The inheritance had chosen its master.

“Congratulations, Fellow Daoist Liu, on obtaining the great inheritance!”

A cultivator who was acquainted with Liu Wanduo rushed forward, his face plastered with a fawning smile. To obtain an inheritance from the Ancient Sword Sect meant Liu Wanduo’s future was limitless. Moreover, he likely now held the secrets to the rest of the Treasure Pavilion.

“Luck, mere luck,” Liu Wanduo chuckled, his voice raspy but smug. “I naturally cannot compare to these young prodigies.”

His words were humble, but his tone delivered a resounding, metaphorical slap to the faces of the elite disciples standing nearby.

Lei Yingjie’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he suppressed the urge to strike. He could feel a strange, suffocating Pressure radiating from the old man—a sign that Liu Wanduo was no longer the weakling he had been. He held his tongue.

Shen Xing, the Holy Son, merely watched the old man with cold, analytical eyes, saying nothing.

More cultivators flocked to Liu Wanduo, offering congratulations. The old man basked in the adulation, his withered fingers stroking a pitch-black jade pendant at his waist—the proof of his new power.

Buzz—

Suddenly, the white light of the formation flared, enveloping the group. In the blink of an eye, the fifteen survivors were transported back to the first floor of the Treasure Pavilion.

“Hmph.”

Lei Yingjie didn’t waste a second. With a flick of his purple sleeve, he turned and shot toward the entrance of the second floor.

Zhou Fengxing cast a thoughtful glance at Liu Wanduo before hurrying after the lightning cultivator. The rest of the crowd scrambled to follow, terrified of falling behind and missing out on the remaining scraps of Fated Chance.

Only one person remained stationary.

Shen Xing stood amidst the wreckage of the first floor, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze sweeping over the debris as if searching for something specific.

“Holy Son Shen,” Shen Xian said, approaching slowly and keeping his voice low. “Why not join the rush?”

He had noticed Shen Xing’s thumb rubbing against a fragment of bronze—a shard with a partial, incomplete sword pattern etched into it.

His “elder brother” was a man who never wasted effort. If he was lingering here, he had found something. Shen Xian, too, felt the inheritance trial had been bizarre, and he wanted to probe the Holy Son’s thoughts.

Shen Xing didn’t look up. “Fated Chances belong to those with the ability to seize them. Why rush?”

He paused, then suddenly raised his eyes, his gaze sharp enough to peel paint. “But you… you seem to be paying an unusual amount of attention to me.”

Shen Xian’s heart skipped a beat, but his face remained a mask of polite curiosity. “Holy Son Shen’s bearing is extraordinary. I assumed you had discovered a clue.”

“Is that so?” Shen Xing tapped the bronze shard, the rhythmic clack-clack echoing in the quiet hall. “And how did you deduce that?”

“Intuition,” Shen Xian lied smoothly, shrugging. “Just as that shard seems ordinary to the naked eye, yet it has kept the Holy Son occupied for quite some time.”

A flicker of light passed through Shen Xing’s eyes. He didn’t explain the shard. Instead, he pivoted the conversation.

“Did you notice anything… irregular about the inheritance trial?”

Shen Xing had his suspicions, and the “demonic cultivator” before him seemed sharp enough to have noticed them too.

“What does the Holy Son mean?” Shen Xian asked, playing coy.

“The selection was too deliberate,” Shen Xing said, his voice dropping to a chill. “Especially the final stage. All the prodigies—myself included—were eliminated instantly. Yet an old man with one foot in the grave obtains the prize?”

An inheritance was meant to pass a legacy to the most promising successor. Choosing a dying man with limited Potential defied all logic.

While the others were blinded by greed for the second floor, Shen Xing couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Shen Xian nodded. “It is indeed suspicious. But since Liu Wanduo holds the key, we will likely find out the truth soon enough.”

Shen Xing offered a noncommittal hum. He stared intently at Shen Xian, letting the silence stretch, applying the pressure of his status.

“And you?” Shen Xing asked abruptly. “What did you see?”

Shen Xian didn’t flinch. He turned and pointed a finger at the center of the room—at the headless swordsman statue.

“The demon blood on the blade,” Shen Xian said. “It’s gone.”

Shen Xing’s eyes narrowed.

When they had first arrived, a single drop of undried demon blood had rested on the statue’s sword tip. Now, the stone was clean.

In a ruin like this, a missing drop of blood might seem trivial. But to a mind like Shen Xing’s, it was a screaming alarm bell.

“You are observant,” Shen Xing admitted. He walked over to the statue, his eyes glowing with a faint golden light as he scanned the stone.

“Not compared to the Holy Son,” Shen Xian replied with a faint smile.

He had shared the information to test the waters. He wanted to know if Shen Xing had the other half of the puzzle.

Shen Xing straightened up. “Since you were generous with your information, I will offer an exchange. If you wish to survive in here… pay close attention to the sword patterns on the walls.”

He didn’t elaborate. It was a transaction—a clue for a clue. He never owed anyone anything.

Shen Xian was inwardly startled. He definitely knows something.

“Thank you for the guidance, Fellow Daoist,” Shen Xian said, bowing with feigned humility. “Though with my shallow cultivation, I fear…”

Shen Xing waved a hand dismissively. “Stop pretending. You made it this far; you are not simple.”

Their gazes locked for a second—a mutual recognition of danger and competence.

“In that case,” Shen Xian said, breaking the tension, “I will take my leave first. I wish you… a fruitful harvest.”

Treasure Pavilion, Second Level

When Lei Yingjie burst onto the second floor, he was greeted by a scene of utter devastation.

Hundreds of jade shelves stood in orderly rows, but the majority had collapsed under the weight of eons. The floor was littered with what had once been priceless treasures—Spirit Grass that had crumbled into gray dust, Magical Artifacts rusted into useless scrap, and jade slips shattered into unrecognizable shards.

But the most chilling detail was the blood.

Dark red stains splattered the room like the artwork of a madman. Mottled demon blood covered the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling in spiderweb patterns. Some of it was dry and black, but other patches shimmered with a wet, eerie light, as if spilled only moments ago.

“This…”

Zhou Fengxing arrived a moment later, sucking in a cold breath.

His sharp eyes immediately darted to the northwest corner. There, untouched by the chaos, sat a stack of twenty pristine jade boxes.

Each box was sealed with a yellowed Talisman, the ancient characters for [Seal] and [Restrict] pulsing faintly.

Lei Yingjie’s eyes crackled with lightning. He saw them too.

“I found this first!”

A shriek of greed tore through the air. A random cultivator had found a partially intact artifact in a pile of refuse.

“Bullshit!” A gray-robed man snarled. “In here, it belongs to whoever holds it!”

Boom!

The man fired a blast of black mist. The impact shattered a nearby shelf, reducing the brittle jade to powder.

It was the spark that lit the powder keg.

“Get lost! That’s mine!”

“You have a death wish!”

Chaos erupted. Cultivators drew swords and detonated Talismans, fighting viciously over scraps of metal and rotting wood.

Lei Yingjie watched them with a sneer of pure contempt.

Fools. Fighting over trash while the real treasure sits right there.

In a flash of purple lightning, he crossed the room and appeared before the stack of sealed jade boxes.

He scanned the pile, his gaze locking onto the central box. It was adorned with faint golden patterns, clearly superior to the others.

“You’re mine.”

Lei Yingjie gathered purple lightning in his palm and slammed it down onto the seal.

BOOM!

A terrifying counter-force exploded outward.

Lei Yingjie grunted, stumbling back three steps. His purple sleeve shredded, and blood welled up in shallow cuts along his arm.

“What a powerful restriction!”

Zhou Fengxing appeared on the other side of the pile, his expression serious. His Talisman brush danced in the air, sketching three golden runes that shot toward three different boxes.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The runes shattered on impact.

The jade box on the left didn’t budge. The one in the middle trembled. The smallest box on the right, however, developed a hairline crack in its seal.

“I see…” Zhou Fengxing’s eyes gleamed. “The strength of the restriction varies.”

Qiu Ruoli glided forward, her seven white lotuses orbiting her like shield drones. She targeted a cyan jade box, sending her lotuses crashing into the seal one by one.

Three lotuses shattered instantly. Only the fourth managed to shake the box.

“The more precious the contents, the stronger the seal,” she said, her voice cool but heavy. “Even that small box has less than a tenth of the power of the central one, yet it resists us.”

Lei Yingjie wiped the blood from his mouth, his face twisting in humiliation.

As the Senior Brother of the Wind Thunder Sect, was he to be stopped by a box?

“Open for me!”

He summoned his purple-gold gourd. A cloud of thunder sand erupted, forming nine roaring thunder dragons that converged on the golden-patterned box.

KA-BOOM!

Blinding golden light flared from the box’s Talisman. The nine thunder dragons were swallowed whole.

The backlash slammed into Lei Yingjie, forcing a trickle of blood from his lips.

“Damn it!”

His expression was as dark as thunderclouds. He couldn’t open it.

Gritting his teeth, he was forced to lower his standards, moving toward a lesser box that he might actually crack.

At that moment, Shen Xian stepped onto the second floor.