465: The 4th tragedy

Hum—

The moment the hundredth Guiding Divine Light dissipated above the Nine Heavens, the entire Heaven-Ascending Stairway that spanned across the heavens and earth emitted a tremor unseen since the ancient times.

This wasn't an ordinary vibration.

It was a mournful cry.

Starting from the first step, smoothed like jade by countless footprints, ripples like water waves began to emerge on every inch of the stairs.

Where the ripples passed, the bloodstains of varying depths, the fragments of broken Magical Artifacts, and even the desperate scratch marks gouged out by fingernails quickly faded and dissolved in the light—as if the heavens and earth were ruthlessly erasing these traces, clearing the field for the next Reincarnation.

The soft yet absolutely irresistible Guiding Divine Light, like a rising tide, surged up from bottom to top, silently and firmly.

The light first touched the figures collapsed below the five-thousandth step, those who had already exhausted their last ounce of Qi.

"No... No—!"

A shrill roar, unlike a human voice, exploded from the three-thousand-seven-hundredth step.

It was a youth of the Yao Race. Half of his face remained in a handsome human form, while the other half showed cyan scales due to the backlash of his power, shimmering coldly under the divine light.

He clawed at the edge of the stairs with both hands, his ten fingers curled into eerie arcs from the force, fingernails shattering, plowing ten white marks mixed with flesh and broken armor shards into the bluestone.

In every white mark, shards of bone were embedded.

"I can try one more time! Give me one more chance! Just one last time! Just once!!"

His plea was sharp enough to pierce the clouds, piercing through that thin layer of "reason" in the hearts of countless spectators.

But the light remained gentle, merely brushing over his body.

His fingers clawing at the stairs, starting from the tips, became transparent and unreal like thin snow under sunlight. He looked at his disappearing palms in horror, wanting to clench them, but he could no longer perceive the strength to do so.

He looked up abruptly at the unreachable heights, and what was reflected in his eyes at the end was only the endless extension of the cold stairs—and those "monsters" far above who had already reached the top, their backs blurred.

They didn't even look back at him.

"Only three steps away! Just three steps away!!!"

His voice tore through the air, but it could no longer reach anyone's ears.

Elsewhere, at the four-thousand-one-hundredth step, a disheveled youth, whose original appearance was no longer recognizable, was frantically slamming his forehead against the stairs.

Thump, thump, thump—each sound was like the struggle of a trapped beast near death, dull and desperate. Blood splattered, staining the stairs and his own blurred eyes.

There was no longer any reason in his eyes, only the purest unwillingness, burning his Soul like a raging fire, burning his last shred of dignity into ashes.

"A thousand years of bitter cultivation! The expectations of my clan! By what right—! By what right!!"

His roar had not yet fully escaped when the light washed over his lips, nose bridge, and wide-open eyes. He opened his mouth but could no longer make a sound, like a fish stranded on the shore.

The climbers below the five-thousandth step, like sandcastles piled on a beach, rapidly disintegrated in the tide.

They didn't even have time to leave proper last words before their figures were twisted, stretched, and faded in the light, finally erased gently from this cruel painting called "Ascending to Heaven" as if by an eraser held by an invisible giant hand.

Along with the traces of their existence, the sounds they roared, and the hot blood they dripped, all returned to nothingness.

It was as if they had never set foot on these stairs.

Part 2 · Prodigy Falls

Before the water mirror, in the place where the Myriad Heavens and Worlds watched the battle, there was deathly silence.

In this place where countless powerhouses of the Myriad Heavens and Worlds gathered, even breathing became cautious.

The sound of gasping was exceptionally clear in the dead silence, like a knife scraping across glass.

"Is that... the only descendant of the Holy Blood of the Ancient Sacred Mountain in this generation?"

An old Cultivator with white hair and beard, whose aura was like an abyss, accidentally squeezed the warm jade he had been fondling for years, causing it to crack with a "click."

The cracks spread from the center of the jade like a spiderweb, just like his state of mind at this moment.

He was completely unaware, just staring fixedly at the figure on the four-thousand-two-hundredth step in the water mirror, his eyes full of disbelief.

There, a youth knelt on one knee, barely supporting himself from collapsing.

He was no longer the brilliant figure he was when he first climbed the Heaven-Ascending Stairway. The golden light protecting his body, which should have been like the rising sun and eternal, was now as dim as a candle in the wind, flickering uncertainly.

Golden Holy Blood was not dripping drop by drop, but gushing out like streams from his cracked skin and broken armor, gathering into a shocking golden puddle beneath him.

The gold in the puddle was becoming turbid and dim at a speed visible to the naked eye—that was the Origin Holy Blood drying up.

What was even more heart-wrenching were the runes on his body.

These primitive golden runes, born of heaven and earth and containing the supreme Profound Truth of the Ancient Sacred Mountain lineage, were now like shattered porcelain, covered in spiderweb-like cracks.

Most of the runes had completely extinguished and peeled off, turning into dots of golden light dust drifting away, looking very much like some ancient ritual regarding death.

Behind him, a blurred Saint Dharma Image, which should have been towering and suppressing the eight wildernesses, failed to sustain itself after condensing only to the chest.

The edges of the Dharma Image were constantly disintegrating, emitting a silent mournful cry—a kind of sorrow that transcended sound and directly shook the Soul.

"The Holy Blood... the Holy Blood has all flowed dry..." Beside the old Cultivator, a middle-aged Daoist nun's voice trembled, subconsciously gripping the handle of her horsetail whisk, her knuckles turning white. "Legend has it that a Major Achievement Holy Physique can tear stars with hands and be reborn from a drop of blood... Although he has not reached Major Achievement, the might of this Holy Blood should have been invincible among his peers..."

What she didn't say was: If even the descendant of the Holy Blood ended up like this, what about the others?

"Even the Dharma Image failed to fully manifest..." someone muttered, their voice full of bitterness.

In the water mirror, the descendant of the Sacred Mountain seemed to feel something. He lifted his head with extreme difficulty and slowness.

His face was covered in blood, sweat and blood mixed together, dripping along his jaw. But those eyes still retained a trace of the unyielding golden light belonging to those with Holy Blood.

That light was dimming but had not yet extinguished—that was the pride engraved in the bones and blood of the Ancient Sacred Mountain lineage, the stubbornness that would never bow its head even if crushed by the heavens and earth and abandoned by fate.

His lips moved, seemingly wanting to say something.

Perhaps he wanted to say "I am unwilling," perhaps he wanted to say "I will fight again in the next life," or perhaps, he just wanted to call out the name of his sect.

But in the end, it only turned into a very light, very weary sigh.

In this sigh, there was no desperate roar, no angry curse, only a kind of deep-seated realization of a certain uncrossable chasm.

This was the distance between heaven and earth, the barrier between the mortal and the saint, it was—the chasm called "Fate" that no matter how hard you tried, you could never cross.

Then, the Guiding Divine Light gently covered his broken body.

The golden light extinguished completely, and along with the unfinished Dharma Image, it was erased.

"Gulp."

Someone, in the silent viewing place, swallowed a mouthful of saliva with a metallic taste.

The sound was exceptionally loud in the silence, like a funeral bell, striking everyone's heart.

"The girl with the Yin Physique... on the five-thousand-three-hundredth step, her Dharma Image was backlashed by Yin Qi and frozen into an ice sculpture... It shattered..." someone said in a low voice, their tone filled with unbearable pity.

"The descendant of the Sun God Physique was even earlier, at the four-thousand-eight-hundredth step, the True Fire of the Sun went out of control, and half of his body was burned to ashes..."

"The one with the Acquired Dao Embryo prototype... it is said that at the six-thousandth step, the Dao Embryo sensed the 'Dao' above that was too dense and terrifying, and directly cracked, causing the Dao Foundation to collapse..."

One by one, names that once shone brightly and were highly anticipated, one by one, rare Physiques that could dominate an era in ancient books and legends, were now whispered, accompanied only by the ending of their silent disappearance at a certain step number.

Like falling meteors, like extinguished fireworks, like a piece of music that hadn't finished playing, coming to an abrupt end.

They didn't even make it into the top thousand, the top five hundred...

In front of those few hundred spots to reach the top, their so-called "Prodigy" titles seemed so pale and ridiculous.

"It is not that they are not strong enough." A Saint Lord-level figure sitting at the highest point of the cloud platform, his figure shrouded in Chaos Qi, spoke slowly, his voice old and heavy, suppressing all whispers.

His voice carried a kind of thorough understanding after experiencing the vicissitudes of life, and also a trace of fear that could not be concealed. "But this generation—the 'screening' of this Heaven-Ascending Stairway, its cruelty and standards have exceeded common sense, exceeding the records of any past epoch."

"Five thousand steps, condensing the Dharma Image, this was originally the lowest threshold that remained unchanged for eternity. But now it seems, that was merely getting a voucher to continue being 'tortured'."

Another Old Ancestor of a great sect interjected, his tone carrying a trace of imperceptible panic.

He had lived for who knows how many years, seen countless storms, but at this moment his voice was trembling slightly: "Above eight thousand steps... you saw it, what is being compared is no longer Aptitude, cultivation, or Physique? That is using the Dao Heart as a millstone to grind your Dao inch by inch; using the fire of will to burn your Soul over and over; using the absolute fear between life and death to test how illusory, or how firm, your belief is in the path you have chosen."

He paused, as if even his own words made him feel heavy.

"A million people climb the ladder, a hundred can enter the Heaven Gate. One in ten thousand survives..." The first Saint Lord shook his head slowly, the Chaos Qi rolling slightly, revealing his old and heavy face, "How is this selecting disciples for a supreme Dao lineage? This is clearly... using the most extreme, most cruel way to refine from the vast crowd, just those few..."

He paused for a long time, as if looking for a word that was accurate enough. Finally, he slowly spat out four words, each word as heavy as a thousand jun:

"Non-human—Monsters."

Part 3 · Despair Spreads

The seventh thousand three-hundredth step.

A Demon Race Prodigy with curved demon horns and a burly figure curled up on the cold stairs like a shrimp.

The ferocious demon armor covering his body was already shattered, and the exposed skin presented an ominous purple-black color, covered with holes eroded by the backlash of power.

Some holes were deep enough to see bone, pitch-black, like silently opened mouths.

The purple blood of the Demon Race had almost flowed dry, condensing into a sticky puddle beneath him, emitting a strong, fishy smell.

Behind him, a blood moon Dharma Image that should have been evil and domineering was now dilapidated, with corrosive dark red light constantly dripping from its edges.

It was the backlash of this Dharma Image that had tortured him to this point—his power, his pride, everything he relied on to survive, eventually became a knife stabbing into himself.

He could barely move, only a pair of scarlet demon eyes stared fixedly, without blinking, at the unreachable destination above.

What burned in his eyes was resentment and humiliation enough to burn the Nine Netherworlds.

This was not hatred for any one person, but hatred for the whole world, hatred for this damn, unfair Heavenly Dao.

He bared his teeth, revealing blood-stained fangs, his voice hoarse and leaky due to damage to his throat, but still word by word, like a curse, every word seemed squeezed out from between his teeth:

"My Blood Moon Demon Race... rose from the Ancient Demon Abyss... conquered the Myriad Heavens and Worlds... never... suffered such humiliation... this hatred... this grudge..."

"Pfft!"

Before he could finish, another mouthful of demon blood mixed with pieces of internal organs sprayed out. The black blood splashed on the stairs, making a sizzling corrosive sound.

The Guiding Divine Light washed over his ankles and spread upward.

He tried to struggle, but as soon as his remaining Devilish Qi moved, the wounds all over his body exploded simultaneously, and more black blood gushed out like black flowers in full bloom.

He finally just stared fixedly upward, letting the light swallow him.

This look seemed to want to drag this Heaven-Ascending Stairway, along with all the successful people above, into Hell.

The sixth thousand eight-hundredth step.

A youth with an eerie pale green complexion and insect-like patterns on his neck sat slumped in the middle of a puddle of green pus emitting a pungent stench.

This pus was what his life-bound insect-form Dharma Image turned into after it completely shattered—his Dao, his path, everything he had, eventually left only a pool of pus.

There was no human color left on his face, only extreme, twisted resentment.

The resentment was too intense, so intense that it almost condensed into substance, like a layer of green mist, enveloping his whole body.

He gasped, each breath like a broken bellows pulling, making a harsh friction sound.

Green mucus kept overflowing from the corners of his mouth, dripping along his chin into the pus beneath him.

"Why... hehe... why..." His eyes were unfocused, but they were focused on some kind of crazy hatred. Not aimed at any specific person, but at this world, at this damn fate, "My Soul-Devouring Insect Race... sacrificed all spirits... to cultivate my 'Myriad Devouring Dao Physique'... should have... devoured everything to grow... by what right... here... even the Dharma Image cannot be kept..."

His voice became lower and lower, hoarser and hoarser, but crazier and crazier.

"Heaven is unfair—Earth is unfair—the Dao is also unfair!!"

He abruptly raised his hands. Those hands had begun to insectify, covered in dense green hair, with sharp claws growing from the fingertips.

He wanted to tear something, wanted to grab something, wanted to destroy something—but could only weakly scratch at the pus beneath him, scratch at the Void Realm, scratch at that fate which he couldn't see, couldn't touch, but which pressed him until he couldn't breathe.

The divine light washed over. His roar turned into a silent sob, into a garbled gurgling sound deep in his throat, and finally, along with that pool of pus, was purified and erased together.

It was as if he had never existed.

It was as if all this had never happened.

Only the faint, fishy smell remaining on the stairs was still telling something.

But soon, even that smell was blown away by the wind.