Starting as the heir of a marquis's mansion, I gained access to a summoning system.

Then the black-robed man's body began to disintegrate.

Clusters of demonic energy on his body were ignited, the burning speed increasing from slow to fast, transforming from scattered sparks into a raging inferno.

Beneath the black robe was a withered, ashen face, with sunken eyes, high cheekbones, and skin like aged parchment pasted onto a skeleton. His lips moved, emitting a series of indistinct, incoherent groans.

Then it cracked open from the inside out, like a crushed clay figurine, the fragments flying out and being swirled into dust by the north wind in mid-air. The bone mask fell to the ground and shattered into three pieces.

Grandmaster, peak of the ninth level.

He killed a demonic expert at the initial stage of the Celestial Realm with a single sword strike.

The Khan and Chile retreated a hundred paces simultaneously. Their figures carved two long furrows in the snow, their boot heels scraping against the ice with a harsh screech. After regaining their footing, they exchanged a glance—a glance that held something more than fear than an instinctive judgment honed over decades of battlefield experience: they couldn't win.

The Khan gripped his golden sword tightly. His hand trembled slightly beneath the armor's gauntlets, his knuckles as white as snow.

"you……"

His throat tightened, and he stopped after saying only half a word.

Dongfang Weiwo turned to him.

The Frostbite Sword was still not sheathed, held diagonally at his side, the blood droplet at its tip frozen by the wind into a dark bead that fell down.

He raised his left hand, palm up, and dark golden light gathered, swirled, and collapsed in the center of his palm, finally condensing into a palm-sized rune—a miniature version of the palm print behind the Northern Stone Gate, with the exact same pattern, not a single stroke more or less, and the sealing power contained within it was so pure that it changed the color of the heavens and earth.

"Still want to fight?" Dongfang Weiwo asked.

He Khan stared at the palm print rune for three breaths, then looked down at the scar on his left cheek.

Six months ago, Dongfang Wudi injured him with three strikes, causing him to return to the Golden City and lie in bed for four months before he could recover.

He could still clearly recall the force and angle of those three strikes in his mind. And the aura emanating from the young man before him was sharper, colder, and more unreasonable than that of Dongfang Wudi.

Chile's bone staff finally stopped shaking. Because his right hand was already lowering down.

The tip of the staff dipped towards the ground, and a thin crack appeared on the emerald bead, which had been marked with a white streak by the Frostbite Sword. Chi Le glanced at the crack, then at Dongfang Weiwo, his lips moved slightly, but in the end, he said nothing.

Three breaths of silence.

The Khan turned and strode away. His golden armor gradually blurred into a patch of dark golden light in the wind and snow, disappearing into the snow curtain at the edge of the frozen land.

Chi Le followed closely behind, his bearskin cloak billowing in the wind like an unfurled sail. Neither of them spoke, but their steps were as fast as if they were fleeing—one at the initial stage of the Celestial Realm, the other a quasi-Celestial Realm expert, were driven off the battlefield by a young man's sword.

A deafening cheer erupted from behind the icefield defense line.

The three thousand remnants of the Bloodstained Army raised their weapons above their heads—broken swords, nicked guns, bows with strips of cloth tied around their arms—they lifted everything they could. Some cried, some roared, some took off their helmets and threw them into the snow, kneeling and kowtowing.

Sixty-seven days. They hadn't slept a full night or eaten a hot meal for sixty-seven days. No one knew how much longer they could hold on, and no one was planning to escape. Only when the young man in black stood on the icy rock, sheathing his sword, did they dare to relax.

Dongfang Wudi stood still.

He watched his son's retreating figure—his dark cloak billowing in the north wind, its hem covered with a thin layer of snow. He pulled "Shattered Mountain" from the ice, took two steps forward, leaning on the hilt, and tried to pat his son's shoulder with his right hand.

But the right hand, covered in dark gold patterns, stopped halfway up.

"My hands," he said. "There's blood."

Dongfang Weiwo turned around and saw his father pull his hand back and hide it under his cloak. He took a step forward, reached out, and firmly grasped his father's wrist, pulling the arm out from under the cloak.

Dark gold lines spread to the middle of the upper arm, the golden light beneath the skin like some kind of surging magma, the chaotic flow of power visible even through the flesh. The lines are densest from the wrist bone to the elbow crease, like scriptures etched into the flesh, each stroke pulsating slightly.

Dongfang Weiwu pressed his fingertips against the edge of the lines, feeling the uncontrollable power surging from the depths of his blood. His brow furrowed—more severely than he had anticipated on the way here.

"Can it still be sealed off?" he asked. His voice dropped half an octave so the soldiers behind him wouldn't hear.

Dongfang Wudi withdrew his hand, covering his entire right arm with his cloak, his tone as calm as if he were discussing what to eat tomorrow: "Seal your meridians for three hours each day. You'll be fine for the next three months."

"Three months is enough."

Dongfang Weiwo looked up at his father. The wind and snow were heavy, but he stood motionless, his dark golden eyes reflecting the gray sky behind his father. "I'm going to find a solution."

The backlash from the sealed demon bloodline, the secret beyond the stone gate in the North—and the poison in my little sister's body. Father, you don't need to worry about anything. Go back to the manor to be with Mother and my little sister. I'll guard the North.

He looked into his father's eyes, without saying "You should rest," without saying "You're injured," without saying anything that would make Dongfang Wudi feel like he was being treated as an old man. He said, "I will guard the northern border," as if he had taken over a sword and casually replaced the handle. There was no sentimentality, no grand ceremony, just that it was time to change the person.

Dongfang Wudi looked at him. The wind and snow passed silently between the two of them, and the snow on the ice and rocks was swirled into tiny eddies by the wind.

This son started practicing swordsmanship at the age of five. At the age of ten, he hunted a snow wolf in the northern border by himself, carried it back, and threw it in the yard. At the age of fifteen, he left home to venture into the Eastern Continent. During this period, every letter he wrote home was as short as if it had been cleaved by a knife, and every word was as hard as if it had been made of iron.

But the person standing in front of him now is no longer the boy who used to stand in the yard carrying a wolf carcass, waiting for praise.

"Okay." Dongfang Wudi only said one word.

He turned and walked towards the rear of the defensive line. He carried the Shattering Mountain Battle Blade on his left shoulder, his right arm tucked into his cloak. After walking a dozen steps, he paused, not turning back, but merely turning half his face to the side.

Did you bring the aged wine from Pingyang County?

Dongfang Wei took a gourd from his waist; its dark brown ceramic surface was covered with a thin layer of frost, the kind of warmth he had kept close to his body the whole way. He tossed it over.

Dongfang Wudi caught it with one hand, pulled out the stopper, and took a big gulp.

The strong liquor went down his throat, and he exhaled a puff of white breath, which carried a pungent aroma of alcohol as it dissipated in the wind. He put the cork back in, hung the gourd on his belt, and strode away with his knife on his shoulder. Before his figure blurred into the snow, he raised his left hand and waved it casually.

That night. In the main hall of the Marquis of Weeping Blood in the Northern Border.

The candlelight flickered in the bronze cup, and occasionally the wick would burst into a tiny flame.

The wind and snow continued to howl outside the window, but the quiet inside was different from the quiet on the battlefield during the day—the quiet on the battlefield was suspended and tense, ready to shatter at any moment; the quiet inside was real, a breathable space left for you after the four walls had kept the wind and snow out.

Dongfang Weiwo sat at his desk, with three military reports and a newly written secret order spread out in front of him.

The secret order was written in very thick ink, with extremely heavy pressure applied to each stroke. The ink at the end of each character was slightly visible through the back of the paper, like the force of a knife tip piercing frozen soil.

"Pang Ban, Bai Yujing—The Underworld and the Azure Dragon Society mobilized all their resources and used every hidden agent to search for the whereabouts of the Underworld Emperor."

From all corners of the world, regardless of cost or casualties, capture the Underworld Emperor. Bring him before me alive, or bring him back dead. If any demons intercept him, kill them without mercy.

He sealed the secret order, applied three coats of sealing wax, and stamped the surface with the Dongfang family's secret seal—a horizontally placed battle sword beneath a coiled dragon pattern.

"Deliver it to Pang Ban and Bai Yujing before dawn."

He handed the secret order to the guards waiting by the door, "Send one copy to each side."

The guard knelt on one knee to receive the secret order, then disappeared into the shadows. From the moment the door opened until he left, not a sound was made, only a wisp of snowy wind whistled in through the crack.

Dongfang Weiwo leaned back in his chair, pressing his back against the cool wood of the seat, and exhaled.

The candlelight flickered in his eyes, casting a dim, golden glow that seemed to dance on and off. Occasionally, a gust of wind would lash against the windowpane, causing the paper window to flap and then snap shut.

The siege of the northern border has been lifted. Father has returned to the Marquis's mansion. At this hour, he should be sitting in the main hall, with Mother removing the blood-soaked strips of cloth from his left arm. Little Sister is probably peeking out from behind the chair, and then Father rubs her head with his uninjured hand.

This was the only night in the past six months that he felt at ease.

But the moment he handed over the secret order, he knew that the silence wouldn't last long.

The Underworld Emperor. The one who has lurked in the shadows since the fragments of the Heavenly Profound Continent began to merge, never truly revealing himself. The dark gold markings on his father's right arm are the marks of the backlash from the Demon-Sealing Bloodline, and it is said that only the Underworld Emperor can unravel the secrets of the Demon-Sealing Bloodline.

The poison in my younger sister's body has been a seal hidden deep within her meridians since she was sixteen. The person who can break the seal is at the end of the same clue.

Liao Chen traded a copper bell for fragments of stone from the Northern Territory. The True Martial Sect Leader explored the ruins of the Demon God Lü three times. The Four Extremes Sword Sect forged swords from fragments of the Imperial Mausoleum. Beyond the stone gate of the Northern Territory, more than one person was watching, more than one person was piecing together that larger map.

He held in his hand the key to the Northern Stone Gate, the inheritance of the Demon-Sealing Bloodline, and the last remaining power of the Eastern family to guard this frozen land.

He had already heard the other pieces being placed on the chessboard.

Some landed in Jiangnan, some in the western borderlands, and some on the empty dragon throne in the center of the imperial city ruins.

But the move he made on the chessboard was to mobilize troops from all corners of the world and search the lands of the eight wastelands, all to uncover the name hidden deepest within.

The candlelight flickered. He closed his eyes.

A dark golden light shone quietly behind his closed eyelids for a moment, then gradually faded into the rhythm of his breathing. Outside, the wind and snow raged; inside, he stood alone, guarding the night over the entire Marquis's mansion.