456: Chapter 456 The Sinner of the Demon Race

Finally, at a higher point, a few Prodigies who were still struggling to move, their auras faintly clashing and competing with one another, caught sight with the corners of their eyes a figure moving steadily below—a figure that stood in stark contrast to the intense, struggling, and roaring atmosphere of the climb.

"Hmm? Is that... the kid from the Demon Race?"

A youth from the Human Race, carrying an ancient longsword on his back with a face as cold as ice, furrowed his brows tightly.

The veins on his forehead twitched slightly, clearly indicating he was under significant pressure, yet he still diverted a sliver of his focus to look downward with a hint of confusion and scrutiny.

"When did he... reach the four hundred and fiftieth step?" Beside him, a young monk surrounded by a faint golden Buddhist light, with a compassionate and peaceful expression, also revealed a rare look of astonishment.

He remembered very clearly that just a short while ago, when his gaze had accidentally swept over the lower levels, this youth from the Demon Race was still in the lowest tier, his figure as small as an ant, struggling on the most basic steps.

"Impossible! I noticed him just a moment ago; he was clearly still struggling on the three hundredth-something step!"

Another person exclaimed in a low voice, his tone firm and decisive with unshakeable conviction, yet within those sharp eyes, a look of uncertainty and suspicion had already uncontrollably emerged.

He was certain he hadn't misread the situation, yet the fact before his eyes was so clearly laid out—that youth with a weak, impure, and chaotic aura, who in no way could be associated with the word "Genius," was standing right there.

"There is something strange..." The previously speaking Human Race youth's voice sank, his gaze becoming even sharper like a tangible sword blade, attempting to pierce through the secrets that might be hidden beneath the youth's thin frame below. "Did he hide his strength?"

But no matter how they scrutinized or probed, the aura on the youth remained weak and impure, having nothing to do with words like "Genius," "Powerful," or "Deep Foundation."

Yet it was precisely this weak, impure, and inconspicuous aura that supported him, step by step, steadily, as he walked to this point.

Moreover, looking at the rhythm of his steps, looking at the steadiness of his breathing... it seemed, he was not tired at all?

Their discussion was like a small pebble thrown into a deep pool, stirring up only faint ripples before being quickly swallowed and interrupted by the more intense and surging sound waves pouring down from higher up.

Up there, in the area above the six hundredth step, it was a completely different scene.

Spiritual light shone brilliantly, like small suns burning; majestic Bloodline energy soared into the sky, transforming into visions of Dragons and tigers, roaring and hissing; profound Dao rhymes collided and resonated with each other, emitting rumbling sounds as if the Great Dao itself were whispering.

The true Prodigies, those young Supremes cultivated with the full effort of their respective races and entrusted with countless hopes, were there, engaging in a white-hot pursuit and competition.

This was the main battlefield that would determine the final rankings and the contention for the Supreme Fortune, attracting the gaze of almost all powerhouses inside and outside the Secret Realm, tugging at the heartstrings of countless factions.

In comparison, the "useless" youth below, with his somewhat strange behavior, weak aura, and unknown Origins, was ultimately just a trivial and soon-to-be-forgotten interlude in this grand picture; he was not worth, nor did he require, them to expend too much of their precious focus to investigate.

Thus, these gazes, filled with suspicion, scrutiny, and eventually fading into a faint sense of confusion and indifference, were quickly withdrawn, refocusing on the core battlefield higher up where the winds and clouds churned and the Dragons and tigers fought.

And Yi Wufa was still moving upward.

Four hundred and eightieth step.

He stepped onto this step. The gale wind here was even fiercer, howling and whistling like countless invisible, cold blades, cutting through the air and also cutting through the climber's protective spiritual light and will.

The wild wind wrapped his already tattered clothes tightly around him, clearly outlining the frame of his overly thin, almost fleshless skeleton beneath the fabric.

His breathing seemed a bit heavier than before, and the rise and fall of his chest were more pronounced with each breath.

But the frequency of his footsteps remained unchanged. Lift, fall. Lift again, fall again. As steady as a machine, yet as heavy as a sigh.

Four hundred and ninetieth step.

He passed a young girl of the Yao Race who was gripping the cold railing with both hands, her knuckles turned deathly white from excessive force, and was trembling as she frantically poured a bottle of Medicinal Pill into her mouth.

Crumbles of the Medicinal Pill stained the corners of her mouth, mixed with sweat.

The girl seemed to sense someone passing by and suddenly raised her head. Her bloodshot eyes, filled with pain and unwillingness, caught sight of Yi Wufa's calm profile before she could react.

On that face, there was no pity, no mockery, and no emotional fluctuation. There was only an almost vacuum-like, heart-palpitating indifference.

The pain in the girl's eyes was instantly covered by a greater sense of bewilderment.

She opened her mouth, seemingly wanting to say something, but in the end, she only lowered her head in vain, emitting a more suppressed whimper—in that whimper, besides pain, there was more of an indescribable, empty feeling, as if something had been shattered.

Five hundredth step.

When his old cloth shoe, stained with dust and with a sole worn white, stepped steadily and firmly onto the five hundredth step—a surface of blue jade as smooth as a mirror that seemed to reflect one's image—time seemed to be infinitely stretched at that moment.

Although he was completely unaware and was just preparing to take the next step as naturally as breathing, on some ineffable level beyond sight and sound, a silent, subtle ripple seemed to quietly spread out, centered on his descending foot.

This ripple was so weak it was almost imperceptible, yet it seemed to touch upon certain ineffable rules in the void.

Before the water mirror, in the area occupied by the Demon Race faction.

"Wufa... he... he passed the five hundredth step?"

An old man of the Demon Race with white hair and a face deeply lined by the passage of time and hardships suddenly leaned forward from his wide seat.

His cloudy eyes widened, staring fixedly and unblinkingly at a corner of the water mirror's image—there, it happened to capture the moment Yi Wufa's old cloth shoe stepped onto the five hundredth step.

He muttered to himself, his voice as dry as sand grinding in the desert, filled with an unfathomable sense of bewilderment and disbelief.

He was an Elder of an ordinary tribe within the Demon Race; his status was not high, but his seniority was very great.

He had seen with his own eyes, and even personally participated in, the Aptitude test for that child named "Wufa."

Mediocre. Too mediocre.

He lacked the innate, domineering Bloodline pressure of the Demon Race royalty, lacked the enviable, powerful affinity for the heaven and earth Devilish Qi of the high-level Demon Race, and even his most basic, fundamental Origin Devilish energy was condensed in a chaotic and unbearable manner, operating with extreme sluggishness and riddled with flaws.

Such Aptitude, among the young generation of the Demon Race where Geniuses emerged in large numbers and competition was cruel, was undoubtedly at the bottom; it was synonymous with "trash" and was an existence that had been abandoned.

In the end, he was exiled to guard the desolate, dead-silent "Graveyard of Ancestral Sins," where only sin and oblivion remained; this was almost the most logical and irreversible outcome in everyone's eyes.

Such trash... how could he possibly step onto this five hundredth step of the Heavenly Staircase, which symbolized a certain level of potential, strength, and qualification?

Was the "Dao pressure" on these steps fake?

But what made them even more shocked, and even began to make other clansmen around them—who had originally only focused on the radiant Demon Race Prodigies ahead—gradually shift their gaze away from the core area of intense competition in the water mirror, to focus on that inconspicuous, almost to-be-ignored corner, was still to come.

On the light screen of the water mirror, that thin, silent figure in old clothes was still moving upward unhurriedly.

Five hundred and twentieth step.

Five hundred and fiftieth step.

Five hundred and eightieth step.

His speed still did not get faster. But likewise, it also did not slow down.

He did not, like those explosive Geniuses, suddenly burn his blood energy, surge his spiritual power, and launch a short, fierce sprint at a stage he deemed appropriate; nor did he, like the vast majority of climbers, stop at a recognized difficult hurdle, exhausted and panting, to catch his breath and recover, or even collapse, give up, and tumble down because he could not bear it.

He just walked upward, step by step, steadily.

Each step he took carried an indescribable, heavy texture.

This was not a pretense of heaviness, but a stability that was restrained to the extreme, as if it were innate.

It was as if what he was stepping on was not the smooth, steep Heavenly Staircase stones whose Dao pressure was enough to crush the bones and muscles of ordinary Cultivators, but the flat and solid dirt path in his own backyard that he had walked thousands of times.

The invisible pressure on the Heavenly Staircase, which was becoming increasingly terrifying—enough to make Geniuses wail and powerhouses change color—was, to him, like the most ordinary breeze brushing against his face in a spring field, carrying the scent of grass.

No, perhaps not even as much as a breeze.

Because a breeze could still stir his hair and the hem of his clothes, while this "Dao pressure" seemed to not... exist within his perception at all.

"This... how is this possible?!"

Finally, a relatively young-looking Demon Race Cultivator could no longer suppress the absurdity and shock churning within his heart, and he exclaimed out loud, completely breaking the eerie silence that had fallen over the area due to excessive shock.

He raised his hand, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, pointing straight at the water mirror, his face filled with an absurd expression that screamed, "This is absolutely impossible."

Because at this moment, the image in the water mirror was incredibly clear and also incredibly cruel, presenting a scene with immense impact that almost overturned everyone's perception.