The silver chains fluctuate with a steady rhythm, pulsing as if alive.
All the blood snakes veer off course, drawn helplessly toward the chains.
As the chains rise and spiral upward, they encircle the blood sphere, wrapping tightly around the figure within.
The silver chains intertwine with the blood chains, rging into a reinforced net.
Together, they form a dense chain ball, sealing the figure inside.
From within the prison, the figure’s voice booms, cold and furious—“You all are looking for death.”
At that mont, twelve figures descend, each landing on one of the largest silver chains.
They press their palms against the tal and pour their magic power into the formation.
The chains glow brighter, thrumming with force.
Inside, the blood ancestor presses outward, causing the ball to groan and swell.
But with the combined strength of the twelve, the chain ball holds.
Its expansion halts, and the pressure stabilises.
The blood is suppressed—at least for now.
Then the blood ancestor says, “I have to say, you all have guts—but do you really think this alone can kill ?”
A man with snake scales on his arms and a long serpent tail—an ice master—responds, “Why not? You only have a decade left to live. Every ti you force your way out of the Soul Formation, your death draws closer.”
The blood ancestor, pale-faced with ruby-red eyes, laughs darkly. “Who said I have only a decade? That must be what you believe, my son.”
His gaze turns toward the cloaked figure feeding magic into one of the silver chains.
The figure lifts his hood, revealing a face filled with cold hatred.
The blood ancestor smirks. “Ah, the sweet scent of hatred. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? You reek of betrayal. You think I trusted you when I could sll your loathing? When you gave that alternative thod to absorb living souls, you think I didn’t know what you were planning?”
His son ets his stare and says, “Father, did you never wonder why I stopped hiding my emotions? Why did I let you see my hatred after you devoured my wife?”
The blood ancestor strains against the Soul Formation, his eyes locked on his son.
His son continues, “We are snakes. We’ve mastered the art of masking our thoughts. So why didn’t you consider that the reason I showed emotion was because you’d never believe otherwise? You wanted to devour , not my son. That’s why you said that after taking my wife, the next would be Zeke. You wanted to provoke —to make attack you—so you could devour .”
The blood ancestor’s eyes flashed—his son had seen through everything.
He had indeed hoped his son would lose control after he devoured his daughter-in-law. That way, when his son attacked in anger, he’d have the justification to consu him.
But his son didn’t attack. Instead, he proposed a plan to trigger a massive war, using the souls of the dead to cultivate a field of soul lotuses.
The blood ancestor had been suspicious. How had his son found such a formation—one capable of growing multiple soul lotuses at once?
But greed won.
His soul was already on the verge of collapse, rotting from centuries of corruption. For generations, he’d consud the souls of his descendants, always hoping to preserve his strength a little longer.
Now his son offered a cleaner thod—pure, untainted soul energy gathered from strangers on the battlefield. It was everything the blood ancestor needed.
And still, sothing felt off.
He had suspected his son’s true motive was to protect Zeke. His son had begun walking the spiritual path, one that the blood ancestor could never tread.
Even so, a small part of him chose to believe in his son, just enough to take the risk.
But not enough to reveal everything.
So, he lied.
He lied about how long he had left to live because, by devouring the lives of others to extend his own, the world cursed him.
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Like all of his kind, if he used the power of the ancestral crystal, his lifespan would burn away.
If he truly had only a decade remaining, using his full strength would end him in less than a day—but he still had a century.
That ant he could fight at full power for at least a week.
So, he wasn’t worried.
They couldn’t kill him like this.
Their magic power would run dry, the formation would weaken, and once free, he would slaughter them all.
He says, “My son, did you think this thod could kill ?”
His son ets his gaze with calm, the hatred vanishing from his snake-like pupils.
He replies, “All of you, take care.”
His body begins to glow. Magic power surges from the silver chain, creeping toward the silver ball.
Below, as his magic enters the formation, his body breaks into fragnts, turning to dust.
The blood ancestor’s eyes widen in horror. He tries to stop the flow of magic, but it’s too late.
His son has sacrificed his life to unleash his final magic—blood poison.
It’s a magic that can harm even him.
He desperately tries to keep it out, but their magic is too similar—father and son, blood-bound.
The blood poison seeps into his being, bypassing his defences.
It rges with his power and instantly cuts his life by five decades.
The masters outside the formation watch with narrowed eyes, hope flickering in their gaze.
And then, another figure silently steps forward to take the place of the fallen son, channelling magic into the silver chain to keep the formation alive.
The blood ancestor’s calm face twists into rage.
They hadn’t believed his lies—his own son had sacrificed his life to shorten his lifespan.
And if his son had such a thod, the others likely had more.
Trapped inside the formation, he knows he must escape quickly.
With a furious roar, his human form lts away, revealing his true body—a massive serpent with eight heads.
The sheer size of his form pushes back against the silver chains, but the formation holds.
Powered by a thousand souls and the magic of twelve peak cultivators, all at the Dharma realm’s pinnacle, the formation matches his strength.
He needs outside help to break free—but none is coming.
Everyone present wants him dead.
The eight snake heads hiss, writhing, trying to tear the formation apart, seeking an opening—any weakness.
But the formation is soul-locked. He can’t escape completely, but pieces of his body might.
It seems they hadn’t considered that possibility.
It made sense. After refining the ancestral crystal, they couldn't use their magic to form clones.
But he could.
Though it would cost him years of life.
In this situation, he shouldn’t waste even a day.
But he doesn’t know what other thods they might use to end him.
Ti slipping by only narrows his options.
So he gambles—if this fails, he’ll die.
He begins channelling his magic power.
Below, around the silver chains, the Illusion Master speaks with his ntal energy, only to three others—all human and, like him, spiritual masters: the Wood Master, the Holy Blood Master, and the Hidden Master.
“Should we use the Divine Balista now?”
The Hidden Master, elder of the Silver Village, says, “Not now. Divine Balista arrows are hard to craft, and we only have ten.”
The Wood Master says, “The Dryads and Sea People must have better thods than us. They have their ancestors behind them.”
The Hidden Master nods and looks up, just in ti to see seven snake heads escape the formation, each transforming into a human form outside.
The Spring Water Master of the Sea People curses, and from his free hand, a conch appears; he blows into it. In the sky, a water portal opens, and through it erge three Water Spirits—three figures with early Dharma Realm strength, matching the power of the Blood Ancestor’s seven clones.
The Thunder Water Master says, “We’ve revealed our cards. Now it’s your turn.”
The Golden Tree releases two golden seeds into the lake, and the seeds sprout into two treen, each radiating the strength of the early Dharma Realm.
The Ice Master of the Yao race, who seeks to destroy the ancestors of their kind, says, “Shoan will handle one.”
A bird’s cry echoes, and from the clouds descends a massive grey crow, its feathers burning with black fire, which transforms into a man.
The Holy Blood Master says, “My pet will deal with the last.”
Blood streams from his body and gathers on the lake’s surface, drawing in all the scattered blood from the lted bloody ice.
From it rises a massive dog, deep red like coagulated blood.
The seven clones of the blood ancestor descend like crimson teors, their speed and savagery overwhelming their opponents.
The three Water Spirits rise from the lake in synchronised spirals, forming rings of pressure that hold the blood clones at bay.
The golden treen plant themselves on the lakebed, their roots extending into the water as golden vines lash out with explosive force.
Shoan dives with wings spread wide, each feather ablaze with black fire, slashing one clone across the chest and driving him back mid-flight.
The blood-colored dog barrels into another clone with a snarl, teeth ripping into enchanted flesh, holding the foe down as water blades strike from above.
For a brief mont, the defenders gain the upper hand—the seven clones are stopped in their tracks, held back by perfect coordination and strength.
But then, the seven clones chant in unison, their bodies pulsing with dark red light as they invoke the authority granted by the ancestral crystal.
Their blood magic deepens, the world itself bending slightly around them, and the sky above turns crimson as the blood rule of the world activates.
Each clone roars as their power surges, doubling in intensity—wounds close instantly, pressure flares, and their movents blur to impossible speeds.
A treeman's chest is pierced by a red spear, splitting its bark in a brilliant explosion of sap and magic.
One Water Spirit is shattered into vapour, its liquid form torn apart by compressed blood spikes launched in rapid succession.
Shoan blocks a strike with his wings, only to be flung back hundreds of ters, black fire trailing in the wind.
The blood dog howls as a clone pins it down with a crimson chain that sears through its flesh, trying to rip its soul out.
Now the defenders stagger—four of the clones are almost at the silver chain, just monts from disrupting the soul formation.
Their eyes glint with assured victory, blood trails behind them like banners of death, and they raise their weapons for the killing strike.
But then, from the eastern hills, a deep chanical groan breaks through the chaos.
A thunderous crack follows, louder than lightning splitting mountains.
A blinding silver arrow flies across the sky, faster than thought, tearing through clouds like cloth.
One clone doesn’t even turn before the arrow hits him square in the chest and shatters him into blood mist.
Silence follows, the battle halts, and all eyes—clones, spirits, masters—turn toward the east.
There, far in the distance, atop a tall hill, stands a massive silver balista mounted on a stone platform, its string still vibrating from the shot.
Below it, three armoured figures march slowly, carrying the next giant arrow, its tip glowing with sacred inscriptions.
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