Chapter 937: The Final Ascension Trial

The mountains stood vast and majestic, their ridges coiled like slumbering dragons, their towering peaks sprawled like ancient elephants.

Within the heart of one such mountain, an immense cavern had been carved out, layered with countless formations—a deadly array of killing matrices woven together by Shi Hao, forming an impenetrable stronghold to safeguard the central sacred land.

Shi Hao sat in seclusion, his body engulfed by the “Ten Thousand Daos.” The furnace forged by the heavens and earth trembled violently, ringing like hammered steel, while chains of law pierced through him, coiling around his form.

This was no mere trial—it was a life-and-death interrogation. To transcend, to carve his own path, he had to endure the most terrifying retribution, the suppression of the world itself.

Half a month passed. Nine deaths, one life. The celestial furnace burned through, his flesh scorched translucent, blood seeping endlessly.

This was not his first ordeal, but never had it been so perilous. If he died here, there would be no return—no rebirth in the ten-foot chamber.

“Should I use the Revival Herb?” His dim eyes, drowned in flames, felt his life ebbing away, his vitality waning.

Compared to before, he had endured far longer, tempering himself in the crucible of suffering, shining like refined gold amidst the inferno.

Yet, mortal strength had its limits. He felt truly weak now, teetering on the edge of annihilation.

At the same time, he sensed that success was near. Light seemed just within reach—even the faint, illusory outline of a second strand of immortal qi.

“Perhaps even the Little Immortal King had such illusions, charging forward like a moth to flame, only to bloom like fireworks—brilliant, then swallowed by darkness.”

Shi Hao jolted awake, refusing to indulge in the illusion of imminent enlightenment. He withdrew. The chains of order vanished, the primal energy receded, and silence fell.

Alone in the mountain’s heart, he tended to his wounds—his bones shattered, his essence withered. He consumed a sliver of Revival Herb and sacred medicine, slowly restoring his vitality.

Then, he began anew.

Again and again, each time nearing success, only to falter at the brink, unable to fully manifest the second strand of immortal qi, his body on the verge of collapse.

“I seek transcendence, not death!”

At all times, Shi Hao remained lucid, unswayed by the allure of victory. He knew he still lacked something—to charge blindly forward would only lead to ruin.

Time and again, he stood at the precipice, a single step from crossing the abyss, yet always retreating at the last moment, ending in failure.

Countless attempts later, his stock of sacred medicines dwindled, some pouches now empty.

“Am I too cautious? Do I lack the courage to burn my bridges?” he questioned himself.

He paused, reflecting deeply. Why did his bones always shatter, his efforts always fall short at the final hurdle?

Perhaps it was indeed a lack of unyielding resolve. But this was enlightenment—he did not seek death. Some paths were not worth taking.

“One last gamble!”

The Ten Thousand Daos roared. Shi Hao remained motionless, days passing until the celestial furnace shattered, his body riddled with wounds, charred black.

He did not retreat. He endured until darkness swallowed his vision, until the second strand of immortal qi flickered into view. Gritting his teeth, he fought to stay conscious.

But with a resonant hum, his soul nearly scattered, his flesh fissured, on the verge of total disintegration.

In an instant, Shi Hao plunged into darkness, consciousness slipping away, as though existence itself had vanished.

“I cannot die!”

He felt imprisoned in a black cage, severed from the world.

Though he had tasted death before, each experience was different—especially now, when resurrection was impossible. The sensation was profound.

In that breath, he glimpsed the vast cosmos—endless stars, countless life-bearing worlds, infinite souls, the rise and fall of epochs, all flowing past like a dream.

“Return!”

Shi Hao roared. The next moment, his consciousness slammed back into his body.

Agony wracked him. His soul felt cleaved, his body a ruin—yet he lived.

He swiftly consumed divine medicines, then took out the Eight Treasures Qilin, ingesting two heavenly treasures at once to heal his ravaged form.

His injuries were dire—he had nearly perished.

Yet, upon revival, his first thought was not for himself, but for the visions he had seen.

“Could reincarnation truly exist?” he murmured.

He doubted. Did death plunge one into eternal darkness, or into the cycle of rebirth, through countless mortal lives?

In the ten-foot chamber, he had died ten times, each time sinking into void darkness, returning with gaps in memory.

This time, he had not fully lost himself. He had escaped the dark, witnessed the ebb and flow of existence—like a dream spanning eternity.

“There is no reincarnation. Only fragments of time. I glimpsed them in the abyss.” His resolve hardened, his gaze brightening.

“Again!”

And so, Shi Hao resumed his trials, each attempt bringing him closer to success, sometimes even seeing the second strand of immortal qi take shape.

He even tried to anchor his soul within the immortal seed—but it was impervious, unyielding.

“This realm is insufficient. This seed may yet have greater purpose.”

Between life and death, amidst the Ten Thousand Daos, his flesh and soul were scorched and shattered time and again—yet the gains were immense.

He grew stronger, enduring the flames longer.

At times, he even found solace in the baptism of the Daos, no longer resisting but coexisting, transcending.

Yet such moments were fleeting. Mostly, it was struggle—a battle for survival.

“Will I succeed?”

The closer he came, the more cautious he grew—for the final step was the most perilous.

**Boom!**

Once more, flames consumed him. But this time, he saw not suppression, not terrifying runes, but grand vistas.

Endless mountains, seething chaos—he sat at their heart.

Galaxies swirled around him.

At the dawn of creation, he was cradled by the vitality of all living things.

Beasts and divine birds clashed in the wilds.

Every blade of grass, every grain of sand, the myriad things of heaven and earth, all surged forth, submerging him.

One Dao, one world, a mire of void—he struggled to break free, but escape was impossible.

He became a divine bird, soaring into the stars, wings striking the firmament, feathers like blades sundering celestial bodies.

He was a blade of grass, enduring wind and rain, frost and trampling, gnawed by creatures yet unyielding, tenacious in life.

He was the last glow of dusk, lingering on the horizon, warmth and crimson, a final surge of passion.

…

Shi Hao’s spirit wandered the cosmos, his body and soul burning in the Dao flames, his comprehension boundless—as though he had lived through countless epochs in an instant.

The second strand of immortal qi—was it taking form?

A fleeting glance, a momentary clarity—he saw it, faint and pure, coalescing outside his body.

“Hold on! I must transcend!”

Through pain and tribulation, he pressed on. Dawn was near—he could not falter now.

**Boom!**

Time lost meaning. His broken body neared total collapse under the unbearable pressure. Though the Daos sometimes coexisted with him, they were ultimately merciless—now, they erupted in full force.

And in that moment, Shi Hao saw it—the second strand of immortal qi, jade-white and enigmatic, taking shape.

Yet he could endure no longer.

With a resonant hum, he plunged into silence. His soul left his body, adrift in the void, trapped in an eternal dark cage—on the path of death.

“I’ve succeeded! I cannot die now!” he roared inwardly, fighting desperately to cling to consciousness.

To lose it now would be eternal oblivion—no return, no revival.

With all his might, he resisted. He thought of Stone Village—the warmth of home, the people waiting for him. His grandfather, his uncles, his friends—Da Zhuang, Er Meng, Pi Hou, Mao Qiu.

He thought of his parents, of the fire mulberry trees, of Huo Ling’er waving beneath their shade, of Qing Yi, of so many others.

“I must return! I cannot be lost here!”

This struggle was fiercer than any before. He felt himself slipping, drowning in emptiness and darkness.

“Return!” he bellowed.

He moved swiftly, but this was eternal night—a journey through nothingness, a prison inescapable.

Then, shock—beyond the fragments of time, beyond the illusion of reincarnation, he saw other cages.

One after another, drifting in the river of time, advancing through the void—dark prisons, realms of sealing.

In a fleeting glance, he saw radiant points of light, sealed within colossal cages, their auras ancient and terrifying.

“Who are they? What beings?” His heart trembled, the sight jolting him slightly awake.

Were they like him? No—their realms were beyond his, their imprisonment in the dark void no less dreadful.

Were they trapped by force, or by choice? What horror was this?

**Hum!**

At last, his soul shuddered, ceasing its drift, sealed within a dark space from which there was no escape.

“Is this death? The final moment before annihilation—sealed in darkness?”

Never had he felt it so clearly, so profoundly.

“I refuse to die! I have too much to live for—family, friends, those I must see again! Even if not for myself, I must survive!”

He raged, he resisted, refusing to succumb, refusing eternal silence.

Though his soul was adrift, though he was sealed in darkness, he sensed it—the second strand of immortal qi, nearly formed, hovering just beyond his flesh.

But if he could not return, what use was it?

At the same moment, others approached—arriving in the secluded world where he cultivated, advancing toward these mountains.

Jun Dao. The ancient kings of the Heavenly Kingdom. Their faces were cold, their steps deliberate.