Boar stepped beyond the edge of the formation, where the fog thinned just enough to reveal those who had not yet been consumed. A scattered group of cultivators lingered at the outskirts, their bodies tense, their eyes fixed on him. They were not weak by any standard. Among them stood those at 115 Qi Refining, 81 Qi Condensing, 70 Foundation Establishment, and 21 at the Golden Core stage. In any other place, at any other time, such a gathering would command respect or fear. Here, they stood caught between both, uncertain whether the figure before them was something to challenge or something to flee from.
Across the realm, Golden Core cultivators were known for their arrogance, their power often outpacing their judgment. After the decree, that arrogance had only grown sharper, fed by desperation and ambition. The moment stretched thin, then broke all at once. All 287 surged forward, driven by the same thought, that their numbers and combined strength would be enough to overwhelm a single man. They did not hesitate, and they did not retreat.
What they created was not a battle. It was a beginning to something history will never forget.
Boar did not reach for his sword. There was no need. Ruler remained at his side, untouched, as if even it understood the difference between a worthy opponent and passing noise. The clash unfolded in silence broken only by the sounds of bodies failing under forces they could not comprehend. Techniques were unleashed in desperation, formations hastily formed and shattered, and more than one cultivator chose to detonate their own core in a final attempt to slow him down. None of it mattered. Time moved forward, and Boar walked through them as if they had never been there at all.
An hour passed before the last voice fell quiet. What remained was not a battlefield, but a valley drowned in consequence. Blood pooled into the rivers, turning their currents dark as they carried it downstream. The air grew thick with the bitter scent of qi deviation, heavy and suffocating. Above, the sky opened, and rain began to fall, washing over the land in a steady rhythm, as if trying to erase what had just taken place.
The fog began to recede as quietly as it had arrived, rolling back across the mountains and thinning into nothingness. What it revealed left no room for doubt. The land was scorched where it had passed, and scattered across the valleys were the charred remains of those who had been caught within it. Not a single invader remained standing. Those who had entered the Norse Region that night had not been given the chance to retreat, and none had been left behind to tell the tale. The mountains stood silent once more, but the silence felt different now, heavier, marked by what had taken place.
Within the grand hall, the Sect Leader and elders gathered, their usual calm unsettled for the first time in years. "Did any of you know he was capable of this?" one elder asked, the question hanging in the air unanswered. Another spoke after a pause, "All those years in seclusion… none of it was wasted." A third leaned forward, his voice quieter, more cautious, "Can anyone even tell what his cultivation is now?" No one could. The elder they had known as quiet, distant, and unremarkable in presence had revealed a depth none of them had ever tried to measure. The Son Family had always spoken of him with pride, but even they had never pushed to understand what he had become.
Before the discussion could settle, the doors burst open and a disciple rushed in, breath uneven. "Sect Leader, Elder Son is gone." The room fell still for a moment before the Sect Leader exhaled slowly, as if accepting something inevitable. "Norse will no longer remain a small sect hidden in quiet mountains," he said, his voice steady. "We cannot allow Elder Son to carry this alone." He rose, the decision already made. "Relay my orders. All disciples will form teams and begin exploring the ancient ruins in the back mountains. Any valuables recovered will be rewarded accordingly." His gaze hardened slightly. "From this moment forward, we prepare for war."
Across the Central Continent, communication talismans dimmed one after another. Soul lamps went out in clusters, name tokens cracked without warning, and envoys who had departed days ago failed to send even a single update. At first, the silence was dismissed as interference, a natural result of the unstable qi spreading across the realm. But as hours turned into days, the pattern became impossible to ignore. Entire groups had vanished at once, their presence erased so completely that even tracking techniques found nothing to follow. The direction of that silence pointed to one place, the Norse Region.
In the halls of powerful clans, tension replaced certainty. Patriarchs who had sent disciples to secure easy gains now sat with darkened expressions, staring at extinguished soul flames that represented years of cultivation lost in an instant. Some demanded immediate retaliation, convinced that Norse had hidden its true strength all along. Others hesitated, sensing that something far beyond expectation had taken place. Reports began to circulate, fragmented and unreliable, of a fog that devoured invaders and a single figure who walked through hundreds without drawing a blade. The more cautious leaders chose silence, unwilling to act without understanding what they were facing.
Among the great sects, arrogance gave way to unease. Golden Core elders who once scoffed at the idea of a quiet sect now questioned their own assumptions, their pride shaken by the disappearance of peers they had considered equals. Meetings were called behind closed doors, where strategies were discussed in low voices and names were spoken with care. The Norse Sect, once irrelevant, had become a variable no one could ignore. Some began to pull their forces back from surrounding regions, unwilling to risk further losses without clarity. Others, driven by ambition, started preparing larger forces, convinced that whatever guarded Norse could be overwhelmed with enough power.
Within the courts of ruling states, the reaction was colder and more calculated. Kings and sovereigns viewed the situation not as a loss, but as a shift in balance. A previously insignificant sect had revealed the ability to eliminate hundreds of cultivators without leaving survivors. That alone made it a threat, or an opportunity. Orders were issued to gather information, to observe rather than engage, and to identify any weakness that could be exploited. Yet even among the most composed rulers, there lingered a quiet question that no one voiced aloud.
What exactly had awakened in the Norse mountains, and how far would it go before it was satisfied?
The answer came faster than anyone expected.
"Burning! The Amber Sect is burning! No one made it out!"
The words spread like wildfire across the Central Continent, carried through transmission arrays, messengers, and terrified witnesses who barely escaped the outskirts. The Amber Sect, once the largest and most dominant force of the Hugh Empire, had fallen in a single night. Its defensive formations collapsed without resistance, its elders erased before they could organize, its disciples silenced before they understood what had reached them. By the time the flames died down, there was nothing left but scorched earth and a message carved into the shattered gates for all to see.
"The Blood Pilgrimage of Norse has begun."
The reaction was immediate and unrestrained. Panic gripped cities and sects alike, not from the destruction itself, but from what that declaration meant. Across the continent, cultivators rushed back to their residences, tearing through storage rings, vaults, and personal collections, searching for anything they had ever acquired that might trace back to the Norse Region. Artifacts bought at auctions, relic fragments traded through unknown intermediaries, even simple materials rumored to originate from those mountains were cast out without hesitation. Streets filled with discarded treasures, abandoned in fear of association.
Others took a different path. Investigators moved quietly through networks of disciples and merchants, tracking past transactions, questioning allies, and uncovering any connection, no matter how distant, to those who had invaded Norse. Names were written down. Histories were revisited. Trust began to fracture as suspicion spread faster than reason. No one wanted to be linked, even indirectly, to what had just begun.
Because in ancient times, a Blood Pilgrimage was never just revenge. It was eradication.
Entire bloodlines had vanished beneath its weight. Nations had fallen, not because they opposed it, but because they were tied, however loosely, to the offending side. It was not a war that could be negotiated or ended through surrender. Once declared, it became absolute.
Worse still, the rule that governed it was feared above all else. Only the one who issued the Pilgrimage could bring it to an end. No council could intervene, no alliance could force its closure. Even death offered no escape. If the one who declared it fell before its completion, the Will of The World itself would ensure their return, reincarnating them until the Pilgrimage was fulfilled.
And now, for the first time in countless years, that ancient law had been invoked again. The continent did not brace for conflict. It braced for extinction.
However, where most saw only terror, a few saw opportunity. As Boar moved steadily toward the Hugh Imperial Capital, the land itself seemed to quiet in his path. Before he could reach the outer territories, a lone figure appeared ahead, standing firm despite the pressure that filled the air. His aura was stable, his presence controlled, a clear sign of a Martial Lord level cultivator. He raised his hands slightly, not in surrender, but in respect. "I come in peace, Great Master. My people have no connection to this incident."
Boar's gaze lingered on him for a moment. There was no dark mist seeping from the man's pores, no trace of the mark left on those tied to the invasion. Boar had already known this before the words were spoken. "What do you want?" he asked, his tone even, without hostility or interest. The man lowered his head slightly before answering. "I am the newly ascended Emperor of a small nation called Asgard. My name is Odin. Like the Norse Sect, we were invaded as well. We did not have the strength then to resist, and by the time we rose, it was too late."
Odin's voice remained calm, but there was some heaviness behind it. "I seek revenge as much as any who have suffered loss, but I understand the law. I cannot interfere with the Blood Pilgrimage." He paused briefly before continuing. "All I ask is this. If the Norse Sect has no intention of becoming a ruling power, then allow Asgard to take the places left behind by those you erase. We will not oppose you. We will not interfere. We will simply… rebuild what remains."
Boar looked at him for a brief moment longer, as if remembering something he was told long ago. Then he turned his gaze forward once more. "Fine," he said simply. "Come with me to the Hugh Capital. You can have this place."