A hunched, ancient-looking being sat cross-legged, a meaningful smile playing on his withered lips. “Those three great figures were not their true forms—they were stone carvings,” he said.
Wang Changhe, Gu Mingdao, and the others were stunned, utterly bewildered.
“Senior, please enlighten us. What exactly happened?”
“It’s been said—those were carvings on the ancestral altar. Someone performed a sacrifice, summoning the spirits to manifest,” the aged being replied, his eyes narrowing into slits as he grinned, his face cracking like old tree bark.
Gu Mingdao, the Golden Giant, and the others had been desperate to understand why three invincible powerhouses had shielded Shi Hao. Otherwise, their hearts would never find peace. Now, hearing this, they were dumbfounded.
“I see now… I once heard some old tales about the ancestral altar. It was built by a True Immortal…”
Once the full truth dawned on them, they exploded in fury, their rage burning through their hearts. They had been fooled—terrified by mere stone carvings!
This was utterly humiliating. They were renowned experts, celebrated for years, yet they had been duped by a junior—and in such a disgraceful manner.
Especially Gu Mingdao. The memory of slapping himself and groveling in apology made him tremble with fury. Nothing could be more mortifying.
“I want to flay them alive!” Gu Mingdao roared, slamming the table as he stood.
“What do you think you’re doing? Who do you plan to flay? I warn you—Ye Qingxian’s background is beyond your reach!” the old man snapped, his expression darkening.
“This isn’t over!” Wang Changhe seethed. The Wang Family’s Five Dragons had already been exiled to the borderlands, fueling their resentment. Now, this humiliation only stoked their murderous intent.
The Golden Giant and the Jin Family’s experts also wore grim expressions. If word of this got out, they would become laughingstocks.
“Senior, this is no trivial matter. Someone impersonated invincible ancestors—they must be severely punished! Especially since the three Shi brothers still haven’t come forward to clarify or repent. They too deserve heavy punishment!” Gu Mingdao said coldly.
“Indeed! Sentence them to the frontlines—force them to face the foreign army in battle!” Wang Changhe and the others chimed in.
This was tantamount to sending the Shi brothers to their deaths. Even the strongest could not guarantee survival against the “Dragon-Slayers” among the enemy ranks.
“Your grievances mean nothing to me!” the old man said sternly, lifting his teacup in a gesture of dismissal.
The group rose, not daring to argue further. They bowed and took their leave.
But they would not let this go. The humiliation was too great—many had been forced to their knees by the pressure of those three illusory figures. The thought alone was unbearable.
Their actions drew attention, and when others learned the truth, they couldn’t help but laugh.
Ye Qingxian’s background was too formidable for Gu Mingdao and his ilk to touch, and Shi Hao—the “Wasteland”—had slain ten kings, making him equally untouchable. For now, they were stuck in a dilemma.
“Enough! We must report this to the ancestral altar—someone impersonated invincible beings and caused chaos. There must be consequences!” Gu Mingdao gritted his teeth.
The Jin Family agreed. If they could rouse a few invincible powerhouses from seclusion, the Shi Family might face severe punishment.
“Are we overestimating ourselves? Such beings would never deign to meet us,” someone muttered.
“We don’t need to see them directly—just their attendants will suffice,” Wang Changhe said. In his youth, he had served as a disciple outside Wang Changsheng’s secluded cave, giving him insight into the ways of supreme figures.
The ancestral altar stood silent as the group arrived, seeking to “petition the throne” and demand punishment for the “Sinful Bloodline.”
“Turn back. The ancestors are in seclusion and will not appear,” a voice called as they approached the ancient, sprawling ruins.
“Why? How can impersonating invincible ancestors go unpunished?” Gu Mingdao demanded.
“Especially when the Sinful Bloodline performed ancestral rites, summoning spirits to manifest—this is no small matter!” Wang Changhe added.
“One ancestor spoke only two words: ‘Let it be,'” a young Daoist blocking their path said, urging them to leave at once.
“Let it be?” The group was stunned. Two words, heavy with implication.
They could not press further, yet it seemed even the ancestor was not entirely pleased by the interference of impersonators.
“Hmm… We cannot make a scene, but this reveals something—the ancestor does not wholly favor the Shi Family. Interesting. Let’s go,” someone murmured.
“There will be other days!”
They departed, eyes gleaming with calculation.
Yet, beneath the surface, fury simmered. They had been humiliated, made fools of—yet immediate retaliation was impossible.
Inside the ancestral altar, Cao Yusheng grimaced. “That was satisfying, but those bastards won’t let this go. Sooner or later, they’ll retaliate.”
“You won’t die. Consider it tempering,” Ye Qingxian said with a mischievous grin.
“How do you know?” Cao Yusheng eyed her warily. His master had once divined his fate, glimpsing a fragment of the future.
“Because…” Ye Qingxian began, then sealed her lips, her smile turning sly.
“Endure your trials or await your fortune. When the time comes, I’ll join the fun,” she said, waving them off as they left the altar.
Eventually, they were separated, assigned to different tribes.
The Imperial City was vast—a world unto itself, with mountains, rivers, and all manner of life. Shi Hao felt it dwarfed even the Eight Regions of the Lower Realm. He was led to a small tribe nestled among towering peaks, dense forests echoing with the roars of beasts.
Cao Yusheng was nearby, just across a river in a mid-sized tribe. Shi Yi and Qin Hao, however, were far away.
“You bear the name ‘Shi’? Why didn’t you change it before coming?” an old man in patched animal hides asked Shi Hao.
“It’s my name. Why should I change it?” Shi Hao countered.
The old man sighed but said no more.
The tribe was small, barely a thousand strong—insignificant in the grand scheme of the Imperial City.
Soon, Shi Hao learned the truth: the entire tribe shared his surname.
“You’re all named Shi?”
The old man nodded, his spirit weary, devoid of vigor.
“Were you exiled here?” a burly man in battered armor asked, hefting a heavy spear.
“Those who come here meet bitter ends—most die in battle,” a youth added, returning from a hunt with a mammoth slung over his back.
“What happened?” Shi Hao pressed.
“Because we bear the name ‘Shi,’ we cannot prosper—only decline. Once, we were among the mightiest in this city. But everything changed,” the youth said bitterly.
Long ago, the Shi Clan had been numerous and powerful, wielding great influence in the Imperial City. But an ancient crime was unearthed, branding them the “Sinful Bloodline,” and their fate turned.
From then on, Shi clansmen were sent to the frontlines, dying in droves. No matter how many geniuses emerged, none could survive the relentless culling.
Generations passed, and a once-great clan withered into obscurity, its history written in blood, bone, and tears.
Now, barely a thousand remained—and only because some still remembered old ties. Otherwise, they would have been wiped out long ago.
Shi Hao’s blood boiled with rage. How could this be?
To be labeled “Sinful Blood” was bad enough, but their plight here was worse than in the “Sin Province” of the Three Thousand Dao Regions. This was beyond injustice!
“Waaah—”
A wail pierced the air as a group of ragged clansmen carried coffins into the village.
“Father!” The hunting youth let out a heartrending cry, dropping the mammoth as he rushed forward.
“How did they die?” Shi Hao asked the elder quietly.
“Battle, of course. Ahu’s father was our last great warrior—the final genius among our adults. And now, he too has fallen,” the old man lamented.
In this tribe, any who showed exceptional talent were immediately conscripted to the frontlines.
This was why the Shi Clan had fallen—geniuses were doomed to die young, their bodies returned wrapped in shrouds.
“Unforgivable!” Shi Hao snarled, his fist shattering a nearby boulder.
“Long ago, our ancestors sent away a branch of the clan. You must be one of their descendants—otherwise, you wouldn’t have been sent here so soon after arriving,” the elder mused.
Shi Hao knew they were kin. Only shared ancestry could explain the identical mark on their foreheads—the so-called “Sinful Blood” sigil that flared when enraged, unleashing inexplicable power.
“What flows in our veins is not sin—it is glory!” Shi Hao declared.
The elder paled. “Hush! Such words are dangerous!”
“Let them come. I want to see what they dare do to me,” Shi Hao said coldly.
The Shi Tribe was small, their land barren compared to the spiritual mountains of greater clans.
Shi Hao burned to know: What crime had their ancestors committed to warrant such persecution?
Ye Qingxian had left before he could ask, so he sought answers here.
“Our ancestors… were peerless, once invincible,” someone murmured, lost in sorrow. “But in those days…”
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