“After we conclude this business in the ruins, come home with me. What do you say?”

Xiao Yuruo’s invitation was blunt, cutting through the cold mountain air.

Han Lie paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He recalled the dossier He Tao had provided back at the mines. Xiao Yuruo was not merely a disciple of the pavilion; she was the eldest daughter of the Chen Clan in the Central Plains.

The Central Plains… the heart of the cultivation world, a land where super-sects and ancient dynasties converged.

He did not know the exact standing of the Chen Clan, but for a family to claim the title of ‘aristocratic hegemony’ in that shark tank, their foundations had to be terrifyingly deep.

“Fairy Xiao,” Han Lie asked, his tone teasing but his gaze steady, “is this considered bringing me to meet your parents?”

Xiao Yuruo smiled, a soft, genuine expression that softened the sharp edges of her sword intent. “Understanding it that way? I suppose there is no issue with that.”

“Hah. Since Fairy Xiao has such intentions, what harm is there in accompanying you?” Han Lie agreed readily.

It was not just about the alliance or the romance. The Central Plains was the next stage. If he wanted to stand at the apex, he had to see the world beyond these borders.

“Then it is a promise?”

“A promise.”

Seven days passed in the blink of an eye.

The sky above the Buried Immortal Mountain Range had ceased to look like a sky. The space twisted and buckled, the accumulated energy reaching a critical mass that made the air heavy enough to crush bone. It was a suffocating, majestic pressure.

Every cultivator present knew the moment was upon them.

In mid-air, the gathered factions hovered like vultures. The eyes of the Golden Core cultivators burned with a frantic, greedy light.

The ruins represented the ultimate gamble. A legacy from the ancients. If fortune favored them, they could reach the heavens in a single step, shattering the bottleneck to the Nascent Soul stage. It was a dream worth dying for.

Han Lie, Bai Ling, and the disguised Xiao Zi stood together, watching the pitch-black vortex at the center of the distortion. A pinprick of white light bloomed in its heart.

The seal was breaking.

“Hmm?”

Han Lie sensed a gaze dripping with malice. He turned his head slightly, locking eyes with a figure across the void.

Zhao Batian.

The Holy Son of the Sun Moon Sect stood with hands clasped inside his sleeves, his eyes curved into dangerous crescents. His aura was deeper, darker, and more unstable than before. He looked like a man who had stared into the abyss and found it amusing.

Seeing Han Lie, Zhao Batian’s eyes opened a fraction, revealing a snake-like coldness.

Han Lie merely smirked, his expression radiating a confident mockery: You’re still alive?

Zhao Batian’s lips moved silently. The ruins will be your grave.

Han Lie read the lips effortlessly. He almost laughed. Where did this confidence come from?

His gaze shifted slightly to the figure standing behind Zhao Batian—a seemingly unremarkable female disciple named Li Qingyu. Her aura was suppressed to the late Golden Core stage, perfect camouflage for the uninitiated.

But to Han Lie’s senses, she was a blazing sun wrapped in a cloth. A true Nascent Soul Old Monster.

Han Lie shrugged, dismissing the threat. Let them scheme.

Hum!

A sound that seemed to pierce the soul resonated across the mountains.

The spiritual energy rioting around the vortex vanished in an instant, sucked into the void. The ten-thousand-foot black hole collapsed inward, shrinking to a singularity, before exploding outward.

Bang!

Space tore open. A massive spatial rift, spanning a hundred miles, dominated the sky, unleashing an aura of prehistoric desolation.

The path was open.

But before the swarm of cultivators could rush forward, the hundred-mile rift fractured. It twisted and snapped, resolving into ten distinct, narrow vortices.

Ten gates. Ten spots.

“Only ten?” Han Lie raised an eyebrow. The rules of the game had just been set, and they were cruel.

The Golden Core cultivators who had hoped to slip in unnoticed turned ashen. With hundreds of experts present and only ten entries, the dream of ‘soup after the meat’ was dead. This was a slaughter waiting to happen.

“Haha! Interesting!”

A voice like crashing thunder rolled over the crowd. “Since no one wishes to throw a brick to attract jade, this Daoist will be the bird that sticks its head out!”

A towering figure shot out from the mass of rogue cultivators. He moved with the weight of a mountain, stopping before the first vortex.

He wore a mask of cold iron covering the left half of his face. The exposed side bore a smile that, combined with the emotionless metal, created a visage of pure nightmare.

“Iron-Masked Asura… Dongfang Xuehong?!”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. The name was a deterrent in itself.

Dongfang Xuehong swept his gaze across the gathered elites. “Does anyone wish to contest this poor Daoist for this seat?”

Silence. Not a single soul dared to meet his eyes.

“Since no one opposes, I shall accept this gift.”

He stepped back, claiming the first spot uncontested.

“The Myriad Sword Pavilion claims two spots!”

Immediately, Xiao Yuruo and a withered, hunched elder stepped forward, securing the second and third vortices.

Again, silence. Xiao Yuruo was a top-tier genius, but the old man beside her radiated the subtle, terrifying pressure of a Nascent Soul monster. No one was foolish enough to court death.

Secure in her position, Xiao Yuruo cast a meaningful glance at Han Lie. Now.

“Brother Lie…” Bai Ling frowned, sensing the hostility in the air. “The competition… it will be difficult.”

“Difficult? I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

Han Lie’s lips curled into a domineering smile. He grabbed Bai Ling’s wrist and stepped into the sky, his movements relaxed yet impossibly fast. He landed before the fourth and fifth vortices.

He stood tall, his posture not that of an old man, but of a ruler surveying his domain. He swept his gaze over the crowd, letting it linger provocatively on Zhao Batian.

“The Heavenly Void Sect claims two spots.”

Han Lie’s voice was calm, yet it carried an undeniable weight.

“Who approves? Who opposes?”

The provocation was blatant. Zhao Batian’s smile deepened, meaningful and venomous.

“The Heavenly Void Sect is indeed a great sect,” a sinister voice drifted from the gathered crowd, “but the strength you’ve brought today… seems lacking.”

A group clad in dark, flowing robes emerged—the Nether Sect.

The speaker, a man with pale skin and eyes like dead fish, sneered at Han Lie before pointing a bony finger at Bai Ling.

“Daoist of the Heavenly Void Sect, I acknowledge your right to one spot. But that little girl beside you? Forget it.”

The Nether Sect cultivator stepped forward, his aura surging aggressively.

“Give that spot to my Nether Sect. Or suffer the consequences.”