455: Chapter 455 Ten Thousand People Hold Their Breath

The boiling clamor and burning gazes were all focused on this unprecedented, intense chase spanning multiple tiers.

Who would be the first to break through the eight-hundredth step?

And who could challenge the leading position of that figure in white?

Ten thousand people held their breath, their Bloodline surging.

However.

Just when everyone thought that all the ripples and surprises of this climb had been revealed, and that what followed would be the most direct and cruel head-to-head confrontation between the top Prodigies—

At the edge of the water mirror.

At the very bottom of the Cyan Heavenly Ladder image.

In that area long ignored, where only a few struggling figures or failed climbers lying on the ground remained.

A thin, lonely figure.

Caught the eyes of the very few who had not been completely captivated by the struggle at the top.

His climbing speed was very slow.

Compared to those figures above, who were moving like lightning and displaying their various Divine Ability, he was as slow as a tortoise crawling.

Even sluggish.

Every step he lifted seemed to require mobilizing all his strength to resist an invisible, immense weight.

Every step he landed was incredibly steady and solid.

As his sole made contact with the cold Cyan Heavenly Ladder stone steps, it made a faint yet clear "ta" sound.

Unhurried and steady, carrying a strange, constant rhythm.

One hundred steps. Two hundred steps. Three hundred steps.

He surpassed the ordinary Geniuses who had exhausted their potential in the lower tiers and could only crawl upward; he passed the arrogant failures who had run out of steam and collapsed on the steps with faces full of unwillingness.

Silently, step by step, he moved upward.

Like a lonely mountaineer walking on his own pilgrimage.

All the clamor, cheers, and battles of the outside world seemed to have nothing to do with him.

No one noticed him.

Because at this moment, all attention, expectations, gasps, and shouts were unreservedly dedicated to the increasingly white-hot Peak battle at the top of the ladder.

Until—

He stepped onto the four hundred and third step.

The Dao pressure here was already quite significant, enough to make an ordinary Spirit Sea Realm Cultivator struggle to move.

He stopped.

He tilted his head slightly, looking at the steps above that were still distant and submerged in the cyan clouds and mist. His chest rose and fell evenly, as if he were simply adjusting to a normal breath.

"Eh?"

In an inconspicuous corner of the viewing platform, an old man who was about to shift his gaze from the edge of the water mirror to the battle at the top suddenly froze, emitting a faint, barely audible sound of surprise.

His cloudy yet deep-glinting eyes stared fixedly at the thin figure in the corner of the water mirror, his brows furrowed as if recalling something.

"That person..." he muttered to himself, unsure, "Judging by his clothing and aura... he seems to be from the Demon Race... Wufa?"

Although the voice was low, the few people nearby were all sharp-eared and quick-eyed, and upon hearing this, they subconsciously followed his gaze.

A corner of the water mirror was slightly magnified and focused by magic power.

There, on the Cyan Heavenly Ladder stone steps, a thin, even somewhat frail-looking youth stood quietly.

Wearing a simple black robe with no patterns.

His short black hair was slightly messy, and his complexion was pale from a long time without sunlight.

There was no astonishing aura fluctuation on him.

No soaring Sword Intent, no sacred radiance, no surging Qi and blood, no violent demonic flames.

Nothing at all.

Calm.

A deathly stillness.

Like an abyss, swallowing all light and sound.

Four hundred and third step.

Yi Wufa stopped his footsteps.

Sweat slid quietly along his pale temples, first wetting his bangs, then crossing his brow bone, and finally slowly dripping down that thin cheek, which still carried the raw lines of youth.

The trajectory of the rolling sweat beads was very slow, as if carrying some kind of invisible weight.

The old cloth garment on his body, washed white and frayed at the edges, had long been soaked with sweat. Two dark cyan damp marks seeped out at his shoulder blades, like solidified marks after an injury, clinging tightly to his overly thin back.

With every breath, his chest would rise and fall slightly. His inhalation was slightly short and forceful, as if the surrounding air was no longer light but had become viscous and sluggish, requiring more strength to pull into the depths of his lungs.

He was too thin.

This body standing on the Cyan Heavenly Ladder, which extended infinitely upward as if to pierce the firmament and submerge into the depths of the sea of clouds, was as small as a speck of dust that could be blown away by the wind at any time.

Cyan was the eternal background color of the ladder, and the old clothes on his body were a dull gray-cyan. The whole person looked like a shadow about to merge into the background, or like the last leaf hanging on a withered branch in a storm—fragile, thin, yet stubbornly refusing to fall.

He only stopped for less than three breaths.

His eyelids were lowered, and his thick but lusterless eyelashes cast a small, quiet shadow beneath his eyelids.

Then, he raised his head. His gaze was very flat, looking straight ahead.

Ahead were steps, one after another, extending upward in the flowing, thin mist, as if endless.

There was no impatience in his eyes, no discouragement born from the arduous climb, and not even much of the brilliance that belonged to a youth.

Only a nearly solidified, deep-sea-like calm—or rather, that strange tranquility that had settled after years of numbness.

He took a deep breath again.

His chest puffed up visibly, then he exhaled slowly and evenly, as if trying to expel the last wisp of turbid air from his lungs, along with some kind of invisible heaviness.

After completing this simple action, he stepped forward again.

His left foot lifted, moved forward, and landed.

Landing on the smooth, cold cyan jade surface of the four hundred and fourth step, it made a light "ta" sound, so light that it was almost easily swallowed by the gale howling down from the high reaches of the ladder.

The gale was as sharp as a knife, cutting through the air, as well as the climber's protective spiritual light and will.

His right foot followed, landing on the four hundred and fifth step.

His movements were steady, as steady as a pebble in a mountain stream that had been washed for millions of years, carrying a peculiar, almost instinctive rhythm.

Not fast, even sluggish—compared to those truly spirited Prodigies who turned into streams of light, his speed was as slow as crawling.

But the height of every lift and the distance of every fall seemed to have been measured with the most precise scale, without the slightest error.

His body leaned forward slightly, his center of gravity pressed very low, which made him look not like he was climbing with his head held high, but rather as if he were using the weight and strength of his whole body to "nail" himself, inch by inch, heavily and firmly, into these ancient, hard, silent stone steps.

Four hundred and tenth step.

His speed was still not fast. One could even say that compared to those "Prodigies" of various races struggling below, their faces twisted and hideous from exertion, some roaring and some weeping in pain, his unhurried pace could almost be called "leisurely."

But the strangest part was this—

He did not stop.

Those figures who were once high-spirited, who had left him far behind while chatting and laughing, but who now lay exhausted on the steps not far in front of him, could only watch helplessly.

Watching this Demon Race youth, wearing rags, with a weak aura, who was like dust in their eyes, step by step, with a nearly cold, constant rhythm, walk past them.

Some were crawling on the ground, their cheeks pressed against the cold stone surface, futilely absorbing a little coolness; some were leaning against the towering, steep stair railings, their chests heaving violently, their eyes unfocused.

Some were curled up, like hollowed-out shrimp, emitting suppressed, beast-like whimpers.

But their eyes—whether unfocused, despairing, or confused—were now staring fixedly, without blinking, at him.

Staring at Yi Wufa's pair of old cloth shoes, covered in dust and frayed at the edges.

Watching him lift them, leaving the stone surface, revealing the worn heels; watching him land them, stepping on the next step, making that monotonous and regular light sound.

Lift, fall. Lift again, fall again... like a pendulum, like a heartbeat, carrying a kind of chilling, unquestionable firmness.

The firmness itself was a silent mockery, a question that pierced into the bone marrow, crueler than any words:

"Why?"

"Why is it that I have exhausted everything, collapsed here, and can no longer move—yet he can still stand?"

"Still walk?"

"And in such a... calm, stable way, as if he doesn't feel any pressure?"

"It... it's him..."

A voice, weak as if squeezed out from the depths of the throat, from broken lungs, sounded. It came from an alien youth with a single horn on his forehead and skin covered in dull scales.

One of his arms was twisted at an unnatural angle, his face covered in sweat, dried blood, and a nearly frozen, unbelievable horror.

"That... Demon Race... trash..."

He said the last two words with extreme difficulty, as if using up the last bit of remaining strength that was supporting him from falling completely unconscious.

But in this voice, there was no longer the usual contempt and disdain, only a thick, unshakable shock, and a trace of instinctive panic that even he himself had not noticed—the kind of fear a prey has when it suddenly realizes in the dark that the thing it ignored might be the true hunter.

When did this "trash"... come to his side?

Just a moment ago, before he collapsed from exhaustion and his consciousness blurred, he clearly saw this Demon Race kid still hundreds of steps below, moving slowly like the clumsiest snail.

"Why?"

"Why is it that I have exhausted everything, collapsed here, and he—can still stand?"

"And, in such a... calm way that chills the heart?"

Yi Wufa did not look at him.

He did not even shift his gaze by even a fraction.

His gaze seemed to be firmly attracted by a magnet, landing only on the next step he was about to step onto, and the eternal cyan jade surface ahead, half-hidden by the flowing, thin mist.

He bypassed the alien youth's body, which was lying limply on the ground, emitting an aura of failure and despair. His movements were natural and ordinary; he did not deliberately avoid it, nor did he stop at all, just like walking on a wild path, calmly bypassing a stone that was blocking the way, which no one cared about.

Even his tattered, slightly fluttering hem did not touch the other person at all.

Then, continued upward.

Four hundred and twentieth step.

Four hundred and thirtieth step.

Four hundred and fiftieth step.

He stepped onto the platform of the four hundred and fiftieth step. The "Dao pressure" here was already quite considerable. The invisible force was no longer simple gravity, but like viscous, heavy mercury, silently squeezing in from all directions, not only pressing on the flesh but also attempting to penetrate into the bones, organs, and even the Soul.

The air became stagnant, and every breath required more strength. Some who were slightly weaker were pressed so hard here that their bones made an unbearable "creaking" sound, unable to move an inch, and could only hold onto the railings tightly, their fingernails scratching an ear-piercing sound on the jade stone.

But Yi Wufa's pace still did not change.