Mirror Dream Tree V.4.137. Saint Realm

From deep beneath the shattered desert floor, sothing stirs.

Sand trembles.

Air warps.

Then—

a black dragon-shaped torrent of energy erupts upward, roaring with murderous will.

On instinct alone, the dragon-energy lunges—its fanged maw swallowing one of the remaining heavenly weapons whole.

The cultivators watching freeze.

The tribulation cloud flickers.

And the crater bursts.

Demon rin rises into the sky once more—his aura restored, darker and sharper than before. The wounds that shattered his body are gone; only faint crimson lines remain.

Devouring the Dragon Spear has restored everything he lost—and more.

Inside his spiritual sea, his Dao churns violently.

Though he absorbed less than one per cent of the Dragon Supre’s Dao pattern, the refinent inside his devouring Dao feels monuntal—like a door has creaked open.

Not the budding stage yet.

But close.

Dangerously close.

“If I devour two more…” he murmurs, eyes glowing with crimson madness, “I can push my Dao to budding.”

As he analyses the Dao of the trapped weapon inside him, the remaining four Supre projections descend to kill him.

This ti, the battlefield changes.

He ets them head-on—not defending, but contesting.

Though still bloodied and strained, his movent is no longer desperate—his footing firm, reactions sharp.

While exchanging blows, inspiration flashes, and his energy twists into a new form.

His demon intent surges—and condenses—

Into a massive dragon claw.

It lashes out, tearing space as it collides with the Killing Moon Blade.

A prototype Saint-grade technique.

Dragon Claw.

The Killing Moon Blade trembles—then shatters into pure rule essence.

Demon rin devours it with one breath.

Power floods his veins.

Next—the Thunder God Halberd falls.

He catches it with Dragon Claw and crushing intent—then consus it as thunder screams through his body.

His Dao stirs violently—taking shape, taking structure, becoming alive.

The final three projections tremble.

They strike desperately—

But it no longer matters.

Demon rin devours them one by one, his aura growing colder, hungrier, more controlled with every swallow.

---

Around the battlefield, the cultivators who monts ago planned to strike now… stare.

Hope fades from their expressions.

So step back.

Others turn pale.

A few prepare escape talismans.

Because if he survived this—

No formation, no holy weapon, no number of cultivators could kill him.

But before fear turns to panic—

The sky roars again.

The tribulation cloud does not fade.

It darkens further, rumbling with fury—not done, not satisfied.

A cold realisation spreads through the crowd.

“…The tribulation hasn’t ended.”

Heaven still rejects him.

Then—

Lightning gathers.

Condenses.

Shapes.

Until a humanoid figure of pure thunder descends—standing motionless above Demon rin like a judge sent by the heavens.

Soone from the Dragon Supre lineage gasps sharply.

“That form… that’s—”

“—the projection of the Dragon Supre.”

“When he was a young Saint.”

The crowd cheers—not in joy, but in desperate relief.

“With that projection, the demon is finished!”

“Not even a peak Saint could survive that!”

“Now—Heaven will end him!”

Stolen story; please report.

---

The thunder projection moves.

Its first attack is silent—yet the world shakes as if struck by mountains.

Demon rin raises his arm to block—

—and is sent flying like a broken spear through the air and sand.

He crashes into the earth.

Blood sprays.

The projection continues the assault, appearing above him instantly, striking again and again with simple, efficient, crushing attacks—no wasted motion, no emotion, just overwhelming perfection.

From the first exchange, there is no suspense:

Demon rin is being beaten.

Demon rin tries to counter.

He forms a hand seal—one he derived from observing the Mountain Seal projection earlier.

A massive rune-carved seal manifests above him, radiating crushing earth intent.

But before it can descend—

Bang.

The Dragon projection punches through it, shattering it like brittle glass.

The sa punch slams into Demon rin’s chest and sends him flying backwards, tearing through sand, stone, and desert crust.

He forces himself upright—but the projection is already there.

Lightning condenses into the shape of a spear.

It fires.

Pchi! Pchi! Pchi!

Spears pierce his body—again and again—destroying organs, ripping bone, breaking his saint-level body apart.

He devours origin energy desperately to regenerate, but every recovery remains incomplete before the next strike lands.

His defences crumble.

The assault is relentless.

Hopeless.

Yet through the chaos, through the breaking of flesh and spirit—

Demon rin notices sothing.

A flicker.

A pause—not even a full heartbeat.

The projection slows.

A fraction of a second—but noticeable.

Another strike cos—and it is slightly weaker.

Demon rin’s eyes narrow.

A thought surfaces:

*It’s only a projection—

and it cannot recover.*

*It is consuming its stored energy.

When it runs out—

It disappears.*

“So I just need to outlast it…”

His voice trembles—not from fear, but from fierce, cold excitent.

But the distance to victory feels endless.

He is being torn apart faster than he can rebuild.

His origin reserves are nearly dry.

Then—his gaze shifts.

To the cultivators still watching.

To their hatred.

Their fear.

Their resentnt.

An answer.

Without hesitation, he forms a mudra.

Demon Sound.

A pulse ripples outward—not audible, not visible—just felt.

Dozens of cultivators stiffen.

Their suppressed hatred erupts.

Their anger becos madness.

And they rush him—eyes bloodshot, hearts consud by a single impulse:

Kill the demon.

But this ti, Demon rin does not retreat.

He lifts his hand.

A seal forms—cold, ancient, rciless.

Devouring Seal of the Abyss Supre.

Though different from his own Dao, both share the root of the Devouring Law.

Space bends.

Ti trembles.

Gravity warps.

Before the maddened cultivators can reach him, the seal crushes their bodies—erasing form, thought, and existence.

Then the seal collapses inward—

becoming a black hole.

It devours everything.

Hatred.

Souls.

Bodies.

Energy.

Demon rin drinks the influx—restoring himself, even as the projection continues attacking.

---

Panic spreads.

The survivors flee.

But Demon rin moves.

In aningless rcy or simple instinct—he hunts.

One by one, fleeing figures vanish, consud to fuel his regeneration.

anwhile, every exchange with the projection refines him.

His techniques evolve.

Insights sharpen.

And slowly, through battle and survival instinct—

The Devouring Seal transforms.

It no longer feels like borrowed power.

It becos his.

A new Saint-tier technique:

Devouring Sphere.

When he unleashes it against the Dragon projection, the effect is imdiate.

The sphere locks onto the projection’s structure—analysing the lightning essence and the Dao pattern embedded within.

Piece by piece, the projection weakens.

And then—

It breaks.

Not shattered—

self-destructed.

Its energy disperses into countless motes of lightning.

The tribulation cloud finally acknowledges completion.

Lightning retreats.

Clouds dissolve.

Peace descends.

And from heaven and earth, origin power flows downward—gentle, pure, vast.

It enters Demon rin:

Refining body.

Strengthening the soul.

Advancing Dao.

His soul sharpens—his true spirit awakens fully.

His Dao stabilises.

His body solidifies.

His cultivation surges—

Until it stops.

Saint Realm.

A true one.

Silence dominates the desert.

Then Demon rin looks toward the horizon.

The remaining cultivators flee like startled insects—none daring to look back.

He does not chase.

He turns instead toward the depths of the desert—expression unreadable—and flies away.

The sand shifts behind him.

The desert swallows the blood.

And the world changes quietly.

-----

Sumr heat bakes the land, but Gu Silan shivers as she kneels beside the river, hands raw and red as she scrubs wet clothes against stone.

The water numbs her fingers.

Her body trembles—not from cold, but from exhaustion.

Behind her, footsteps crunch against dry earth.

A woman appears, a basket piled high with dirty clothes balanced in her arms. She drops it beside Gu Silan with a careless thud.

“Gu Silan,” she snaps, “wash these too. If they aren’t done by tonight, you don’t eat.”

Gu Silan lowers her head.

“…Yes.”

She continues scrubbing.

---

Night falls.

Inside the house, laughter echoes—warm voices, clinking bowls, the sll of steaming food filling the air.

Outside, beside the mud wall, Gu Silan crouches in the dark.

Her bowl holds scraps barely fit for dogs.

She eats silently, surrounded by whining strays who receive the sa treatnt she does.

When the al ends, she washes every dish, her hands swollen and cracked.

Then, when everyone sleeps, she retreats to a broken shack—her so-called room—its roof full of holes, its floor bare dirt.

This becos her life.

Day after day.

Task after unreasonable task.

Punishnt without reason.

Silence without kindness.

---

One evening, guests arrive.

n with wine-flushed faces and arrogant eyes.

Later, as Gu Silan sleeps in her shack, one of them forces the door open and steps inside.

His hand grabs her wrist.

His breath reeks.

His intent is clear.

She fights—panic, desperation, instinct.

Her nails cut deeply into his skin, and she breaks free, fleeing into the night.

The next morning, the man lies smoothly.

“She tried to seduce ,” he says with righteous fury.

“When I refused, she attacked .”

Gu Silan tries to speak, shaking.

“He’s lying—”

But no one listens.

Her family believes him without hesitation.

Whips lash across her back, again and again, tearing skin, tearing spirit.

The next day, she is ordered to work as if nothing had happened.

No rest.

No dicine.

No kindness.

Only commands.

Only cruelty.

---

Hopelessness closes around her like a cage.

That night, under an empty sky, Gu Silan walks to the river.

No tears remain.

Only silence.

She steps into the water.

The current pulls her instantly—dragging her down, spinning her, slamming her into hidden rock.

Pain flashes.

Then darkness.

---

She wakes in pitch black.

Her body screams with agony.

The sound of rushing water echoes around her—aning she is sowhere underground, carried into a cavern.

She tries to move.

She cannot.

She sobs—not loudly, not wildly—just a small, broken sound.

“Why…” she whispers to no one.

“Why can’t I even die…?”

Tears slide down her face as consciousness begins to slip away.

Then—

A voice rises from the darkness.

Deep.

Cold.

Unhurried.

“Do you wish to die?”

She flinches.

Through pain and despair, she gathers her voice and screams:

“Yes. Kill .”

Silence follows.

Then the voice speaks again.

“No. That is too simple.”

A pause.

Then:

“Tell instead—

Do you want revenge?”

Her breath halts.

mories flash—

Every insult, every lash, every lie, every humiliation.

Sothing dark inside her finally opens.

Her voice trembles—not weak this ti, but sharp and venomous.

“…I want revenge.”

The cavern seems to breathe in answer.

A technique—foreign yet familiar—blooms inside her mind:

Resentnt Battle Body.

Information floods her consciousness.

Too much.

Too fast.

She collapses, unconscious.

---

Minutes later, footsteps echo from the entrance of the cavern.

A young man and woman appear, lantern light flickering across the darkness.

The woman sighs.

“She’s alive.”

The man kneels beside Gu Silan.

“Help her. Then we’ll ask Master if we can bring her back to the sect.”

The woman nods.

Her hand shifts—fingers lengthening, nails sharpening into delicate, scaled claws. Erald patterns glow across her skin.

Soft green light shines onto Gu Silan.

Bones realign.

Bruises fade.

Breath steadies.

When the healing completes, the young man lifts her gently, and the two disappear toward the surface.

Their steps fade.

Silence returns.

From the depth of the cavern, hidden in shadow, a figure becos visible—

Red eyes are faintly glowing.

A quiet, satisfied smirk curled across his lips.

Demon rin watches them leave.