Such insects would have been a nightmare for anyone else. But Sima Jiao was different. His spirit fire was their natural bane. With every step he took, a faint trail of black ash spread across the bridge—remnants of creatures foolish enough to approach him, burned to nothing in an instant.
The bridge itself wasn’t merely infested; it was a labyrinth. Formations overlapped and wove together, illusions rippling across the path. A single misstep would throw an intruder into a false world, each one rigged to kill.
Illusions, swarms of magical insects, interlocking arrays—enough to turn back almost any uninvited guest. Even Liao Tingyan would never have found this bridge.
But none of it could hinder Sima Jiao. His tall figure cut through the dangers like a blade through silk, moving with ruthless speed, a black silhouette skimming across the bridge until he landed on another peak.
The moment his foot touched stone steps, his brow furrowed. This was no ordinary mountain. The air bent strangely, the space itself dislocated. What appeared to be a small peak was in fact an artificial pocket world.
Here, even the sky was wrong—crimson instead of blue, the mist heavy with a reddish tint, carrying the copper tang of blood.
What exactly had that old fossil Shi Qianlu hidden here?
He had barely taken in his surroundings when the ground yawned open beneath him. A monstrous, bloody maw stretched silently wide, ready to snap him in half.
Crack. The mouth slammed shut—but the man it sought was already suspended in midair, untouched.
“A watchdog?” Sima Jiao sneered.
The beast revealed itself fully—an abomination dragged from the Far Northern Abyss, reeking of bloodlust. Its massive body radiated killing intent, and its rank breath poured into the air as black clouds. It had likely devoured countless humans; the stench here told enough of its story.
To anyone else, it was a nightmare made flesh. To Sima Jiao, it was just a guard dog.
The beast roared, the air quaking with the sound. Sima Jiao only raised a hand, drawing from the void a long, pitch-black blade. Two fingers wide, three feet long with an unnaturally elongated hilt, it looked nothing like an ordinary weapon. The sinister gleam along its edge made the air itself recoil.
Normally, he needed nothing but his hands—those slender, pale fingers that had ended countless lives. But this beast was far too ugly for that. And Liao Tingyan had recently scolded him not to overuse his hands. Crushing its skull barehanded would be trivial, but he was feeling indulgent.
The blade sat lightly in his grip. When he swung it, the strike blazed like lightning, white-hot and blinding.
The beast’s armored back split apart under that light. Its furious roar shook the artificial world, but Sima Jiao didn’t slow. Stroke after stroke fell, until the watchdog lay in a dozen mangled pieces. The final slash shattered its grotesque head.
Blood gushed like a river, flooding down the steps in crimson torrents. His blade remained spotless, but the hem of his black robe caught the spray, dripping with red. He glanced at it once, then sheathed the weapon back into the void and walked on, unhurried, treading over the fresh river of blood toward the mountain wrapped in a barrier.
This barrier was different. Stronger. Breaking through would take time—and Shi Qianlu had certainly already felt the disturbance.
Sima Jiao smiled coldly. If he couldn’t open it, he would simply destroy it.
That was his way.
Then came a voice.
“Come… in…”
It was faint, frail—more like the rustling of dead leaves in the wind than human speech.
“…come…”
And with that, the barrier softened, a gap peeling open like the mouth of some lurking beast. Where he had avoided being swallowed before, this time Sima Jiao stepped in willingly.
He feared no trap. At his level, death held no meaning; arrogance was his armor, and confidence his shield. Just as Shi Qianlu had once described him—selfish, fearless, utterly untamed.
Inside lay a palace of black jade shaped like a vast lotus, floating upon a river of blood. The liquid gleamed crimson streaked with gold, radiating warmth as though alive.
Sima Jiao’s expression darkened. The blood wasn’t ordinary—it carried the essence of the Sima clan bloodline. Suddenly, the sight at Hundred Phoenix Mountain made sense: the so-called livestock, the descendants with diluted bloodlines. Their purpose had been this. Their blood had been harvested to feed this river, to raise this flower.
Murderous intent surged from him, hot and suffocating. He wanted to burn this place to cinders, to scour it dry of every drop of tainted blood.
He crossed the river, ascended the jade petals, and reached the lotus’s heart.
There lay a man, half-submerged in blood. His chest was split open, and from it bloomed a scarlet flower. Above it flickered a small flame.
Sima Jiao froze, pupils narrowing.
It was Feng Mountain’s spirit fire. There should have been only one in the world—his. And yet here it was again, faintly tied to him, but undeniably separate.
They had succeeded. They had grown another spirit fire.
This was no work of a few years, or even centuries. This plot had been centuries, millennia in the making.
At last, his gaze shifted to the man’s face—and recognition struck.
The features were similar to his own, though steadier, older.
The man opened his eyes, lips curling in a frail smile. “You’ve finally… come. I’ve been… waiting for you…”
Sima Jiao studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before finally asking,
“Sima Shi?”
Sima Shi—Sima E’s brother, Sima Jiao’s father.
The man who was said to have gone mad and killed himself years ago was here, alive.
Sima Shi’s gaze held the warmth of an elder looking at a younger generation, but to Sima Jiao, he was no different than a stranger.
“E’er… followed my instructions… and merged the spirit fire… with you…” Sima Shi’s voice was weak, broken by pauses, yet steady in intent. “You endured it… I’m very pleased. I need to tell you… some things. Place your hand… on my forehead…”
The Sima clan’s bloodline carried a unique gift—communication through spiritual thought.
Sima Jiao knew what he meant. Though he couldn’t hear Sima Shi’s heart voice, he could sense sincerity—no malice. After a brief pause, he placed his hand on the man’s forehead.
The next instant, their consciousnesses converged in a white void, facing one another.
Here, Sima Shi’s spiritual form appeared stronger, more defined than his decaying body. This was the Sima clan’s inheritance space, where elders passed down knowledge. Time stretched here, though outside, only a breath might pass.
Father and son did not meet as kin. Sima Jiao’s interest lay not in the man before him, but in the faintly burning, newly born spirit fire within him.
“Tell me your story.”
Sima Shi smiled faintly, unfazed by his son’s coldness.
“I am not merely Sima Shi. I was once Sima Yan. Long ago, as our clan declined, I uncovered the Shi clan’s ambitions. But I was born sickly—my years numbered. I chose another path: to preserve my soul, my memories, and be reborn as Sima Shi. In this way, I deceived them all.”
His tone dimmed. “I tried to save the clan. I failed.”
He exhaled heavily. “I discovered the Shi clan’s plot to breed a new spirit fire. They gathered our bloodline in secret, draining countless descendants. I once infiltrated this very lotus, saw our people sacrificed for their fire.”
For the first time, his expression hardened, carrying a shadow of Sima Jiao’s own.
“The Shi clan was once our most trusted servant. But loyalty twists with time. Disappearances, false deaths—all excuses to feed this blood river.”
“I planned to merge with Mount Feng’s spirit fire, to shatter their scheme. But it was too fierce. I failed, abandoned the attempt, and turned instead to deception.”
Sima Jiao’s eyes narrowed.
“You pretended madness, faked your suicide. And they brought you here.”
“Yes.” A wry smile touched Sima Shi’s lips. “I told E’er of the fire. She obeyed… and succeeded.”
When Sima Jiao was born, Sima Shi had rejoiced—this rare bloodline child could endure what he could not. Yet even he had not known the full truth. At first, Sima E resisted, even sought to kill her child. But cornered by despair, she offered her life to purify the fire, breaking it and remaking it, leaving behind something Sima Jiao could bear.
“All these years, they thought me hollow, a corpse kept alive. But I waited. I prepared. And when you were ready, I stirred events, using one of their own to lead you to Hundred Phoenix Mountain.”
Sima Jiao arched a brow.
So that Shi clansman whose soul he had searched—it had been his doing.
Sima Shi reached out, eyes alight.
“I knew you would come. And when you did… it would end.”
Sima Jiao laughed quietly.
“You’re confident.”
The pride in Sima Shi’s gaze sharpened.
“Of course. We are the Feng Mountain clan. Eternal as heaven and earth.”
“Wake up.” Sima Jiao sneered. “The clan is dead. There’s only me. And half of you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Sima Shi’s fervor grew. “As long as you live, as long as you endure for tens of thousands of years, the clan endures. You are the Sima clan.”
Sima Jiao dismissed him with a snicker. His father’s obsession with bloodline legacy held no weight for him.
“They’re coming.” Sima Shi’s eyes slid shut briefly. “They don’t know I control this barrier. Before they arrive… devour the spirit fire within me.”
Outside, Master Qianlu arrived at last, his followers in tow.
He froze. Sima Jiao stood before the barrier, as though barred from entry.
Sima Jiao glanced back.
“You’re slower than I expected.”
The sect master’s refined composure broke at last, replaced by grim determination. His voice sharpened.
“If you stop here, you may yet be revered as the sect’s master ancestor. If not—I will not let your arrogance stand.”
Whatever lay beyond the barrier—this was his last line.
Sima Jiao’s lips curled.
“If I don’t stop? What then? Send more men for me to slaughter?”
Crimson flames burst beneath his feet.
PREVIOUS/NEXT
.jpeg)
.jpeg)