The Sacred Spirit Consciousness Vault stretched before them like an endless starry sky.
As they moved forward, a colossal, rust-covered stone monument emerged in Feng Qi's vision.
They stopped in front of it.
Hei Xuan turned to Feng Qi and the Mist Lord.
"Beyond this point lies the first layer of the Sacred Spirit Consciousness Vault. Every star you see here holds a fragment of knowledge and memory inheritance."
His gaze then shifted toward the monument, a trace of reverence flickering in his eyes.
"You've been curious about how my clan rose to power, haven't you? Try touching this monument, and you'll find your answer."
Without hesitation, Feng Qi and the Mist Lord stepped forward, each reaching out to touch the monument.
The moment their fingers made contact, the golden marks on their foreheads, imprinted by Hei Xuan, began to glow, transmitting information into their minds.
Their surroundings collapsed and distorted, history rushing toward them in waves, broken fragments flashing before their eyes, before finally coalescing into a coherent vision.
When the world became clear again, they found themselves standing on a desolate plain.
Across the barren land, a group of young boys followed a towering man, undergoing intense physical training.
Sweat dripped from their bodies, their expressions determined as they gritted their teeth and persevered.
Among them, a boy around seven or eight years old stood out.
Every movement he made was precise and disciplined, each action executed flawlessly.
He carefully coordinated his breathing technique, guiding the spiritual energy through his body with each inhale and exhale.
After hours of relentless training, the session finally came to an end.
With a commanding shout, the instructor dismissed the group, sending them scattering toward their respective homes.
Yet, the seven or eight-year-old boy remained.
Instead of leaving, he stepped forward and approached the towering instructor, his eyes filled with curiosity.
"Sir," the young boy spoke, "I encountered some difficulties during training today. Can you help me understand them?"
The instructor's face softened.
He patiently answered each of the boy's questions, guiding him with careful explanations.
As their conversation ended and the boy turned to leave, the instructor suddenly called out.
"Ling Zhan, why do you train so hard?"
The boy, Ling Zhan, stopped in his tracks.
He turned around, a bright smile on his face.
"Of course, to join the Mist Clan and become an official external warrior!"
The instructor fell into deep thought upon hearing this answer, but he said nothing further.
Ling Zhan simply nodded, then ran toward the distant rising smoke, his eyes burning with expectation.
As a member of the Psionic Race, which was a vassal force under the Mist Clan, young Psionic Race members only had three possible futures.
A meaningless existence, drifting through life until, one day, they were chosen to become food for the Mist Clan.
A laborer, working tirelessly to mine and transport resources for the Mist Clan, until their bodies inevitably decayed from exposure to radiation, at which point they were simply discarded and left to die.
An external warrior, earning the Mist Clan's recognition and fighting for their wars—though this path was filled with peril, as death on the battlefield was always imminent.
Among these paths, the first meant surrendering completely—growing up aimlessly, waiting for the day they were slaughtered.
The second offered slightly better conditions, but the long-term result was the same—slowly being poisoned by radiation, abandoned like a broken tool.
The third path was the only way to escape fate.
If one became an external warrior, they would be accepted by the Mist Clan.
But to do so, they had to compete fiercely, not only against their fellow Psionic Race members, but also against other vassal clans.
It was a brutal, merciless struggle.
Only the truly gifted had any hope of achieving it.
But Ling Zhan was confident.
He believed in himself.
He believed in his future.
That night, his mother carefully crushed herbs, making a medicinal paste.
She gently applied it to his body, soothing the torn muscles left by his harsh training.
Every day after that, Ling Zhan pushed himself further.
He increased his training intensity, enduring grueling sessions without complaint.
Months later, the Psionic Race's martial competition was held.
Ling Zhan dominated his peers, emerging as the strongest among the new generation.
But he did not become arrogant.
He continued training, day after day, preparing himself for the future he dreamed of.
His growth did not go unnoticed.
The entire Psionic Race placed their hopes on him.
If Ling Zhan became an external warrior, it would bring immense honor to their people.
More importantly, it would reduce the annual resource tax they owed to the Mist Clan.
Four years passed in the blink of an eye.
Now a young man, Ling Zhan's body had grown strong and defined.
His gaze sharp.
His aura radiated confidence.
The Mist Clan's warrior recruitment was about to begin.
Ling Zhan, alongside more than a hundred of the Psionic Race's most promising youths, gathered enough food for the journey and set off toward the Mist King City.
To ensure their safe arrival, the Psionic Race's high-ranking officials personally assembled an elite escort force to protect them.
The journey was harsh.
They traveled through wilderness and storms, sleeping under the open sky.
But as they drew closer to the Mist King City, excitement surged within them.
Finally, after crossing countless mountain ranges, they saw it.
A city so vast that it stretched into the horizon, disappearing into the clouds.
The sky above it was shrouded in dense gray mist, rolling like thunderclouds, emitting deep, rumbling sounds.
Even from afar, the overwhelming majesty of the city could be felt.
The youths cheered.
To them, this was the promised land—the place where dreams could become reality.
Ling Zhan, standing among them, clenched his fists and shouted toward the city.
They quickened their pace, racing toward their destiny.
As the blood moon dipped below the horizon, they arrived at the Mist King City.
Now standing at its colossal gates, they could fully appreciate its sheer scale.
The towering walls, like a slumbering beast, loomed before them, its imposing presence dominating the land.
At this point, the escort force had to turn back.
They exchanged farewells, wishing Ling Zhan and the other recruits luck, before beginning their journey home.
Ling Zhan led the group of young warriors to the gates.
Under the watchful eyes of the Mist Clan's city guards, they knelt in unison and began their ritualistic kowtow.
They bowed eighty-one times, following the ancestral tradition.
Once the ritual was complete, they rose to their feet.
Ling Zhan stepped forward, approaching the gates, and firmly stated his purpose.
The Mist Clan's gate guards carefully examined their identities before leading them inside the city.
The moment they stepped in, Ling Zhan and his fellow Psionic Race youths were stunned.
The flourishing, bustling streets of the Mist King City were a world apart from the desolate lands they had grown up in.
Towering buildings lined the streets, markets filled with spiritual artifacts, and warriors from various clans roamed the city—each exuding a dominant presence.
For those who had never left their homeland, this scene was both awe-inspiring and overwhelming.
Yet, for Ling Zhan, this only strengthened his determination.
One day, he would become part of this world.
Soon after, they were escorted to a training camp within the city.
Upon arrival, they were met with unfriendly gazes.
Many other young warriors from different vassal clans had already gathered here.
Each one was a potential competitor—each one an obstacle standing between them and survival.
Ling Zhan could feel his battle intent surge.
He knew that to become an external warrior recognized by the Mist Clan, he had to defeat these other contenders.
Only the strongest would be granted a place.
They were assigned living quarters, and for the first time in his life, Ling Zhan tasted true luxury.
The food given to them was something their clan would never dare to consume—rich in spiritual energy, nourishing both body and soul.
For the next seven days, they were allowed to rest and recover.
Then, the selection process began.
A gray mist arena materialized at the center of the camp.
This would be their battlefield—a place where strength alone would determine their fate.
Under the Mist Clan's orders, one by one, the young warriors stepped onto the arena.
Each fight was a one-on-one duel, a brutal elimination battle against warriors from different vassal clans.
There were no rules.
The best way to win was to kill the opponent outright.
As the duels began, Ling Zhan watched his fellow clan members fall—one after another.
Some died instantly, while others were left crippled and unable to fight again.
A few survived, but their futures were sealed—they would soon be offered as blood sacrifices to the Mist Clan.
Ling Zhan felt grief, but more than that—rage.
Each death only fueled his will to win.
With every battle, his body grew more accustomed to the rhythm of combat.
Time after time, he was thrown into the arena, and time after time, he emerged victorious.
He broke bones, crushed throats, shattered limbs—whatever it took to win.
A full month passed.
Of all the Psionic Race members who had arrived, only three remained.
The rest were either dead or permanently disabled.
The losers were immediately dragged away—their fate sealed as food for the Mist Clan's warriors.
Even though Ling Zhan had known the consequences of failure, actually watching his people be taken away still made his heart ache.
But he knew he could do nothing for them.
He had survived.
Now, he would be reborn as a Mist Clan external warrior.
After a brief period of rest, a black-robed Mist Clan elder led them onto a misty pathway.
They stepped into the fog and began their journey toward the unknown.
Five days later, they arrived at their destination—a small, ancient city filled with a heavy sense of history.
Through the elder's explanation, Ling Zhan learned that this was a border town, one of the many battlefields controlled by the Mist Clan.
The land beneath their feet held invaluable resources, and in the past, legendary weapons had even been unearthed here.
However, the Mist Clan had too many battlefronts, and their forces were spread thin.
They had yet to fully conquer this region.
Several other powerful races were still fighting for control over this territory.
From now on, this place would be their training ground.
And the final outcome?
Either they would die… or they would earn the right to stay as warriors.
Upon arrival, they were given lodging within the city.
And then… the real training began.
Each day, they were pushed to their absolute limits.
If they failed, they were beaten mercilessly.
If they collapsed, they were left behind.
Ling Zhan endured everything.
No matter how brutal the training became, he never broke.
He absorbed every lesson, mastered every technique, and pushed his body to the brink.
Unlike back in his clan, he now had access to limitless cultivation resources.
The Mist Clan's warriors personally trained him, teaching him powerful body-tempering techniques.
Three years passed in the blink of an eye.
Ling Zhan had become the strongest warrior-in-training within the border city.
Many others had fallen—too weak to keep up, too slow to survive.
But Ling Zhan never wavered.
His strength had grown exponentially, making him unrecognizable from the boy he once was.
On the final day of training, he was brought before the city's commander.
Kneeling before him, he was officially granted the rank of an external warrior.
Leaving the training camp behind, he joined the Mist Clan's military ranks, finally meeting other Psionic Race members who had come before him.
From childhood to now, he had spent over a decade chasing this dream.
And now… he had finally crossed the threshold.
No longer was he bound by the Psionic Race.
He was now a member of the Mist Clan.
His status had surpassed that of his former clan's leader.
Ling Zhan was filled with hope for the future.
The thought of conquering new lands for the Mist Clan made his blood boil with excitement.
That night, he was too exhilarated to sleep.
Years passed like flowing water.
In just eight years, Ling Zhan had become one of the oldest veterans in the border city's army.
He had fought in countless battles, facing death time and time again.
But his loyalty to the Mist Clan never wavered.
His ties to the Psionic Race had long since faded.
He no longer saw himself as a Psionic Race member—he was a warrior of the Mist Clan.
The idea of returning to his old homeland disgusted him.
With every battle he fought, his prestige within the Mist Clan grew.
He was recognized by the city's commander, receiving honors, promotions, and resources.
In time, he had even gained his own group of subordinates.
Then, one day—
A deep, rumbling thunder echoed across the horizon.
Ling Zhan's instincts flared, and without hesitation, he roared a command to his troops.
Dashing into his quarters, he grabbed his battle blade and rushed to the gathering point.
Across the border city, warriors assembled with practiced efficiency.
The city lord stood at the front, issuing the next order—
They were to march toward the battlefield.
Hours later, they arrived.
The ground trembled, energy surged, and light erupted from the earth below.
A new wave of resources had begun to surface.
This was a battlefield of ancient times—a land filled with lost treasures, relics, and legendary weapons.
And now, once again, war was about to break out.
The battlefield was in utter chaos.
Warriors from all sides charged forward, weapons raised high, aiming to seize the newly unearthed resources and ancient divine weapons that erupted from the earth.
Screams and battle cries intertwined, forming a deafening roar that echoed across the battlefield.
The ground was soaked in blood, bodies piling up as more lives were sacrificed in this war of plunder.
After years of battle, Ling Zhan had long adapted to the brutality of the battlefield.
Leading his troops, he charged fearlessly toward the glowing resources, cutting down anyone who stood in his way.
"For the glory of the Mist Clan!"
With a thunderous roar, Ling Zhan leaped into the fray, his battle blade slicing through the enemy ranks like a reaper harvesting souls.
The battle raged on for several days.
Despite his prowess, Ling Zhan was eventually wounded.
Though he barely survived, he managed to drag his exhausted body back to the war city, clutching the rare resources he had seized.
His performance did not go unnoticed.
Upon his return, the city lord personally met with him.
Seeing Ling Zhan covered in wounds, the city lord personally tended to his injuries, later rewarding him with abundant healing and cultivation resources.
This act deeply moved Ling Zhan.
His sense of belonging to the Mist Clan grew even stronger.
However, his fate was about to take a drastic turn.
The frequency of resource eruptions on the battlefield increased in recent times.
The war city desperately needed reinforcements, so the city lord sent a request for aid to the Mist King City.
Since most external warriors had been reassigned to other battlefields, the elders responsible for external wars sent a batch of Mist Clan warriors to reinforce the war city.
The moment these warriors arrived, Ling Zhan noticed a change in his treatment.
The best resources in the city were reserved exclusively for the Mist Clan warriors.
What was left? Only the scraps for external warriors like him.
Once, the city lord had told him:
"You are one of us now. You belong to the Mist Clan."
Yet, now, with true Mist Clan warriors present, Ling Zhan could clearly feel the difference.
At first, he tried to convince himself otherwise.
He told himself that as long as he proved his worth, he would be treated the same as the official Mist Clan warriors.
That he was no different from them—that they all fought for the same cause.
But soon, an event shattered that illusion completely.
Another massive resource eruption took place.
This time, the scale was unprecedented, with an overwhelming surge of ancient treasures bursting from the ground.
Ling Zhan rushed to the battlefield alongside the Mist Clan city lord.
This battle was far more brutal than any before.
Over the years, Ling Zhan had gained fame, becoming a prime target for enemy forces.
This time, the enemies set an ambush, surrounding him from all sides.
Realizing the danger, Ling Zhan immediately called for aid from the Mist Clan city lord.
But…
The city lord ignored him.
The Mist Clan warriors were too busy seizing the ancient divine weapons to care.
Seeing that Ling Zhan had been abandoned, the other external warriors—his supposed comrades—also hesitated.
One by one, they fled, leaving him to die alone.
Only two fellow external warriors—the same ones who had once trained with him—and several Psionic Race recruits remained behind, fighting desperately to save him.
They fought to the last breath.
Ling Zhan survived, but at a great cost.
Both of his arms were severed.
He collapsed into a pool of blood, unable to move.
His comrades?
Dead.
The ones who stayed, who risked everything to save him, had all perished.
Only he remained.
Lying amidst corpses and carnage, Ling Zhan looked toward the Mist Clan's medics, who were tending to their own warriors.
None of them even glanced in his direction.
At that moment, his heart was ripped apart by agony.
For the first time, he understood the truth.
No matter how hard he fought, he would always be an outsider.
The Mist Clan would never truly accept him.
They had used him, let him shed blood for them, but when he lost his value, they discarded him like trash.
His life was slipping away.
As he gazed at the sky, he realized something.
His entire life had been a lie.
Even if he survived, he had no future anymore.
A Mist Clan medic finally approached him, but his expression was indifferent.
Ling Zhan forced a bitter smile and whispered:
"I've lost my worth. Let me die here."
The medic glanced at his broken body, nodded without hesitation, and left without a word.
Not even the city lord—the man who once personally treated his wounds—bothered to see him one last time.
A great storm loomed on the horizon.
It was a disaster-class energy storm, about to consume the entire battlefield.
All warriors were now retreating—including the Mist Clan.
Ling Zhan laughed hysterically as he watched them leave.
Everything he had believed in was a lie.
In that moment, he thought about those who had fought to save him.
Those who had died for him.
Tears streamed down his bloodstained face.
For the first time, he hated the teachings of his childhood.
He hated the elders who had told him that the Mist Clan was his future.
He hated the lies that had shaped his beliefs.
The Psionic Race… that was his true home.
But he realized it too late.
The storm grew closer, devouring everything in its path.
Ling Zhan closed his eyes, ready to embrace death.
But then—
A golden light burst forth from the storm.
The radiant glow shot toward him, piercing through the violent winds.
In the next instant, a golden leaf-shaped mark appeared on his forehead.
A flood of unknown images flashed before his eyes.
Yet, he did not care.
The storm closed in.
The battlefield was about to be completely swallowed.
Just as Ling Zhan prepared for the end, a spatial vortex appeared beside him.
The swirling portal split open, revealing a small, chubby boy carrying a backpack.
The child stepped forward, eyes calm.
Ling Zhan, with the last of his strength, spoke weakly:
"Who… are you?"
The boy smiled.
"My name is Mo. I'm here to make a deal."