance—or worse, erased entirely.

Yet, the Murrican King was not without options.

If he was willing to abandon his foundation, forsaking all his power and influence within Aragon Country, he could still escape from this storm.

But after tasting authority, after bathing in endless wealth and privilege, how could he bring himself to let go?

Without his territory, he would be nothing more than a lowly Early Level 4 cultivator.

Even if he sought refuge with a foreign power, he would never again enjoy what he had now.

As one of Aragon Country’s vassal kings, he commanded multiple provinces—with endless wealth and cultivation resources at his fingertips.

To abandon it all?

Easy to say.

But once a man sat on such a throne, even death felt preferable to letting it slip away.

Power…

A truly terrifying thing.

Even a great Level 4 cultivator, once consumed by greed, would eventually lose all reason.

“Silence!”

His voice was low, restrained, as if suppressing an internal struggle.

Under the pressure of his Early Level 4 aura, the two Level 2 heretic cultivators remained calm and composed, without the slightest hint of fear.

After all—

The heretical path thrived on manipulation.

The Murrican King’s struggle was exactly what they wanted to see.

All they needed to do was wait—for that final straw to break him.

Once that moment came, he would inevitably fall into their grasp.

Their task now was simple—

To keep adding weight to the scale.

A low, sinister chuckle filled the chamber.

“Hehehe… Your Majesty, we understand your hesitation.”

“Join Velmorian Sect, and from this day forward, you will be granted the title of Elder within our sect.”

“We will bestow upon you greater cultivation techniques—ones far beyond your current grasp.”

“There is no rush, Your Majesty.”

“Take your time to consider.”

The shorter of the two heretics stepped forward, carefully presenting a wooden box shrouded in a bloody aura.

“This is our first gift to you—an Elixir of Life.”

“Consuming it will increase your chances of reaching Mid Level 4 by forty percent.”

A single sentence—

A temptation no Level 4 cultivator could easily ignore.

This Elixir of Life was no ordinary pill.

It had been forged from the blood and souls of countless Aragon Country cultivators.

A forbidden creation of the heretical path.

To consume such a thing was no different from devouring the lives of millions—both mortals and righteous cultivators alike.

Accepting this one gift was equivalent to placing one foot into the abyss.

And if he refused?

Hah.

There was no way he would refuse.

If he had truly been righteous, if his heart was firm, he would have slaughtered these two heretics the moment they stepped into his throne room.

“Hmph!”

His expression twisted with disdain as he glared at the bloodstained wooden box.

His voice was cold, authoritative.

“You dare present such a heretical object before me?”

“Men! Confiscate this box immediately!”

At his command, a Peak Level 3 Realm royal guard stepped forward and swiftly took possession of the box.

Watching this, a knowing gleam flashed in the heretics’ eyes.

It had begun.

The path of corruption was rarely instant.

No righteous cultivator betrayed their principles overnight.

A small test today.

A larger temptation tomorrow.

Slowly but surely—

A day would come when retreat was no longer an option.

And when that day arrived, the Murrican King would belong to them.

The two Level 2 heretics exchanged glances before bowing deeply.

“Then we shall take our leave, Your Majesty.”

Without another word, they slowly retreated from the throne room.

As they vanished from sight—

The Murrican King merely snorted coldly, but did not stop them.

His gaze fell upon the wooden box containing the Elixir of Life.

Consuming it would increase his chances of breaking through to Mid Level 4 by forty percent.

A treasure of this magnitude—

At this moment, the Murrican King no longer cared whether it was a heretical creation.

Everything else was an illusion.

Only power was real.

Only with absolute strength could he remain standing.

If he attained Peak Level 5, neither the Righteous Alliance nor the heretical sects would dare slight him.

And if he surpassed Level 5 Realm, then whether righteous or heretical, all would bow beneath his feet.

Gripping the wooden box, his mind filled with visions of the future.

The resources sent by the heretical sect—he had accepted them.

Yet he had not fully committed to their path.

For now, his palace was not yet cornered.

If he could break through to Mid Level 4, perhaps he could withstand the Sea Sand King’s onslaught.

If he could just hold the line—

Perhaps there was still a way forward.

Seasons changed.

Winter faded into spring.

In the blink of an eye, two years passed.

The conflict among the Eight Kings grew increasingly violent.

Between the Sea Sand King and the Murrican King, the battle had nearly reached its final stage.

Within the secluded treasury, Arius sat in deep meditation.

Two years of arduous cultivation had passed—

And once again, his cultivation had advanced.

With the support of his Earth-Grade Spiritual Root, he had successfully broken through to Late Level 1 Realm.

Over these two or three years, the De Molinos Clan’s foundation had also undergone tremendous growth.

However, most of their profits still came in the form of gold and silver.

To truly acquire spirit stones, the De Molinos Clan had to develop its own cultivation industry—

Or unearth a spirit stone mine.

Spirit stone mines could only form in areas of dense spiritual energy.

And in all likelihood, the De Molinos Clan’s current territory held no such resources.

Even if they discovered a small mine, their foundation was far too weak to defend it.

Spirit stone mines were coveted by cultivators and sects alike.

A clan of their level would never be able to keep such wealth for themselves.

The cultivation economy had many branches—

Alchemy, artifact refinement, talisman crafting, and spirit herb cultivation.

These industries were mid-to-high level within the cultivation world.

While the De Molinos Clan was not incapable of engaging in them, the risk of suffering massive losses was too great.

Instead, the more basic, lower-tier industries were material processing and refinement.

Taking low-grade materials, refining them to increase their value, and selling them for a profit.

Such a business was slow but steady.

It would not generate quick wealth, but it would ensure a stable source of spirit stones with little risk.

Even so—

To develop any cultivation industry, the De Molinos Clan needed more cultivators.

Mortals could not process cultivation materials.

• A Skin Tempering cultivator could earn 1-2 spirit stone fragments after ten years of material refinement.
• A Blood Tempering cultivator could earn 10-20 spirit stone fragments in the same timeframe.

The higher the cultivation, the faster and more precise the refinement.

And so—

Before they could think about wealth, they first needed people.

 

Chapter 88: Dormant Development, Alchemist and Weapon Refiner

But even for the most basic cultivation material processing, the De Molinos Clan still needed a sufficient number of cultivators.

At present, the De Molinos Clan controlled barely two to three hundred cultivators.

Most of them were still at the Skin Tempering Realm.

Among them, nearly a hundred or two hundred cultivators from Blood Wolf Hall had been forcibly bound by slave seals, leaving them under Arius’s complete control.

If properly utilized, these cultivators could generate an annual income of approximately three to four lower-grade spirit stones for the De Molinos Clan.

Spirit stones were hard to earn…

To acquire greater resources, the key was to nurture more cultivators.

Only by utilizing cultivators could the De Molinos Clan truly amass wealth and influence.

Right now, the greatest hurdle was the lack of cultivators.

Outside of Black Mountain, where the spirit beasts resided, Arius was the only true cultivator supporting the clan.

As for Noah, the child with a True Spiritual Root, he had yet to reach three years old.

It would be at least another year or two before he could even begin cultivation.

After careful thought, Arius had made a decision—

Noah would be sent to Albigensians Sect for training.

If he excelled, then with the De Molinos Clan’s growing influence, they could support his rise within Albigensians Sect.

If he could one day become an elder, an enforcer, or even the sect master, the benefits to the De Molinos Clan would be immeasurable.

Infiltrating Albigensians Sect was one of the De Molinos Clan’s long-term strategies—not just for the next hundred years, but potentially the next several centuries.

A family’s true strength did not come from how much land it controlled,

But from how deeply it had embedded itself into major factions—secretly pulling the strings from the shadows.

With his plans set, Arius emerged from his closed-door cultivation.

He immediately issued an order—

The elders of the clan would escort Noah to Albigensians Sect for training.

This decision had been made in haste, but for good reason.

Within the Albigensians Sect, Noah would receive far superior resources for cultivation.

Arius had no concerns about the child growing distant from the family.

The Albigensians Sect allowed young disciples to be accompanied by clan elders during their early years, ensuring they remained connected to their roots.

Albigensians Sect was not far from the De Molinos Clan’s domain.

The journey was mostly safe, with only a few treacherous paths along the way.

By horseback, the trip would take two to three months—just in time for Noah’s third birthday.

Had the De Molinos Clan owned spirit-blooded steeds, the journey would have been far shorter.

The spirit-horses raised near Albigensians Sect were known to cover tens of thousands of miles in just a few days.

Unfortunately, the De Molinos Clan did not yet have the resources to acquire or breed such beasts.

Arius had no intention of personally escorting Noah to Albigensians Sect.

The route was well-protected—few would dare attack a sect’s disciples on the main roads.

At most, a few desperate bandits might appear, but no one would be foolish enough to disrupt Albigensians Sect’s trade routes.

Any cultivator reckless enough to cause trouble on these roads would face the sect’s wrath—hunted down and eliminated without mercy.

Still, Arius took precautions.

Two Organ Tempering Realm cultivators were sent in secret, shadowing Noah’s caravan to ensure his absolute safety.

With his True Spiritual Root, Noah was guaranteed entry into the sect.

Because of this, Arius did not waste a “Rising Immortal Token” on him.

The Rising Immortal Token was only used for those with spiritual roots but lacking in talent.

The Albigensians Sect did not distribute these freely.

• A family without a Level 1 cultivator could receive only one token.
• A family with a Level 1 cultivator could receive three tokens.
• A family with a Level 2 cultivator could receive five tokens.
• A family with a Level 3 cultivator could receive fifteen tokens.

If a clan contributed significantly to Albigensians Sect, they could be granted additional tokens and other benefits.

With Noah’s departure, an unexpected shift took place.

Perhaps due to his relocation to a land of richer spiritual energy,

Perhaps due to the rise in the De Molinos Clan’s overall fortune,

Several new children were born with spiritual roots.

Yet—

All of them possessed “False Spiritual Roots.”

Even so, Arius did not immediately use the Appraising Immortal Treasure Mirror to enhance their talent.

To do so recklessly would be far too dangerous.

If news spread that the De Molinos Clan could alter spiritual roots,

Then not just the De Molinos Clan, but Arius himself, would face disastrous consequences.

Arius had already decided—

He would study alchemy, carefully building the persona of a renowned alchemist over the next twenty to thirty years.

Certain master alchemists could craft pills capable of improving cultivation aptitude.

By establishing himself as a pill master, he would create a believable explanation for any future improvements in talent within the De Molinos Clan.

Beyond alchemy, Arius planned to slowly cultivate additional identities—

A refiner of artifacts.

A talisman engraver.

A master of formations.

Each identity is carefully crafted.

Each role has another layer of protection.

With these preparations in place, Arius would finally be able to use the Appraising Immortal Treasure Mirror openly.

He could freely enhance the cultivation aptitude of his clan’s younger generation, forge and sell artifacts, refine talismans, and produce elixirs—all without drawing suspicion.

At present, even though he possessed the Appraising Immortal Treasure Mirror, he dared not use it without caution.

The biggest issue was his identity and reputation—they were not yet firmly established.

If a renowned alchemist or artifact master were to improve the talent of their clan members and produce rare treasures, no one would question it.

But if a cultivator with no established reputation suddenly unveiled vast resources and enhanced his clan’s strength overnight, it would immediately attract the scrutiny of major factions.

The creation of his “Alchemist” and “Artifact Master” personas was not just about concealment.

It had other advantages as well.

By becoming an alchemist, Arius could ensure that the De Molinos Clan remained well-connected across multiple factions.

Through alchemy and artifact crafting, the De Molinos Clan could quietly infiltrate various sects and families, subtly expanding their influence.

His first priority was to build his identity as an alchemist.

Only then could he publicly improve the cultivation aptitude of his clan members without arousing suspicion.

More importantly, Aragon Country had a recognized alchemist guild—

The Pill Alliance.

The Pill Alliance was an immense neutral force.

It did not belong to either the righteous sects or the heretical factions.

Throughout Mist Province, no cultivation force dared to provoke them lightly.

The Righteous Alliance, the heretics—both sides—owed their entire alchemical knowledge to the Pill Alliance.

Both righteous and heretical cultivators could take Pill Alliance assessments to become officially recognized alchemists.

The Pill Alliance classified alchemists into nine ranks:

• Ninth-Tier Alchemist – Capable of refining Level 1 Realm pills.
• Eighth-Tier Alchemist – Capable of refining Level 2 Realm pills.
• Seventh-Tier Alchemist – Capable of refining Level 4 Realm pills.
• Sixth-Tier Alchemist – The highest rank in Aragon Country, capable of refining Level 4 breakthrough pills.

To craft elixirs capable of enhancing spiritual roots, one had to be at least a Fifth-Tier Alchemist.

Even then, the success rate was abysmally low.

Arius did not aim for a mere Fifth-Tier Alchemist identity.

He intended to craft the persona of a Fourth-Tier or even Third-Tier Alchemist.

However, this was easier said than done.

The greatest obstacle lay in the Pill Alliance’s assessment.

And Arius had no intention of taking it.

Rather than undergoing the assessment, he would take another path—

He would start producing high-grade elixirs and use the De Molinos Clan’s influence to build his reputation.

By gradually spreading word of his alchemical mastery, he would create the illusion of a rising alchemy grandmaster.

And once the Pill Alliance took notice—

They would come to recruit him themselves.

This strategy was not unprecedented.

One of Albigensians Sect’s Level 2 elders had once been recruited by the Pill Alliance in the same manner.

Without ever taking the official assessment, he had been granted the title of Seventh-Tier Alchemist simply because the Pill Alliance recognized his talent and sought to win him over.

This was the precedent Arius intended to follow.

By the time the Pill Alliance came to him, he would already have solidified his power and influence.

 

Chapter 89 Alchemist Level, De Molinos Lucian’s Plan

The assessment rules of the Alchemy Alliance, as well as its recruitment policies, were not as strict or harsh as one might imagine.

In essence, the Alchemy Alliance was a rather loose and neutral force.

Alchemists in the Alliance were not only ranked by their proficiency but were also categorized into “Resident Alchemists” and “Guest Alchemists.”

A Resident Alchemist was one who pledged full allegiance and officially joined the Alliance.

These alchemists received a generous amount of resources from the Alliance every year, along with the full protection of the organization.

Of course, the Alchemy Alliance was not a charity.

Once someone became a Resident Alchemist, they were required to refine a set quota of designated pills each year. Failing to meet this quota would result in punishment—or even the revocation of their Resident Alchemist status.

On the other hand, Guest Alchemists enjoyed complete freedom, unrestricted by any rules or obligations from the Alliance.

Naturally, the Alliance did not grant them any privileges or benefits either.

While Arius was pondering the best way to forge an alchemist identity and establish himself as a Grandmaster of the Dao of Alchemy, far away in the outskirts of Pyrenees Mountain County, another storm had already begun to brew.

In just over two years, under Carl’s leadership, Yellow Heaven Stronghold had risen to power once more!

With a Level 1 Realm Corpse Puppet holding the fort and Carl himself having reached the Peak of Blood Tempering, the stronghold effortlessly conquered one cultivation faction after another.

The territory of Yellow Heaven Stronghold now stretched across five thousand miles, ruling over countless cities, towns, and villages…

To further expand and prevent their stronghold from being devoured by greater cultivation forces, Carl had even sworn allegiance to a general under the command of the Sea Sand King, recognizing him as his adoptive father.

Though this general was only at the Early Level 1 Realm, his grandfather was one of the Five Great Marshals under the Sea Sand King!

With such a powerful backer, Carl’s road to expansion became all the smoother.

With every city he conquered, he offered up a portion of its wealth—and its women—to his newfound adoptive father.

“Father, this is the eldest daughter of the Green Clan. It is said she is the reincarnation of a celestial fox, an unrivaled beauty of the mortal world. I humbly present her to you…”

In a city still shrouded in the lingering smoke of battle, Carl knelt on one knee, his face brimming with flattery as he addressed a burly, slightly overweight general with a fierce countenance.

This bearded general was none other than his sworn adoptive father—Dylan Yates!

Hearing Carl’s sycophantic words and glancing at the graceful figure within the red sedan chair, Dylan Yates, clad in enchanted armor, let out a boisterous laugh.

“HAHAHAHA!!”

“Not bad, not bad at all.”

“I am quite satisfied.”

“Carl… in Pyrenees Mountain County, you’re still playing petty games.”

“Six months from now, the Sea Sand King will be celebrating his grand birthday. I intend to take you with me to the Sea Sand Palace—what do you think?”

As he spoke, Dylan reached out his hairy, beast-like palm and patted Carl’s head, much like one would pat a pet dog.

And yet, Carl showed no sign of anger. Instead, his face lit up with delight and excitement.

This time, he dropped to both knees and bowed fervently toward Dylan.

“Many thanks for your generosity, Father!”

“Father above, please accept my humble respect!”

Carl’s voice was reverent and sincere, but deep within, a chilling sense of killing intent burned brighter than ever.

Vile old bastard… to humiliate me in such a manner! The day I rise to power will be the day I take your wretched head…

He had never held any real respect for this so-called adoptive father.

His patience, his submission—none of it was for anything other than his own ambition.

Having cultivated the Divine Demon Nirvana Technique and tasted the intoxicating allure of power, his hunger for domination had grown like a ravenous, spreading virus, consuming him entirely.

“HAHAHAHA!!”

“Just wait. In six months, I’ll send for you…”

With those words, Dylan lost all interest in Carl.

With his beast-like frame, he strode toward the sedan chair, where the red-dressed young woman sat trembling.

Then came another round of rough, brutish laughter from within the carriage.

“Let me go… please, I beg you…”

The young woman in red paled in terror, tears welling up in her eyes as she pleaded for mercy.

No one spared her a glance.

To Carl, she was nothing more than a tool.

To Dylan, she was nothing more than an exquisite ornament.

From a distance, Lucian watched everything unfold, his brows furrowing.

Over the years, Carl’s methods had become increasingly ruthless, without limits.

If it had merely been a matter of offering up a young woman to please Dylan, that would have been one thing… But the city beneath his feet—countless mortals had been massacred at Carl’s hands.

For the sake of his ambition, Carl had no hesitation in killing—be it strangers, cultivators, or even his own subordinates.

Once, he had still been a calculating overlord.

Now, he had become no different from a demonic cultivator.

Were it not for the chaos engulfing the Aragon Kingdom, had this been an era where the imperial court still reigned supreme, Carl would have long since been hunted down and exterminated as a heretic.

“Commander Lucian, it’s time to leave.”

“Otherwise, both you and I… may not live to see another day.”

As Lucian stood deep in thought, an elderly man approached him, his voice low and solemn.

Over the years, the Old Diviner had repeatedly urged Lucian to leave.

Compared to Carl, Lucian was just as decisive in battle, but unlike him, he had principles. He rewarded loyalty, punished betrayal accordingly, and treated his subordinates with fairness—a true leader.

It was no secret that many within Yellow Heaven Stronghold had begun shifting their allegiance toward Lucian.

If not for the Corpse Puppet Carl controlled, and the fact that he had taken Dylan as his patron, the men of Yellow Heaven Stronghold would have already chosen Lucian as their leader.

“Not yet…”

“Sir, we need to wait a little longer. The time isn’t right. I can’t risk my brothers’ lives.”

Lucian’s voice was calm, but firm—he refused yet again.

He understood all too well—given Carl’s current nature, if he were to break away from Yellow Heaven Stronghold, Carl would never let him go.

Even though Lucian had no intention of leaving just yet, he had already begun secretly making arrangements.

As he and the Old Diviner spoke in hushed voices, a subordinate suddenly approached.

“Commander Lucian!”

“In the ruins of the city, we’ve found a man—he carries an Imperial Token of the Aragon Royal Family! He might be royalty!”

Lucian’s expression hardened at the words.

A member of the Imperial Family?

In today’s Aragon Kingdom, there was only one ruling clan—the Ji Clan.

Even the Eight Princes were counted among the imperial family.

Pyrenees Mountain County was within the domain of the Sea Sand King, Pyrelis. If this man was truly a royal, and if he had any ties to the Sea Sand Palace, things would become very dangerous.

“Take me to him.”

Lucian forced himself to remain calm.

All he could do was pray that this so-called royal had nothing to do with the Sea Sand Palace.

Otherwise…

Yellow Heaven Stronghold might be facing its doom.

 

Chapter 90: Bringing the Prince and Gathering the National Fortune

Lucian’s departure went completely unnoticed by Carl.

At this moment, Carl’s mind was entirely focused on pleasing Dylan.

Lucian? The foundations of Yellow Heaven Stronghold?

For now, all of that had been pushed to the back of his mind.

As long as he could win over Dylan, and leverage his connections, Carl might even secure an official position—and with the backing of the Sea Sand King, he could satisfy his ambitions at an even faster pace.

“Yaoyang…”

“I’ll be leaving for now, but in half a year, wait for my word.”

“If the opportunity arises, I’ll introduce you to my father.”

“Stick with me, and there will be no shortage of benefits for you in the future!”

Inside the sedan, Dylan sat comfortably, an arm wrapped around the trembling, red-dressed maiden—her face streaked with tears, her expression empty and lifeless.

Looking at Carl, who knelt outside the sedan in reverence, Dylan felt increasingly pleased.

Ever since he had taken Carl as his adoptive son, the man had been nothing but diligent and dutiful.

Without needing to ask, Carl offered him women, wealth—whatever he desired.

Beyond mere flattery, Carl also provided sound advice in critical matters, proving his worth as an asset.

Over time, Dylan’s trust in Carl only grew stronger.

Dylan’s father was one of the Five Great Marshals under the Sea Sand King—a Peak Level 3 Realm expert.

However, Dylan had many brothers—all of whom were rivals.

Once his father broke through to Level 4, he would step down as Marshal, retreating into the shadows as one of the Sea Sand King’s hidden powerhouses.

That meant his position as Marshal would eventually pass to one of his sons.

To become a Marshal, raw strength was not the deciding factor. Connections, political maneuvering, and strategic cunning were far more important.

After all, Dylan’s father, Thomas Yates, had only been at the Level 1 Realm when he inherited the title from his grandfather.

But Thomas had proven himself.

Under his command, tens of millions of elite armored troops and an army of nearly two hundred thousand cultivators had been organized with iron discipline.

Like his father, Dylan was ambitious.

But unlike his father, he had been born into power, never needing to endure humility or patience.

For years, he had never faced real opposition, apart from the competition among his own brothers.

Even so, among all of Thomas’ sons, Dylan was one of the strongest contenders for the Marshal’s seat.

His father held him in high regard, and yet, Dylan dared not grow complacent.

He had been quietly building his own faction—on the surface, he maintained an image of righteousness, but in secret, he was ruthlessly amassing wealth and influence.

With stolen riches and captured beauties, he had been forging alliances with Level 2 cultivators, even some Level 3 experts.

Carl was a crucial part of his plans.

Low-born, untalented, and utterly disposable—Carl was the perfect black-gloved hand to execute his dirtiest deeds.

Assassinations, looting, massacres—whatever needed to be done, Carl could do it.

And when the time came, when his ambitions took shape, Dylan could simply cast him aside.

If Carl’s actions were ever exposed, he could wash his hands of the matter, feigning ignorance, even making a public spectacle of righteous justice—slaying his adoptive son in an act of noble patricide, all to win the people’s trust.

Beneath his brutish and violent exterior, Dylan was no ordinary man.

There were few true wastrels in the great clans of this world—families with long-standing legacies thrived on fierce internal competition.

Had Dylan been truly useless, his father would have abandoned him long ago.

Just as Carl harbored his own sinister ambitions, Dylan was equally scheming.

Both men were cruel, ruthless, and calculating, each using the other to further their own ends.

Yet, for now, their true intentions remained hidden from one another.

Meanwhile.

Amidst the ruins of the devastated city, Lucian hurried forward, following his subordinate to the side of a young man.

The man’s features were sharp and refined, his aura commanding and regal.

Even in simple, tattered robes, he exuded an unshakable sense of nobility, an innate, sovereign presence.

And though his cultivation had been crippled, Lucian could sense it clearly—this man had once been a powerhouse.

For some unknown reason, his dantian had been shattered, and even his spiritual roots had been destroyed.

Surrounded by Lucian’s men, the young man’s expression turned desperate, his eyes filled with bitterness and sorrow.

To think that he, the Crown Prince of Aragon, had fallen to such a miserable state…

This young man was none other than Pyrelis—the Crown Prince of Aragon!

Back then, the Left Prime Minister of Aragon had sacrificed his own life to send him millions of miles away…

But even then, the pursuit never stopped.

The Eight Princes had cooperated seamlessly, sending out countless divination artifacts and Level 3 experts to hunt him down.

Perhaps the fortune of Aragon still lingered upon him, for Pyrelis had survived against all odds, escaping time and time again—even from the hands of Level 3 cultivators and Level 4 grandmasters.

But the price he paid was devastating.

His cultivation was gone, his spiritual roots destroyed, and now, he had fallen to the level of a mere mortal.

Originally, he had planned to hide in this small city, quietly living out his remaining years.

His lifespan had already been reduced to barely over a decade, and without his cultivation or spiritual roots, there was no chance of a comeback.

He had resigned himself to living out his final years in obscurity.

But fate had other plans.

He had been discovered after all.

“The heavens have doomed Aragon…”

“The heavens have doomed me…!”

Pyrelis collapsed onto the ruins, his voice carrying a sense of desolation and despair.

To him, Lucian and his men were undoubtedly pawns of the Sea Sand King.

Falling into Lucian’s hands meant certain doom.

After all, the Eight Princes all wanted him dead.

Only with his death could the Eight Princes freely compete for the imperial throne.

After all, they too bore the same surname—they were imperial kin.

Only if Pyrelis perished, only if the direct bloodline of the royal family was completely severed, could the Eight Princes ascend to the throne unchallenged.

As long as he remained alive, he was an unpredictable variable—a threat to them all.

However, just as fear gripped Pyrelis’s heart, the Old Diviner, who had been examining the token retrieved from him, suddenly narrowed his eyes.

A sharp gleam flashed within them.

“Everyone, stand down!”

“I need to discuss something with Commander Lucian.”

The Old Diviner’s voice boomed across the ruins, ordering the Yellow Heaven Stronghold men to disperse.

Then, turning to Lucian, his voice was tinged with excitement.

“Commander Lucian, this man is the Crown Prince of Aragon!”

“To control him is to indirectly wield the fate of the Aragon Kingdom…”

“If we grow strong enough, we could even use him to command the entire nation!”

“Commander, this is an opportunity. However, keeping the Crown Prince in our hands also comes with great risk.”

“So, Commander… what will you choose?”

The Old Diviner’s voice trailed off, leaving a monumental decision hanging in the air before Lucian.

Keeping Pyrelis hidden was like holding onto a searing-hot coal—a dangerous burden.

But at the right moment, that burden could hold immeasurable power.