The morning the Divine Realm opened, the sky wept spiritual mist.
Each droplet of condensation in the air was infused with thin Dao intent, barely tangible, yet enough to make even ordinary cultivators shiver in reverence.
The Ancestral Divine Realm was not manmade.
It was the leftover dream of a forgotten immortal, anchored into the mortal plane by secret rites and lost bloodlines.
Only once every nine generations did it awaken.
Only the most promising could step within.
And only those willing to risk everything could hope to seize even a fragment of its forgotten legacies.
Haaron stood at the boundary of the valley, Vein Severance strapped across his back, black robes stitched with faint Sutra runes billowing against the rising currents.
Beside him were his chosen:
Yue Shilan, her aura cold and sharp as winter steel.
Lian Rou, illusions flickering lazily in her fox eyes.
Mei Lin, with a subtle grin, her poison flowing faintly beneath her skin.
Amari, serene now, mask abandoned, carrying a mirror-like stillness.
They were no longer merely disciples. Each carried Haaron's resonance within their cores. Each was a flame woven into his growing Sutra domain.
Before them floated the portal—an ancient stone gate suspended in air, carved with dragon script older than empire.
It pulsed once, then split open. Revealing mist, shadows, and opportunity.
Sect banners flapped along the ridge.
Elite heirs from the great sects stepped forward, each cloaked in artifacts and Dao treasures. They spared Haaron only narrow glances.
Beneath their smiles hid blades. And behind their greetings hid murderous intent.
An elder from Crimson Sky Hall—masking his cultivation—stepped forward with a faint smile.
"May fortune favor you, Sutra cultivator."
Behind him, quiet talismans flared. Communication spells. Assignments.
Targets.
Haaron read it all without effort. The Divine Realm was not simply a trial. It was a hunt.
And he was to be the most prized quarry.
He stepped into the portal without fear. Without hesitation. The world spun sideways. Light twisted.
Sound flattened.
When vision returned, Haaron and his women stood upon cracked stone platforms suspended in an endless void of clouds and broken stars.
Ancient mountains floated around them like islands adrift in dreams.
This was no world crafted by mortal hands.
It was the forgotten battlefield of immortals.
The first breath Haaron took tasted of rusted blood, scorched stone, and lingering Dao wounds that refused to heal.
He smiled.
"This," he said, "is where real cultivation begins."
Elsewhere, among the drifting islands, groups from the powerful sects moved in formation.
The heirs of the Sword River Pavilion whispered secret plans.
The core disciples of Blue Pine Refuge sharpened heirloom blades.
Even the rogue factions—exiles, assassins, fallen heirs—stirred with new hunger.
Their target?
The Sutra Flame Sect.
Or more precisely—
Haaron himself.
The Divine Mirror Sect's envoy—a high elder shrouded in moon silk robes—whispered into the spirit winds:
"Trap him between the Severance Fields."
"Crush his core."
"Take the Sutra's secret."
And in the floating shadows, other wills responded.
The hunt had begun.
And Haaron?
He only smiled, gaze vast as the heavens.
Because while others hunted with blades and poison—
He hunted with destiny.
The mist of the Divine Realm twisted and swirled like a living thing, shrouding the floating mountains and forgotten ruins scattered across the void.
The air was heavy with intent.
Every broken pillar, every fragment of shattered palace, still carried the imprints of ancient battles fought long before the present sects were even founded. Spirit beasts, half-formed by lingering Dao remnants, roamed the cliffs in silence.
Here, nothing was truly dead.
Everything waited.
For challengers.
For inheritors.
For those bold—or foolish—enough to claim destiny by force.
Haaron and his companions moved with steady purpose across the first bridge of stars, a narrow thread of spiritual stone arcing over a chasm of endless fog.
Already, whispers of hostile qi gathered beyond sight.
Hidden movements.
Flickering killing intent.
"We are being surrounded," Yue Shilan said calmly.
Lian Rou smirked. "Predictable."
Amari's mirror-light aura shimmered faintly, catching traces of movement before eyes could.
Haaron did not look concerned.
He placed his hand lightly on the shaft of Vein Severance and continued forward.
"If they strike, it will be at the Crossing Stone ahead," he said.
"Let them come."
As they approached a ruined archway shaped like a lotus split by lightning, figures stepped from the mist.
Eight cultivators.
Armored in spiritual arrays, carrying relic weapons gleaming with sectal might.
Each carried a talisman pinned to their robes—symbols of different alliances: Crimson Sky Hall, Sword River Pavilion, Cloud-Soar Sect.
An open coalition.
A gathering of hatred.
At their center stood Lin Changhe, a senior disciple of the Sword River Pavilion, tall and proud, his blade resting easily on his shoulder.
He spoke without bowing.
"Sutra cultivator."
"We grant you an honorable death. Surrender your techniques. Disband your sect. Perhaps your women will be spared humiliation."
He smiled coldly.
"A rare kindness."
Silence fell over the broken bridge.
The mist around Haaron's feet stirred as the Sutra within him woke like a roused beast.
He took a single step forward.
The bridge creaked.
The mist retreated.
His voice was soft, almost tender.
"You think yourselves executioners."
He raised Vein Severance.
"You are merely sacrifices."
The clash came without warning.
Lin Changhe struck first—unleashing the Nine-Fold Waterfall Cut, a technique famed for overwhelming even defensive formations in three heartbeats.
Three others followed with their own arts—ice talismans, binding chains, soul-burning curses.
Blades shrieked.
Qi howled.
The air itself folded under the layered assault.
But Haaron moved not as a man, but as a Sutra written in flesh.
His glaive spun once.
Not to block.
But to weave.
The assaults struck invisible patterns and bled away, like rain falling into an unseen river current.
Before the gathered sect disciples could comprehend it—
Haaron stepped through the slaughter.
Vein Severance sang.
One stroke.
Two.
Three.
Each swing traced Sutra glyphs through the mist—glyphs of rupture, reversal, retribution.
The enemies' spiritual roots twisted.
Their weapons cracked.
Their formations unraveled.
Lin Changhe staggered back, horror widening his eyes as his treasured sword trembled—and then snapped in two.
"What technique is this—!?"
Haaron answered without mercy.
"The truth you fear."
By the time the mist settled, only one figure remained standing.
Haaron.
The eight challengers lay broken across the bridge, their cultivation crippled, their qi scattered beyond repair.
Not dead.
But stripped of the future they once arrogantly believed theirs.
From high atop a shattered tower, hidden within a veil of concealing arrays, other sect elites watched grimly.
Their plans for a swift elimination had failed.
And worse—
Haaron had grown stronger mid-battle.
They could feel it in the shifting winds.
The Divine Realm itself had recognized him.
As Haaron turned his gaze upward, his voice rolled across the ruins:
"You plotted in secret."
He pointed Vein Severance skyward, the weapon pulsing with restrained fury.
"I answer in the open."
A boom like rolling thunder echoed across the entire floating island.
The challenge was issued.
No more shadows.
From this moment, Haaron had declared—
He would seize this inheritance by force. And those who stood before him? Would be broken Or buried.