Chapter 1308: Long-Awaited Wang Gu

Chapter 1308: The Long-Awaited Wanggu

The continent of Wanggu.

A wasteland of desolation.

The bleak wind did not blow in from the sea, but arose spontaneously from different realms, born of the unrelenting pressure between heaven and earth.

These winds grew ever stronger, converging from all directions until they swept across the entire land of Wanggu.

Wherever they passed, their mournful howls sounded like dirges for the dead.

Amidst this wind, the ancient mountain ranges of each realm lay like petrified dragons, their spines no longer clad in green scales but encrusted with layer upon layer of dark brown rock.

Grass and trees could no longer take root.

Only the dying embers of subterranean fire seeped through fissures in the mountains, scorching them into charred corpses.

It was the thirty-first year of the Li Xia calendar of humankind.

Twenty-seven years had passed since the Sword Emperor once raised his blade toward the heavens.

Those twenty-seven years had been cruel to Wanggu.

The ceaseless thunder rumbling from the celestial veil above weighed heavily upon all races of the continent like a countdown—ominous, suffocating, a death knell ringing in every ear.

Under its toll, death had become an equalizer forced upon all beings.

Thus despair had not only risen from the land and sky—it had taken root in the hearts of all living things for twenty-seven long years.

Therefore… though Frost’s Descent had not yet come, the world already brimmed with killing intent.

All of Wanggu had turned into a graveyard of mountains, its flora withered to dust.

Alien energies thickened by the day.

The heavens themselves were crushed beneath leaden clouds, torn and fused into a suffocating shroud. Even when streaks of blood-red sunset occasionally pierced through gaps in the clouds, their light fell upon the cracked earth only as jagged scars.

Survival grew harder by the hour.

Even in the remote northern reaches of Wanggu, where few humans tread, the ice plains now frequently echoed with dull booms—perennial glaciers, unmelted for ten thousand years, shattered en masse year after year.

Ice shards carried the wails of ancient times, swept by bitter winds across the land, flattening yellowed grasses into corpse-like husks pressed against the ground.

As for the south—it was even more hopeless. Endless wars erupted between tribes over dwindling resources, turning region after region into battlefields.

In the shadow of impending doom, greater resources meant better tributes—and thus, a tribe’s only hope for survival.

This decree had come seven years ago from the Sacred Realm beyond the sky:

“When we descend, the five tribes offering the greatest tributes shall be spared annihilation.”

Warfare intensified thereafter.

Only a year ago, as strange changes began unfolding in the celestial veil, did the frequency of battles gradually decline.

Now, on those corpse-strewn fields, dried black blood remained—the sole witness to chaos past.

At this moment, wind swept in from afar, brushing over battlefields yet unable to carry away the settled stench of blood. It merely stirred faded prayer banners wrapped around broken sword hilts, making them flutter like dying sighs—

moans that merged into the voice of the wind itself.

All of Wanggu groaned under oppression.

Even the Forbidden Sea shared this fate.

Once-churning waves had long since solidified into walls of ink-black ice—the entire Forbidden Sea… frozen into an icy wasteland!

Occasionally, cracks would split the ice. Some claimed that if one connected the patterns of these fractures, they formed a prophecy map—a vision of Wanggu’s imminent collapse, slowly completing itself.

Perhaps it was the lingering spirit of the Sword Emperor, leaving behind a final warning for Wanggu.

And today…

That final stroke of Wanggu’s prophesied ruin was being drawn within the ice, accompanied by sharp cracking sounds.

As the glacier split open, the noise grew louder and louder—

echoing like the frantic heartbeat of all ten thousand races across Wanggu, pounding ever more urgently.

Including Fenghai Prefecture!

Within Fenghai Prefecture, the combined might of the Shenglan and Heiling Realms gathered. Among them stood the Seven Blood Pupils, old companions of Xu Qing, and devotees of the Black Heaven Clan who worshipped him.

Though exhausted in body and spirit after enduring twenty-seven grueling years, they now—

each bore expressions hardened by iron resolve, grim determination… and readiness for death.

Wu Jianwu, Kong Xianglong, Zhang San—all were present.

Led by Yao Hou, the full strength of Fenghai Prefecture activated a grand formation, channeling every ounce of power toward the heavens.

Beneath the prefecture, inside the Immortal Palace buried underground, Xu Qing’s divine form sat cross-legged in meditation. Behind him, in the Phoenix Hall, Zi Xuan had already opened her eyes.

Nor was Fenghai alone. That same urgent heartbeat resonated fiercely throughout Jiyue Realm!

The Crown Prince, Ninth Grandfather, Eighth Grandfather, Third Grandmother, and others stood before the apothecary shop nestled in Kuseng Mountains, gazing upward at the sky with solemn faces.

Behind them stood Ling’er.

She had grown tall and graceful, surrounded by coiling forms of dragon and serpent, her expression unwavering.

All of Jiyue Realm trembled—the sign that Fifth Grandmother’s supreme treasure, the Ni Yue Hall, was operating at full capacity.

Similar scenes unfolded across the entirety of Wanggu.

...

Deep within the Western Wastes, inside the ancestral hall of the Minggu Tribe, their current king sat upon a throne built from countless strange bones. In his hand he held a bone mirror—not reflecting his own face, but instead showing the tempestuous skies above Wanggu.

...

In the Mingli Realm, located in eastern Wanggu, the Tianjie Clan—the strongest tribe of the region—watched as their massive brood nests writhed uncontrollably.

The outer shells of enormous cocoons were covered in eye-like markings, each now oozing green pus.

Inside the largest nest, the clan’s Brood Mother sat at its center, her twelve tentacles twitching involuntarily—three already severed, dripping viscous fluid from their broken ends.

She strained desperately to divine a path forward for her people.

...

Near the southern border, the Tuling Clan—who had rapidly expanded in recent years by devouring smaller tribes—venerated their ancestors as totems.

But now, nine out of twelve totem poles in their central plaza were crumbling.

Their chieftain, blood streaming from all four eyes, stared up at the sky with a twisted, frenzied expression.

...

Except for those clans possessing divine beings, all other ten thousand races found themselves in similar straits.

They stood ready for battle, tense and terrified beneath crushing despair, harboring bitter dread for what lay ahead—

yet facing it nonetheless.

Lift your heads—look to the heavens!

Especially… the Human Race!

Atop Qiwu Terrace in the Imperial Capital, within the vast domain of humankind in central Wanggu—

The Empress stood there.

Clad in robes of gilded imperial splendor, crowned with the Crown of Humanity,

the twelve crimson-gold tassels hanging before Her face remained utterly still in the wind—

just as Her resolve stood unshaken.

At the end of each tassel hung phoenix-marrow beads, tempered by divine flame.

One side reflected the blood-red divine sigil between the brows of Empress Lixia, making it appear all the more eerie;

the other mirrored the black snow stretching countless leagues beyond the capital!

To be precise—it was not snow at all.

It was the shattered fragments of the Celestial Sword Qi that had shielded Wanggu for twenty-seven years, now cascading into the mortal realm as the barrier crumbled!

They fell upon the earth, upon mountains, upon rivers—whispering faint, helpless sighs.

Amidst this sound, a figure approached swiftly from behind the Empress.

A young man—robed in four-clawed dragon silk, long hair flowing over his shoulders, lean-faced yet sharp-eyed with an air of practiced efficiency.

Ning Yan.

No longer the plump boy once wielded like a weapon by Er Niu, Ning Yan had shed his youthful softness. His gaze was now resolute, his bearing imbued with the dignity befitting the Crown Prince.

He halted behind the Empress, eyes fixed on the world beyond the capital. After a long silence, his gaze settled upon Her back, and he spoke in a low voice:

“Mother… the Yan Yue Xuantian Clan has expelled our envoy and declared they will seal their clan away henceforth—barring all outsiders. They have made clear they will take no part in our war against the Sacred Lands.”

“It is not only Yan Yue. The Bei Ming Royal Clan in the north, the Chi Di Da Luo Clan in the west, the You Ming Yuan Hai Clan in the south, and even the Shen Lin Clan here in central Wanggu—all have severed ties with the outside world.”

“The entire realm of Wanggu—every tribe that worships gods—has done the same.”

Ning Yan’s voice grew heavier.

The Empress said nothing.

She had foreseen this. It was only Ning Yan’s unwillingness to accept fate that had driven him to send envoys to Yan Yue in the first place.

Gods were indifferent. To stand aloof now was perfectly in keeping with their nature.

The Empress raised Her eyes once more to the sky.

The entire firmament churned violently, forming a colossal vortex.

Its scale was staggering—terrifying to behold.

As it spun, it seemed as though Heaven itself had been gouged blind, weeping foul tears of blood. More and more sword-qi shards rained down upon the world.

And at the heart of that vortex—only those who had ascended to the Divine Platform realm, or reached the quasi-immortal state unseen for tens of thousands of years—could perceive it:

Deep within the maelstrom lay a wound—a crimson fissure steadily tearing wider!

That single stroke struck long ago by the Sword-Wielding Emperor had forged the Celestial Sword Veil, veiling the heavens.

It should have granted Wanggu another thirty years—enough time to stave off the descent of the Ancient Immortals and the Sacred Lands…

Yet its collapse had begun accelerating seven years ago—and now, it neared its end.

Three years too soon!

Through that widening rift, the Empress could dimly make out towering Sacred Lands beyond the veil—

and figures emerging from them, cultivators striding forth one after another.

Among them… were quasi-immortals!

The last quasi-immortal of Wanggu had been the Sword-Wielder Himself.

But the Sacred Lands… their lineage had never broken!

And beyond those lands, the Empress beheld a vast, overwhelming presence—

the very Ancient Immortal who had cast twenty-seven years of suffocating dread over all the tribes of Wanggu!

Even glimpsing Him through the crack sent tremors through Her spirit. She could sense His terror—the sheer magnitude of His power.

Though Her divine authority was unique, it paled into insignificance before the aura radiating from Him.

Just as a quasi-immortal could never rival a Xia Immortal!

Thus, She could already envision the outcome: the moment the Celestial Sword Veil shattered would mark the hour of Wanggu’s cataclysm.

“Unless…” She murmured, “...a sacrifice is made.”

Her hand pressed firmly against the white jade railing before Her—then turned Her gaze toward Nanhuang Continent!