In the desert—beneath the still-roaring tribulation cloud—a holy golden light suddenly erupts.
The gathered cultivators tense instantly.
They form a tight battle formation, pressing those who wield holy weapons into the centre. Every eye narrows. Every aura sharpens.
Golden light.
Holy radiance.
It feels wrong—almost insulting—to associate sothing so pure with a demon, yet the aning is obvious:
*He survived.
He passed the Saint Tribulation.
He is about to ascend.*
A chill spreads through the crowd.
If the demon becos a Saint, their revenge becos a dream. None of them dares imagine fighting a Saint as mortals or Tao Lords.
So they wait—breath held, killing intent rising—ready to strike the mont the clouds disperse.
---
Below that storm, Demon rin exhales a long, shaky breath.
Relief.
Exhaustion.
A lingering hunger.
The eighty-first tribulation thunder obliterated his entire body—erasing flesh, marrow, and even most of his bones.
Only a single toe bone remained.
That single remnant allowed his spirit to cling to existence and pass the trial.
Now, he frantically draws origin energy into himself.
The tiny bone glows.
Then splits.
Another bone forms, reshaping the foot.
The foot completes, then the ankle.
Energy coils upward, crafting the entire leg.
Hip bones manifest. Then the second leg.
Then his spine ignites, vertebrae appearing one by one.
Soon his ribs, arms, and skull materialise—glittering with indestructible Saint luminescence.
Once the skeleton completes, his absorption surges dramatically.
Organs bloom inside the ribcage.
Veins and ridians weave like glowing threads.
Muscle spreads across bone.
Finally, flesh grows, skin seals—and his eyes open.
His cultivation has not entered the Saint Realm yet.
But his body has.
A Saint-body radiates from him—ancient, powerful, terrifying.
He waits.
The heavens should now grant him the gift of heaven and earth—the Saint baptism of origin energy—allowing his cultivation to ascend and his Dao to evolve to the Budding Form.
But the sky responds differently.
The cloud does not fade.
It darkens.
Deepens.
Thickens.
A ripple of confusion spreads in the watching crowd.
“Why… why isn’t the tribulation dissipating?”
Then soone realises—
“…His tribulation isn’t done.”
As if acknowledging the statent, the tribulation cloud rumbles violently, its pressure doubling, then tripling.
Fear spreads.
A cultivator swallows hard.
“If… if he’s facing a second tribulation—after passing the first—then Heaven has judged him a potential Forbidden Genius.”
Soone gulps, voice barely steady.
“A genius capable of breaking fate. One who may reach the Forbidden Realm.”
A hush falls.
Because they know what that ans.
Forbidden Realm is not a cultivation realm—but a asure of defiance.
A asure of how violently soone can shatter the order of Heaven.
It is divided into ten stages:
* First stage: defeat soone one a small realm higher.
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Tenth stage: defeat soone ten realms above* and still win.
A realm of monsters, calamities—future Supres.
And the demon beneath the clouds has been acknowledged as one.
The cultivators tremble—not from cold, but from instinctive fear.
---
The tribulation deepens.
The thundercloud churns like the wrath of a god.
From its heart, forms begin taking shape—
Not normal lightning weapons.
But Dao Weapons.
Supre-tier imprints.
*A sword woven from thunder.
A spear carved from lightning.
An axe forged from pure law.
A chain made from storm essence.
A seal carrying the command of Heaven.
A halberd ford from the mory of destruction.*
Each radiates a unique Dao—complete, overwhelming, ancient.
The mont they appear, the surrounding cultivators stagger under the pressure.
“This… these aren’t ordinary tribulation weapons…”
Soone stares, voice shaking.
“They’re Supre projections.”
The thought spreads like wildfire.
Weapons from long-dead or missing Supres—summoned as trial judges.
The spear descends first.
A cultivator watching gasps.
“That… that’s the Dragon Spear! The weapon of the Dragon Supre!”
Another point at the axe.
“And that—Blood Devil Supre’s Crimson Execution Axe!”
One after another, recognition spreads.
The Chain of Mountain Seal.
The Thunder God Halberd.
The Killing Moon Blade.
The Devouring Seal of the Abyss.
Six legendary weapons descend—each a trial of an ancient Supre.
No one speaks now.
They simply watch—paralysed.
---
Below, Demon rin stands tall—face expressionless, eyes burning with a cold madness.
The six Supre projections strike.
The ground shatters.
Lightning storms erupt in the sky.
The Dragon Spear thrusts forward—a strike capable of killing Saints in a single breath.
Demon rin reacts.
His Dao manifests—not as light, not as force, but as a vast invisible maw.
It clamps onto the spear—devouring.
But imdiately, resistance erupts.
A draconic roar echoes—ancient, royal, violent.
The Dao of the Dragon Supre pushes back, refusing to be swallowed.
While locked with the spear, the other five weapons strike him in unison.
He roars—not in pain, but in challenge.
His techniques awaken:
Blood Sea.
A crimson ocean expands beneath him, absorbing shock and turning attacks into nourishnt.
Killing Fist.
Each punch shatters a Supre strike head-on, raw, brutal, unstoppable.
Demon Cry.
A sound technique—terrifying in its simplicity—sending waves of killing intent outward like a collapsing star.
tal clashes.
Thunder screams.
Dao tears through the air and sand.
He blocks five Supre weapons alone, while his devouring Dao wrestles the spear—analysing every thread of the Dragon Supre’s path.
Law of Dominance.
Law of Bloodline.
Law of Scale and Fang.
He studies them—not with reverence—
But with hunger.
The Dragon Spear trembles.
Slowly, painfully—
The devouring maw begins winning.
The draconic roar weakens.
The Dao resisting him thins.
The spear—piece by piece—is pulled apart.
Absorbed.
Consud.
The demon’s aura rises—deeper, darker, stronger.
He laughs—low, guttural, unrestrained.
And above them, the heavens rumble—
As if Heaven itself were deciding whether this creature before it deserved to exist.
The clash continues.
Demon rin’s strikes beco heavier, slower—not from hesitation, but from strain.
His techniques—Blood Sea, Killing Fist, Demon Cry—are powerful, but they are still Tao Stage arts. Against six heavenly-summoned Supre projections—each carrying Saint-level force—they begin to show limits.
His flesh splits.
Bone cracks.
His newly ford Saint body begins bleeding again.
Yet he does not stop.
He bares his teeth—more beast than man.
Then, with a low growl, he burns his demon essence.
His aura explodes outward.
The desert sky, already dark, turns pitch-black—like ink seeping across the firmant.
The tribulation thunder above flickers, almost dimd by the spreading demon shroud.
With renewed force, he counters the barrage.
The axe swings—he stops it with Killing Fist, sending cracks through space.
The chain lunges—Demon Cry freezes it montarily with sheer killing intent.
The seal descends—his Blood Sea rises and swallows half the force.
The sword slashes—he blocks with raw flesh and regenerating bone, refusing to fall.
The halberd tears toward his chest—he twists and sends a spatial ripple to break its strike.
Yet five weapons attacking at once—each carrying the Dao impression of Supres—remains overwhelming.
Every exchange costs him blood, bone, and will.
---
Far away, but close enough to witness, the gathered cultivators stare with wide, horrified eyes.
The hope they felt monts ago is fading.
One of them whispers, voice trembling:
“If even Heaven’s supre weapons cannot kill him…”
The sentence hangs unfinished—but everyone understands the aning.
Even with their holy weapons, even with numbers, even with hatred—they may be powerless.
They cannot wield the holy weapons alone.
Without a formation, without perfect unity, those weapons are nothing more than heavy relics.
And if Heaven itself struggles to erase this demon…
How could they?
Helplessness grows.
So grit their teeth.
Others shake with fear.
A few whisper prayers—not for victory.
But for survival.
---
On the battlefield beneath the clouds, Demon rin’s strength begins to slip.
His movents grow fractionally slower.
His regeneration falters.
His forbidden realm state—the source of his overwhelming might—begins thinning around the edges like fading smoke.
This is his first ti entering the Forbidden State.
Unlike the original rin—who used refined Dao comprehension to effortlessly dominate realms—Demon rin relies on raw instinct and an overwhelming devouring force.
Forbidden State requires balance.
Climate.
Blood.
Will.
Comprehension.
Intent.
It is a razor’s edge walked by only the strongest geniuses.
And Demon rin’s foundation, though monstrous, is still new.
His power continues to bleed away.
The six supre projections sense the weakening and intensify their assault.
The Dragon Spear, nearly fully devoured, flickers and tries one final strike.
The axe descends with execution force.
The chain tightens, attempting to bind.
The halberd pierces toward his heart.
The seal drops like judgnt.
And the thunder sword arcs for his neck.
Demon rin staggers.
For the first ti—
His eyes narrow not in hunger,
not in arrogance,
But in the calculation.
The tribulation is not finished.
And neither is he.
But intent cannot replace strength.
The last remnants of the forbidden state flicker, dim… then vanish entirely.
Demon rin’s aura collapses from overwhelming to rely fierce.
The shift is imdiate.
The balance breaks.
The weapons—already pressing him—now strike with crushing dominance.
His Blood Sea falters.
His Killing Fist fractures.
His Demon Cry fails to suppress even a fraction of the heavenly force.
He grits his teeth and continues fighting—slashing with devouring claws, blocking with regenerating flesh, countering with burning spiritual energy—but now it is pure resistance, not retaliation.
The sky roars.
The axe slams downward.
The halberd pierces his shoulder.
The thunder sword carves across his ribs.
The chain wraps around his torso, crushing bone.
The seal drops onto his back—breaking vertebrae and rupturing ridians.
rin’s body jerks violently under the impact.
For a heartbeat, he refuses to fall.
Refuses to kneel.
Refuses to break.
But the five heavenly projections strike again—this ti in perfect synchronised force, as if Heaven judges the mont ripe.
Five impacts beco one.
A deafening blast echoes across the dunes.
Demon rin’s body shoots downward—
slamd from the sky like a falling teor.
Sand explodes outward in a massive crater.
The earth shakes.
Cracks spread like a spiderweb for thousands of ters.
Silence follows.
Above, the six remaining weapons hover, humming with divine power—waiting, judging, watching.
The tribulation cloud churns, growing darker still, as if deciding whether to strike again.
Around the crater, the cultivators stare in stunned disbelief—so hopeful, so fearful, none breathing.
Because though buried beneath shattered desert rock—
No one yet dares say he is dead.
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