rin stands beneath the tribulation clouds, expression calm, eyes clear.
The first stage descends without warning.
Eighty-one bolts of five-elent lightning tear through the sky.
tal screams.
Wood twists.
Water drowns.
Fire incinerates.
Earth crushes.
Each bolt carries a complete cycle of generation and destruction, striking in relentless succession, turning the city below into molten ruin.
rin raises a hand.
“Chess Field—expand.”
The world restructures.
Black-and-white grids unfold beneath his feet, extending upward into the clouds themselves.
The five-elent lightning crashes down—
And disperses.
Each bolt is redirected, divided, neutralised, and its laws dismantled the instant it touches the grid.
Eighty-one strikes fall.
Eighty-one vanish.
The clouds churn violently.
The second stage follows.
Twelve shapes condense from lightning.
Supre Weapon Tribulation.
Blades.
Halberds.
Seals.
Bells.
Bows.
Each carries the will of a Supre Weapon, striking with killing intent refined over eras.
Together, they descend like judgnt.
rin steps forward.
Within the Chess Field, the weapons slow, their trajectories rewritten.
One freezes mid-strike.
Another turns aside.
A third collapses into pure energy.
rin reaches out.
The grid tightens.
All twelve Supre Weapon phantoms shatter simultaneously, reduced to harmless sparks.
The clouds go silent.
Then they roar.
The final tribulation forms.
Twelve figures erge from lightning—
The past images of the Supres, manifesting as Saint Kings, each radiating unmatched authority.
They stand in a circle around rin, robes and armour forged from lightning itself, their presence pressing down like the weight of eras.
These are not illusions.
They are the distilled will of the Supres at their peak foundations.
Their gazes lock onto rin.
In the sa instant, they move.
Twelve Dao Fields unfold.
Fire scorches space.
Water drowns reality.
tal sharpens the void.
Wood spreads endlessly.
Earth locks everything into stillness.
On top of that, supre intent overlaps, stacking pressure layer by layer until even heaven groans.
rin’s Chess Field trembles.
Not from instability—
But from pressure.
rin does not move.
He lets the Chess Field contract inward, compressing from an all-encompassing domain into a tight, absolute core around his body.
The twelve figures strike.
Blades fall.
Seals descend.
Palms shatter space.
Lightning fists tear through dinsions.
rin finally raises his hand.
“Material Rebound.”
Five-elent light flows outward, but it does not attack.
Fire forms elasticity.
Water becos flow.
tal creates reflection.
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Wood absorbs force.
Earth stabilises the structure.
Space folds inward, binding the five elents into a single defensive law.
The first attack lands—
And rebounds.
Not reflected.
Not negated.
Reinterpreted.
The force is converted, redirected, and returned along a different spatial axis, smashing into the attacker’s weakest point.
The first lightning Saint King staggers.
Before it can recover, the Chess Field shifts.
The grid overlays its Dao Field, exposing a flaw—a discontinuity between intent and execution.
rin steps once.
The Saint King collapses into sparks.
Eleven remain.
They adapt instantly, changing attack patterns, synchronising their Dao Fields to erase rebound angles.
rin remains still.
Material Rebound evolves.
Water absorbs thunder.
Fire consus tal.
Wood erodes earth.
Earth suppresses fire.
tal cuts space itself.
Each attack feeds the next counter.
The second Saint King is crushed when his own gravity is folded back onto his core.
The third is erased when space collapses between his feet and his Dao source.
The fourth lasts longer, pushing rin back a step—
And that is enough.
The Chess Field tightens.
A line appears beneath the Saint King’s feet.
Checkmate.
Lightning disperses.
The remaining figures hesitate.
For the first ti, sothing like confusion crosses their faces.
They increase output.
Fields roar.
Heaven shakes.
rin exhales slowly.
His Dao completes its analysis.
Their weakness is not power—
But rigidity.
They are past images.
Perfect.
And unable to change.
Material Rebound shifts again.
This ti, it does not wait for impact.
It reshapes reality around them.
Attacks land on empty space.
Fields overlap incorrectly.
Their coordination fractures.
One by one, they fall.
Six.
Five.
Four.
Each erased cleanly, without spectacle.
When only one remains, the final Saint King charges with everything left.
rin looks at him.
The Chess Field contracts to a single square.
The lightning figure steps forward—
And vanishes.
Silence returns.
The tribulation clouds dissolve.
rin stands alone.
Unmoving.
Unhard.
Heaven has tested him.
And failed.
A stunned silence grips the city for a heartbeat—
Then the human race erupts.
Cheers thunder across the shattered plaza, voices hoarse, unrestrained, filled with disbelief and rising hope.
So shout rin’s na.
Others shout nothing at all, simply screaming their release.
On the opposite terraces, faces darken.
Spirit Dragon elders narrow their eyes.
Ancient God Clan representatives stiffen.
Races that have long held enmity toward humanity feel a chill creep into their Dao hearts.
Even the neutral factions frown.
This is no longer speculation.
rin is proving himself a true contender for the Supre throne.
Spirit transmissions ripple silently among the higher-ups.
The patriarch of the Corpse Fly Race speaks first, his voice cold and asured.
“The Dao field is not from a weapon,” he transmits.
“It is his own.”
Silence answers him.
Among those present, every Quasi-Supre domain has been anchored by a forr Quasi-Supre Weapon.
Not one of them has forged a field through pure comprehension.
The Corpse Fly patriarch continues, his gaze drifting across the city, settling briefly on Silan and ngui standing on the far side, guarded by human cultivators.
“Even with Quasi-Supre Weapons, we cannot stop him from escaping,” he says.
“And we’ve already lost our leverage.”
Another patriarch responds grimly.
“If conflict breaks out now, our lives are also at risk.”
So hesitate.
So consider retreat.
Then a new voice enters the transmission.
Deep.
Steady.
Absolute.
“Do not worry,” says the patriarch of the Ancient God Clan.
“He will not be able to leave.”
Attention shifts instantly.
One of the patriarchs transmits sharply, “Are you planning to use your clan’s Supre Weapon?”
“If that’s the case, I’m out.”
Several others echo the sentint.
Supre Weapons an total war.
Decisions of that magnitude are not theirs to make—not while Supres still live, even if asleep.
The Ancient God patriarch answers calmly.
“No.”
A pause.
“My grandfather is nearby.”
The channel goes still.
Before anyone can ask further—
Thunder rumbles.
Not distant.
Not fading.
Heavy.
Persistent.
One cultivator transmits urgently, “His tribulation hasn’t ended.”
Another replies, voice tight, “Fourth stage—the Dao Thunder Tribulation.”
“If he passes this… there’s more than a seventy per cent chance he becos the next Supre.”
A third cuts in, cold and decisive.
“He must die.”
“Send word back. Prepare the Supre Weapons.”
This ti, no one objects.
Fear of all-out war fades in the face of sothing worse.
A new human Supre.
Above the city, rin lifts his gaze.
The tribulation clouds have not dispersed.
They have thickened.
Darkness coils within them, layered with pure Dao intent, heavier than any lightning before.
rin exhales slowly.
His Chess Field contracts further, no longer spreading across the city, no longer asserting dominance.
It condenses into a small, precise shield above his head.
Perfect.
Absolute.
The clouds split.
Dao descends—
not as raw lightning—
—but as judgnt.
The sky darkens further, the tribulation clouds compressing into a single rotating mass heavy enough to bend space itself.
Dao intent condenses within it, pure and rciless.
The first Dao thunder falls.
It is silent.
A single bolt descends, carrying the weight of law rather than destruction.
It strikes rin’s condensed Dao shield—and disperses harmlessly.
rin does not move.
The second thunder follows imdiately.
Twice the power.
The Dao shield trembles, fine cracks spreading across its surface like shattered glass.
Fragnts of Dao thunder slip through, landing on rin’s body.
Pain erupts.
Different laws conflict violently within his flesh, tearing at ridians and bones.
He grits his teeth and stabilises himself, forcing the Chess Field to re-balance.
The third thunder descends.
Heavier.
Denser.
The shield fractures further.
More thunder pours through.
rin’s skin chars and splits as Dao energy carves into him directly, destroying muscle and rupturing organs before regeneration barely keeps pace.
Blood evaporates before it can fall.
The fourth thunder arrives.
The shield is barely holding now, vibrating violently as if on the verge of collapse.
Thunder floods through, smashing into his torso and limbs.
His left arm shatters completely.
His chest caves inward.
rin forces his Dao to reconstruct him mid-strike, rebuilding bone and flesh while being destroyed again.
The fifth thunder strikes.
The shield is now mostly cracks and fragnts.
Thunder washes over him like a tide.
Half his internal organs are annihilated.
His vision blurs.
He tastes iron and lightning.
Still, he stands.
The sixth thunder descends without pause.
The Dao shield screams.
Then—
It collapses.
The seventh thunder follows imdiately, unrestrained.
It crashes directly onto rin.
There is no defence.
His body is obliterated.
More than half of him vanishes into nothingness, erased by Dao lightning.
Only fragnts remain—charred bone, flickering essence, shattered will.
The crowd gasps.
Human cultivators cry out.
But rin does not fall.
Within the storm, his Dao activates on instinct.
The Chess Field reconstructs him square by square.
Bone reforms.
Flesh regrows.
ridians reconnect.
He stands again, naked of defence, barely whole.
The eighth thunder descends.
Stronger still.
It smashes into his newly ford body, tearing him apart a second ti, shredding him to the brink of nonexistence.
rin rebuilds again.
Slower.
More costly.
His Saint Essence drains catastrophically.
The ninth thunder forms.
The sky seems to collapse inward as all remaining Dao energy condenses into a single bolt.
When it falls, it is absolute.
It strikes rin—and his body bursts.
Not shatters.
Bursts.
Essence scatters like dust.
For a mont, there is nothing.
Silence.
Then—
Slowly—
Essence gathers.
Months pass in an instant.
rin’s body reforms inch by inch, consuming every last drop of Saint Essence he possesses.
When he finally stands again, he is pale, exhausted, barely conscious.
Dead tired.
On the verge of collapse.
Below, the human race exhales as one.
Relief spreads like a wave.
The tribulation clouds begin to disperse.
Heaven and earth energy surge downward, pouring into rin, nourishing him, stabilising him, acknowledging his survival.
He has passed.
Then—
A black lightning strikes.
It does not co from the tribulation clouds.
It cos from elsewhere.
It pierces rin instantly.
He feels sothing enter his body.
A black needle.
Cold.
Ancient.
Malicious.
His pupils shrink.
Before consciousness slips away, he hears a furious voice echo within his soul—
“You dare.”
Darkness takes him.
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