Shi Hao raced forward at an astonishing speed, unmatched in the three thousand provinces—or nearly so. With the Kun Peng technique, the divine ability to shrink distances, and the Thunder Emperor’s extreme velocity, a pair of lightning wings sprouted from his back, flapping alongside his Kun Peng wings as he traversed thousands of miles in an instant!
The Golden Lion was frustrated, once again stuffed into a sleeve. It simply couldn’t keep up with Shi Hao’s speed and was now being carried along like luggage.
Shi Hao was in a hurry, unwilling to waste any time. He moved with such swiftness that it defied belief.
“Hmm, this province borders the uninhabited regions, on the fringes of the three thousand provinces,” Shi Hao murmured to himself.
He had arrived at this ancient land, nearing his destination. Here, he kept a low profile, not wanting to be recognized.
Qi Province wasn’t particularly large among the ancient provinces, nor had it ever produced a supreme expert renowned throughout the ages. Yet, it held an air of mystery.
For within this land dwelled some of the most ancient races.
“The Lunar Clan.”
Shi Hao’s first stop was with this race, who lived among towering mountains and deep valleys, adjacent to a great river.
This river was famous—a Lunar River, its waters pitch-black like ink, icy and bone-chilling, as if it were a river of the underworld flowing straight from hell.
True Lunar Rivers were rare on the surface world, though some tributaries existed. Most, however, weren’t formed from genuine Lunar Water—otherwise, all life along its banks would perish, unable to survive.
Here, something was different. Lunar mist rose in limited areas, confined in its effects.
The Lunar Clan was extraordinary. They lived along the banks of the Lunar River, their dwellings peculiar—hanging coffins suspended from the cliffs on either side.
They weren’t burial beings but ordinary living creatures who ventured out daily. Yet, their homes took the form of these hanging coffins—stone, gold, jade, and more, all shrouded in mystery.
They absorbed Lunar Qi as a cultivation resource, their bodies naturally cold. It was said their strongest might lie at the river’s end, their coffins submerged in its depths.
“What a strange race. Do they know the path to the lower realm?” Shi Hao wondered aloud.
He traveled alone into this region, having already studied their customs to avoid offense.
Fortunately, though their dwellings were bizarre, they weren’t reclusive. Like any other race, they were approachable with proper communication.
Shi Hao had prepared gifts—Lunar Divine Marrow, Moonfrost Stones, Nine-Yin True Wood, Frozen Boundary Stones—each a rare treasure.
He moved stealthily, consulting various people.
Along this river stretching hundreds of thousands of miles, countless tribes lived, each with unique traditions.
Though part of the same ancient race, their legends varied.
Thus, Shi Hao visited tribe after tribe, meticulously investigating to uncover the truth.
“At the end of the Lunar River.”
An elder told him this. It was said he had lived since the ancient times, surviving to this day.
Yet, his cultivation wasn’t as high as one might expect.
His longevity came from a Lunar Fruit he once found in the river—rotten, but immensely beneficial to his kind.
“The Lunar Fruit drifted down from the river’s source,” the elder said.
“Isn’t this river only hundreds of thousands of miles long?” Shi Hao frowned. He could reach its end in a single flight.
“You and I speak of different Lunar Rivers. For most here, the narrow definition is this river before us. The broader one flows through the void, formed of pure Lunar essence,” the elder explained.
The great river surged, black as ink, its waters rolling endlessly.
On either bank, towering mountains pierced the heavens, shrouded in ribbons of Lunar mist.
Beyond, ancient trees reached for the sky, and the cries of apes and tigers echoed.
Shi Hao stood silently, gazing ahead.
From the elder, he learned enough. All Lunar Rivers on land and underground were mere tributaries—their source lay in the void.
“There’s another legend—that the path lies at the end of the Solar River,” the elder sighed.
Then he shook his head, for this was contradictory.
The young man had brought generous gifts, seeking truth. The elder didn’t wish to deceive, yet the tales clashed.
In their legends, the ancient path lay at the Lunar River’s end.
Yet another equally ancient race claimed it was at the Solar River’s end.
That race was the Solar Clan!
Lunar River’s end or Solar River’s end—which was true?
“The Solar Clan is nearly extinct, with only a few survivors left. It’s hard to seek answers from them,” the elder said.
For races bearing the name “Solar,” conflicts had arisen—like the Golden Crows, the Solar Vine Clan. Many powerful clans had ties to the sun.
They fought, and the original Solar Clan was nearly wiped out.
Shi Hao was speechless. Even a race’s name required battle?
“To uncover the truth, perhaps you must reach the Lunar River’s end, where sunken coffins may hold our legendary ancestors in slumber or seclusion,” the elder said.
He meant the end of this great river.
“But there… lies danger!” The elder’s eyes flickered with warning.
Shi Hao nodded, thanked him, and left.
He didn’t head straight for the river’s end. The elder’s warning was worth heeding—danger lurked there, perhaps unfathomable horrors.
Shi Hao visited the Solar Clan, finding it as desolate as described—small tribes, scarce population, lacking experts, far from a top-tier sect.
Yet, a river flowed here—the Solar River.
“A river of magma,” Shi Hao noted, sensing threads of Solar essence within, unlike ordinary lava.
“In the past, this river spanned millions of miles, boiling with Solar essence. But after a great battle, it was shattered, nearly dried up,” an old woman lamented.
Shi Hao found no valuable clues here and departed, returning to the Lunar Clan’s territory, reaching the river’s end.
With a splash, he dove in. Black waves surged, a whirlpool forming, swallowing him whole.
“So cold!”
The Golden Lion was released, shivering violently as Shi Hao mounted it once more.
It sighed. Clearly, in dangerous places, it was always the first to face threats, scouting and shielding Shi Hao.
The Lunar Qi here was dense, the water like ink, bitter as hell’s chill.
The river’s end was an abyss, its waters plunging underground in a roaring cascade.
The Golden Lion carried Shi Hao downward, stunned each time it thought it had reached the bottom, only to find another black chasm.
This place resembled the eighteen layers of hell—each descent darker, more soul-devouring.
“Seventeen layers… Is this truly the eighteen hells?” the Golden Lion gasped.
This structure mirrored the ancient monks’ designs. If man-made, it surely held profound secrets.
The ancient monks had once constructed eighteen hells.
Thus, the Golden Lion was hypersensitive to the number eighteen.
“The monk said, ‘If I don’t enter hell, who will?’” the Fearless Lion muttered, recalling scriptures.
“Such enlightenment. Why don’t you go down?” Shi Hao stopped.
The Golden Lion scoffed. Those were the monks’ words—it was speaking generally, not volunteering.
Here, Shi Hao halted. He retrieved spatial artifacts and, without hesitation, hurled them into the eighteenth abyss.
“Curse energy!” The Golden Lion trembled in terror.
Even a wisp of this curse was enough to rot flesh and destabilize souls.
It recoiled in horror, fleeing swiftly.
Shi Hao also retreated, escaping at full speed.
Boom! They burst from the water, streaking toward the horizon.
“What did you do?!” the Golden Lion roared.
“Relax, you won’t die. This little bit won’t kill you,” Shi Hao said. This was the most terrifying curse he’d brought from the Immortal Grave—soil and decayed flesh.
He’d dumped it all into the eighteenth abyss, not sparing a single artifact.
“Boom!”
Instantly, figures erupted from the river’s end.
“Ah—!” Some screamed in rage.
Others shed flesh in chunks, a ghastly sight.
Some turned to skeletons on the spot, writhing in agony.
The Golden Lion’s scalp prickled. Such was the curse’s horror.
“No—!”
Many howled in unbearable pain.
Some, once hale, now lost scalps as flesh melted away, even their souls rotting.
The curse spread, unstoppable even for these powerful beings.
“Who are they?” The Golden Lion gaped. Undamaged, these were formidable experts—mostly at the Dunyi level!
In the three thousand provinces, such cultivators were exceedingly rare.
“Clans from the Nine Heavens, still haunting me. I’ve left, bound for the lower realm, yet you pursue me here to kill me?” Shi Hao’s face darkened.
“Shi Hao, you’re ruthless!” one cried, now half-skeleton, once mighty but now crippled.
“Had you not lain in ambush, this wouldn’t have happened,” Shi Hao said coldly.
“Shi Hao, even so, you won’t escape!”
More figures emerged nearby—those who hadn’t entered the river.
“You old beast, showing your face again. I see now—you’re just a lackey. Your master finally reveals himself.” Shi Hao’s tone was venomous, his fury palpable.
For among them stood an old enemy—Yuan Qing!
When Shi Hao first ascended to the Nine Heavens, this man had enslaved him, sending him to mine in the Ancient Ore Mine.
Later, he repeatedly schemed against Shi Hao’s life.
“Old fool, you and your backers have finally shown yourselves,” Shi Hao said icily.
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