Back to the obsidian heart of Xian's castle. Liang and the others arrived, the triumphant return feeling more like a funeral procession. Liang accompanied Xian into his grand, cavernous bedchamber, leaving Lia and the other disciples outside with a silent command.
The moment the massive doors closed, the facade crumbled.
Xian stumbled, his body folding forward as he coughed violently, dark blood spattering the polished floor like grim paint. Liang lunged, catching him, his own strength straining under the sudden dead weight. He helped his master to the vast, canopied bed, laying him down with a gentleness that felt alien in the cold chamber.
"Master, how do you feel?" Liang's voice was tight, stripped of its usual controlled edge.
Xian's face was a bloodless mask of parchment, his complexion waxy and sallow, as if every ounce of life had been drained and burned as fuel. Yet, a serene, almost ecstatic smile touched his cracked lips.
"Even if I were to end here," Xian whispered, each word a breath stolen from his ruined lungs, "I would have no regret. The goal… has been achieved." He laid his head back, staring at the shadowed ceiling. "There is nothing more fulfilling, Liang, than the feeling of completing something you gave your life for. Do you understand? You should always live by that."
Liang nodded, kneeling by the bedside, his worry a cold stone in his gut. He could see the truth now, laid bare. The skin around Xian's eyes was webbed with fine, grey cracks, like corrupted porcelain. The vibrant, terrifying aura was gone, replaced by a faint, sickly odor of decay. It was hard to imagine this was the being who had shattered a Divine General hours ago. The level of corruption in Xian's Acupoints had reached the point of no return. The foundation wasn't just poisoned; it was dissolving.
"Master, you have nothing to worry about," Liang said, forcing conviction into his tone. "Nothing will stop us now. After your victory, the world will embrace the Dark Wheel willingly. Finally destroying those barriers that have held us back all these years."
More than anyone, Liang believed in Xian's project. After all, who was he? The weakest disciple of Immortal Jiang. He had toiled for years with the orthodox Wheels, making grinding, minimal progress. With the Dark Wheel, everything had changed. The path was clear. The cost was disturbing, yes—the creeping numbness in his own spirit, the nightmares that weren't quite dreams—but Liang cast it aside. *Once everyone in the world is using it,* he told himself, *the 'cost' will just be the new normal. It will have no meaning.*
"Now it's up to you, Liang," Xian rasped, another cough shaking his frame, staining his own hands a deeper red. "You have to keep the flame going."
Liang felt his heart ache, a sharp, human pain amidst his calculated ambition. He bowed his head. "I will."
He stood, forcing his legs to move, and left the chamber, closing the door slowly behind him. The finality of the sound echoed in the hall. Whether his master survived the night or not, the mantle had been passed. He would have to stay strong.
Outside, one of the other disciples, a man with anxious eyes, stepped forward. "Is he… going to die?" he asked, his voice hushed, as if speaking a blasphemy. "Such power cannot be so short-lived, right?"
Liang followed the man's gaze to the dark blood staining his own sleeve from where he'd supported Xian. He quickly wiped it away with a rough, angry gesture. "Don't ask stupid questions. Stand guard. And tell the Bliss Palace lords to be on alert. Those old fools think they can stay neutral after we've brought them to this height? Remind them whose power they're borrowing."
The disciple paled and nodded, scurrying away.
Liang walked out onto a broad balcony overlooking the shattered lands his master's war had created. He gripped the cold stone rail, his knuckles white, and stared up at the two remaining Damocles. His mind drifted back to the final image at the Heaven Gate—Gen, convulsing, an aura of pure black shadow threatening to consume him.
*What was that?*
Liang instinctively touched the spot between his shoulder blades. The mark of the Tower of Wonder was still there, faint but present, a ghost of a shared failure. Of all those who had entered the Tower that year, only he and Gen had not fully shed its mark. Was it coincidence? Or was it fate, tying them together as two sides of a broken coin? He wasn't sure.
Soft footsteps sounded behind him. Lia appeared at his side, her presence a quiet warmth in the chill.
"Don't worry," she said, her voice lacking its usual sharp certainty. "Gen will be fine. He always is."
Though she had hated Gen for so long after her father's death, seeing things from Xian's perspective had shifted her understanding. She saw now how burdened Gen had been, how heavy the weight of his legacy truly was.
After a long moment of silence, Liang turned to her. His expression was unguarded, softer than she had seen in years. "You can leave now, if you wish," he said, his voice calm, devoid of manipulation or threat. "I wouldn't hold you back."
Lia froze, surprised. As their eyes locked, she saw it—a flicker of the Liang she had fallen for in those twilight years before the world fell apart. He wasn't saying this because he feared she would change him. He was saying it because he didn't want her to end up like Xian and his wife. He wanted a different ending for her, even if it meant an ending away from him.
She bit her lip, then shook her head. "I'm not going anywhere." Perhaps it was hope. Perhaps it was love. Perhaps it was just too late to turn back. "We will face this together," she said softly, "or burn together."
Liang's heart, a thing he thought fortified against all sentiment, melted. A small, genuine smile grew on his face as he pulled her into his arms, letting the tension drain from his body. For a moment, the scheming, powerful Liang and the grieving, determined Lia vanished. There were just two beings, bound by a fragile, genuine affection, finding a sliver of peace in the eye of the hurricane they had helped create.
***
In the ruins of the Heaven Gate castle, King Juo Si sat on the lone surviving step of his shattered throne dais. He observed the devastation with a detached calm. Of his magnificent hall, nothing remained but holes, scattered stones, and golden ceremonial cups twisted and crushed on the ground.
He rested his hands on his knees and sighed, the sound deep and weary in the vast, empty space. "The entire kingdom is down to this now."
Gen was out of the equation, taken by that terrifying black aura. Xian, after his fight, would be a crippled threat at best. All the major pieces on the board had crashed into each other, leaving only rubble and exhaustion.
Yet, Juo Si felt nothing but a hollow emptiness in his hall.
In the past, there had been General Mearl to keep him company, to argue with, to trust. Today, it was silent. Gen was somewhere, surrounded by his loyal friends. Xian was somewhere, surrounded by his fanatics. And here he was—King Juo Si, ruler of the Four Kingdoms—utterly alone.
A cold wind swept through the gaping holes in the walls, carrying dust and the scent of ash. "It's always lonely at the top," he muttered to the emptiness. A calculated smile, devoid of joy, finally touched his lips. "All I need now is to eradicate them before they recover. And the game shall be set."
Juo Si did not regret his actions in the least. He had always known this path would be difficult. He understood, all too well, the price of the power he sought. Solitude was simply part of the ledger.
"Once the last Damocles are handled," he said, rising from the step and brushing dust from his robes, "I will take both birds in one sweep." He turned and walked towards the only building still standing in the Heaven Gate, a solitary figure amidst the wreckage of his own machinations.
***
While the world grappled with the aftermath, high above the colossal crater that was once the Jiang Capital, the figure of **Zeph** still sat in a perfect lotus position. His eyes had been closed for nearly four years. He emitted no aura, exerted no presence. He was like the wind—simply there, offering no resistance to the world around him.
At that moment, the air before him distorted violently, as if the fabric of reality was being torn by unseen hands.
Two figures emerged from the rift.
One was tall and slim, draped in his divine armor. The other was broader, more muscular, with an air of solemn, heavy grace.
**Deshia,,** and **Anming,** the last two Divine Generals, stood before their commander.
They bowed in perfect, silent respect to Zeph, . The only three beings separating this world from its final judgment—or its salvation—were now assembled. The endgame had truly begun.