Ancient Wizards: A Little Progress Every Day

The blazing white torrent of life energy was the high-level life energy contained within the heart of the "Tree of Life," enough to regenerate flesh from withered bones.

At this moment, however, it was like violent magma, irrationally and forcefully pouring into every inch of Dago's skin, every muscle fiber, and even the most minute elemental meridians.

However, at the core of this heat current, which is enough to burst any flesh and blood, there are countless cold, sharp "gravels" representing ancient rules.

That is the crystallization of the bloodline of the Despairing Winter Dragon Beheilite.

Dago felt like an experiment placed on an alchemy table, undergoing the most brutal "reforging".

Two completely different, even mutually exclusive, extreme forces—extreme heat and extreme cold, new creation and ancient despair—are engaged in a fierce tug-of-war, using his body as the battlefield.

Tearing, destroying, melting.

Cells break down under high-energy scouring, only to be forcibly remodeled in the next microsecond.

This pain transcends the physical body, reaching the depths of the soul, as if it were a brutal editing and splicing at the genetic level.

"Hiss—hiss—"

It wasn't just tinnitus; it was a slippery, sticky, and evil murmur originating from the depths of one's blood.

The sound suddenly amplified, like countless rusty scalpels scraping wildly on a dissection table, making one's teeth ache and driving one mad.

"They" weren't just pressed against Dago's ears; they were drilling directly into his mental consciousness through his auditory nerves, roaring hysterically:

"Despair... Behemoth... Despair! I am... Behemoth! Behemoth!!"

This is the lingering will of the past in the bloodline, the spiritual imprint left by the true owner of this body.

Dago's mental defense mechanism, known as "Winter Silence," that was originally an indestructible layer of absolute rationality, now began to crack under the strain.

"Click—"

The ice layer collapsed.

Countless violent, cruel, bloodthirsty, and primal beastly thoughts, wanting to destroy everything, surged up from the bottom of the lake like giant sea monsters, instantly submerging the isolated island called "reason".

Dago's proud unwavering will, his wizarding logic as precise as a machine, was at this moment being rapidly eroded, assimilated, and taken over by another flawed yet vast, ancient, and majestic evil will.

Consciousness was caught in a chaotic vortex.

Awareness and ambiguity, self and other, shifted a thousand times in an instant.

"...Behemoth! Behemoth!!"

"Behemoth!!"

A name—it is a true name, the source of power, and also the shackles of a curse.

My head was throbbing, as if someone had poured molten iron into my skull.

who am I?

Is it the wizard Dago Heca who seeks the truth? Or is it this ancient Behelit that wreaks havoc in the ancient spirit world?

No, that doesn't matter anymore.

Faced with the allure of power and the instinct for survival, memory becomes irrelevant.

The human imprints of "Dago Heca"—those tendernesses, those calculations, those memories belonging to humanity—dissolve rapidly in the torrent of blood, transforming into the purest spiritual nourishment.

Finally, the countless cacophony and chaotic sounds reached a strange resonance at a certain critical point, merging into a soul-shaking roar—

"Behemoth is me!"

This is the true essence of bloodline wizards—plunder, assimilate, and then transcend!

Dago quietly opened his eyes.

Those once calm eyes have now been completely transformed.

In the center of the background, where dark blue and pure black intertwine, a vertical slit of pupil belonging to a cold-blooded species suddenly opened.

What emanates from it is a scarlet light a hundred times purer than blood and deeper than the abyss.

That is a disregard for life and an absolute control over power.

The hoarse, deep voice, no longer vibrating through the vocal cords, travels directly through the chest cavity and larynx, resonating with the surrounding air as if descending from ancient times, buzzing and humming.

"I am... Behemoth."

In the name of despair, we rebuild our true selves.

……

Meanwhile, outside...

The atmosphere in this already precarious and collapsing independent space was extremely oppressive.

All the black-robed wizards of the Revival Society, those black wizards who usually treated human life as worthless, were now staring at the same spot with wide, bewildered eyes and stiff bodies.

Even the most powerful, the black-robed leader who had one foot in the Miracle rank, unconsciously held his breath at this moment.

It was an enormous ball of light.

Around the ball of light, countless dark blue lightning bolts and pure white arcs of life force intertwined wildly, tearing apart the already unstable spatial rifts around it.

An indescribable aura emanated from the ball of light.

Ancient, that is the sedimentation of time; profound, that is the ultimate physical strength; despair, that is the rule that freezes the soul.

This aura gradually permeated the air, as if freezing the air into a gel.

That's suppression at the level of life itself.

A feeling called "fear" arises in everyone's subconscious, instinctively and frantically sounding the alarm, warning them that they must escape immediately and stay away from this hatching monster.

But reason told them that this was absurd and ridiculous, and that the other party was nothing more than a dying prey.

Conflicting emotions fermented among the crowd, and a disturbance began inexplicably.

"Dark Head..."

Someone whispered in a trembling voice, trying to find a sense of security from the leader.

The black-robed figure of Fusu, suspended in mid-air, did not turn around; his eyes, hidden under his hood, were fixed on the ball of light.

He raised his hand to quell his men's panic, and then slowly slipped his pale hand under his black robe.

He was retrieving something.

A trump card that can decide the fate of the world.

It was a colorful ram's horn mask, full of primitive totemistic meaning.

The lower part of the mask is connected to a handle that looks like both a shield and a strange weapon.

The man in black robes held the mask in his hand and began chanting strange, low incantations that sounded like he was chewing bones.

"Buzz—"

Soon, a terrifying, corrosive runic fluctuation emanated from the mask.

A dark, greedy glint appeared in the empty eye sockets of the ram's horn mask.

At the tips of the two twisted, upward-pointing ram's horns, black energy flowed like liquid, gradually extending and eventually condensing into two jet-black blades of light.

The blade of light was covered with strange, complex, and malevolent runes.

Its aura silently devoured the surrounding light and energy.

The entire isolated space began to collapse slightly inward, and all the matter seemed to be sliding towards the eerie ram's horn mask.

This is the power of a Miracle-rank artifact—a partial alteration of the rules.

The man in black robes gripped the handle of the ram's horn mask tightly with both hands. At this moment, the mask in his hands seemed to have transformed into a huge, eerie, two-handed longsword capable of cleaving through space.

His expression was calm, a testament to his absolute confidence in his own strength.

He slowly raised the mask above his head.

Countless black energy blades formed from runes swept across the void, leaving corrosive marks that took a long time to heal.

The space, already on the verge of collapse, seemed to crumble even faster, emitting a mournful cry of unbearable strain.

This strike is intended to completely eliminate any variables.

"it's over."

Just as he finished charging up and was about to make his slashing motion...

suddenly.

The entire space seemed to have been paused.

The wind stopped flowing, the shattered fragments of space hovered in mid-air, and even the runes on the black light blade pulsated slowly.

Time seemed to stand still at this moment.

An indescribable will quietly descended.

That was ancient despair, an evil tyrant, an unbearable majesty.

All the black-robed wizards of the Restoration Society on the field, regardless of their rank, simultaneously displayed expressions of utter horror.

Their mental energy fluctuations were forcibly suppressed back into their bodies, and their bodies trembled uncontrollably—the instinctive fear of lower creatures facing apex predators.

"Click".

A soft sound broke the silence.

The enormous ball of light, interwoven with countless dark blue and pure black lightning bolts, silently broke open with a crack.

Then, the light faded, and a terrifying body, both incredibly ferocious and possessing a strange, alluring beauty, slowly appeared before the world—

His tall, slender body, over three meters high, was no longer a bulky pile of muscles, but a streamlined killing machine.

Its entire body is covered with fine, hard, dark blue dragon scales, each scale engraved with natural patterns of despair.

Countless dark blue auras of despair surrounded him like living things, weaving behind him into a blurry phantom of a despairing winter dragon.

Enveloped in frost and despair, a human face was faintly visible.

It was a face that was both eerily beautiful and breathtakingly so, pale as paper yet radiating divinity.

On that face were a pair of scarlet, vertical pupils that showed no emotion whatsoever.

There were two strange bumps on his forehead, as if something was about to burst out of the ground.

On either side of his cheeks were two narrow, strange, dark blue patterns, runes symbolizing extreme cold and ominous despair.

A head of dark blue hair floated silently around him, each strand like an incredibly tiny ice snake, winding and swimming in the air, guarding their king and surrounding this newborn "god".

The sense of spatial collapse caused by the ram's horn black sword was completely taken over by this figure. He stood there, the center of the world, the source of gravity.

The sky is white.

As dawn broke in the outside world, countless rays of light pierced through the shattered spatial barrier, projecting from the distant horizon and focusing all on this body.

The interplay of light and shadow, the fusion of the sacred and the evil, creates a scene that defies description—a scene both wicked and exquisitely beautiful.

The black-robed man froze in mid-air. He stared fixedly at the alluring figure before him, a figure that had completely transcended the realm of humanity. Their gazes met silently in the void.

On one side are hunters wielding sharp blades, and on the other are ancient beasts that have just awakened.

A moment later.

The man in black robes seemed to have forcibly broken free from the oppressive aura emanating from the level of life itself; his dignity as a powerful figure made him unwilling to show weakness.

His eyes regained their calmness, even taking on a hint of resolve.

He continued the action he hadn't finished.

"cut!"

A low shout.

The runic black sword, imbued with terrifying power and capable of cleaving through space, slowly slashed down.

Countless streaks of black light crisscrossed, weaving a vast net of death.

This seemingly slow strike was actually incredibly fast. In less than the blink of an eye, it carried a world-destroying momentum and struck the head of the alluring figure.

Space is wailing, and the laws are shattering.

however.

Faced with this terrifying attack that could instantly kill any third-ring wizard, the newcomer named Behewright did not dodge, retreat, or even defend.

He just stood there quietly, as if watching an ant waving a branch.

He merely raised his head slightly, his scarlet vertical pupils reflecting the falling black sword.

then.

His lips parted in an exaggerated and cruel smile.

He chuckled silently.