Home / Fantasy / Alchemist Reborn: Ruler of the Immortal Legion / 81

2026-04-13 19:25:50

The grip of the Shadow Sovereign was not a physical crush; it was a Liquidation of Will.

Inside the bridge of the Leviathan-1, the laws of physics began to fold like wet paper. The walls of the ship—already weakened by the dive into the Sub-Basement—started to turn translucent, revealing the terrifying scale of the black-iron pyramid outside. The Golden Stream, now a corrupted, bruised violet, was being choked by the Shadow’s fist, sending tremors through the ship that felt like the heartbeats

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112
Under the Black Shell installed by The Board, the sky no longer held color. There was no sun, no stars, only a matte darkness that swallowed any light produced by the forges. The peak of the Golden Cloud Sect, once magnificent, now resembled a massive shipwreck rotting at the bottom of a cosmic ocean. The air here contained no Qi. All spiritual energy had been scrubbed clean by the audit process, leaving behind a vacuum that should have suffocated any living thing within minutes.However, the people of the Red Mountain did not die. Instead, they breathed deeper.Han Chen stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking the collapsed main pavilion. His body was no longe
111
The air on the peak of the Golden Cloud Sect didn’t smell like nectar anymore. It smelled like a burnt out coal-pit.Han Chen stood on the steps of the Grand Pavilion, his black blade resting on his shoulder. Below him, the survivors of the Red Mountain were no longer acting like refugees. They were moving through the ruins of the sect with the cold efficiency of termites. They weren't looting for gold to wear; they were stripping the walls for material to burn."Tigor! Get the silver-plated chains around those jade pillars! If they won't fall, melt the base!" Han’s voice was a low-frequency grind that vibrated through the stone beneath his feet."On it, Master!" Tigor sh
110
The white petals didn't fall like snow; they fell like a slow, silent judgment.Every time a petal touched a stone, the stone didn't shatter—it ceased to be. There was no dust, no rubble, only a clean, terrifying hole in reality. Han Chen stood at the front of the Azure Spring, his black blade swinging in a desperate, heavy arc to create a barrier of raw friction. Every impact between the Necro-Iron and the white light felt like a piece of his own soul was being filed away."Master! Don't let it touch you!" Tigor’s voice was distant, muffled as if he were shouting through a mile of wool.Han Chen didn't look back. He couldn't. He saw the Sect Master,
109
The garden of the Azure Cold Spring was no longer a place of meditation. It had become a slaughterhouse, and now, it was becoming a workshop.The air was thick with the smell of scorched silver and the heavy, metallic scent of the villagers’ sweat. Under Han Chen’s command, the "Spirit-Dead" did not celebrate their victory over the Silver-Leaf Executioners. They didn't have time for that. They worked."Strip the plates! Every piece of silver, every jade buckle, every thread of spirit-silk—rip it off!" Tigor’s voice was like the rasp of a file against stone. He was hauling three corpses at once, his new gun-metal skin barely reacting to the weight.Han Chen sto
108
To a cultivator, these waters were a miracle of "Purity," capable of soothing scorched meridians and washing away the filth of the lower realms. But to the villagers of the Red Mountain—people whose bodies were now dense with sulfur, Dead-Lead, and the raw heat of the forge—the spring was a battleground.As the first of the "Spirit-Dead" stepped into the crystalline pool, the sound was not a splash, but a violent, industrial hiss.Tshhhhhhh—A massive plume of thick, white steam erupted from the surface of the spring, instantly obscuring the crystal flowers and the manicured jade paths of the garden. The villager
107
Han Chen led the survivors of the Red Mountain up the winding, jagged path that served as the throat of the Golden Cloud Sect. Behind him followed a line of the "Spirit-Dead"—men, women, and children who had spent their entire lives looking at the dirt. They carried salvaged iron, bags of charcoal, and the heavy burden of fear. Tigor walked right behind Han, his eyes darting toward the thinning mist, while Old He leaned on a staff made of a bent furnace-poker, his breath coming in ragged, wet wheezes."The air... it’s too thin, Han," Old He coughed, stopping to lean against a basalt pillar. "My lungs... they don’t know what to do with this 'Purity.' It feels like I’m breathing needles."Han Chen stopped. He looked back at the line of his people. Their faces were pale, their movements sluggish. To a cultivator, the high-altitude air was a blessing, a refined source of spiritual energy. To the "Filth-Born," it was a toxin. Their bodies, tempered b

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