The space within the black stone cave was utterly dominated by the terrifying pressure of the Golden Core Realm Evil Spirit. Black miasma billowed, carrying the collective resentment of the entire Forbidden Mountain, transforming this place into a veritable purgatory on earth. The air grew so thick and viscous that it was nearly impossible to draw breath.
Tran Kien stood his ground, his face as ashen as paper, fresh blood incessantly trickling from the corners of his mouth. Within his Sea of Consciousness, his Divine Soul throbbed with agony, as if pierced by ten thousand needles after being struck by the "Sacred Soul Spike." He could feel with chilling clarity that the gap between himself and the old monster before him was no longer a matter of a few minor stages; it was the difference between a small stream and the boundless ocean.
Against such absolute power, all schemes and calculations seemed pathetically laughable.
"What is the matter, descendant of Lac Viet?" The Evil Spirit, manifesting as a sinister emperor, flicked its wide sleeves, its voice dripping with mockery and triumph. "Where is your ferocity now? Why has the Army-Breaker Saber in your hand ceased its roar?"
It was in no hurry to strike. It was savoring the moment. It savored the despair of its prey. Having slumbered for a millennium, its loneliness had twisted it into a monster that took pleasure in the torture of souls.
Tran Kien did not answer. He desperately circulated his Primordial Chaos Qi to heal his wounds, but the surrounding black aura, imbued with the will of the Evil Spirit, acted like ravenous leeches, incessantly corroding his strength.
Could it be... that I am truly out of options? For the first time since emerging from his secluded cultivation, a sense of helplessness crept into his heart.
But just as his resolve began to waver, a brilliant light suddenly erupted within his chaotic Sea of Consciousness. It was not Primordial Chaos Qi. It was not Saber Intent.
It was visions.
He saw the image of Son Tinh, standing alone atop a mountain peak, facing a raging deluge with an indomitable will that refused to bow. He saw the image of Saint Giong, who, even when his iron rod shattered, did not falter, instead uprooting clumps of bamboo from the wayside to continue the fight. He saw the images of extraordinary individuals, of national heroes—those who had used their very blood and bones to write the magnificent annals of history.
The true power of the Lac Viet legacy did not lie in an array formation, nor did it lie in a divine weapon.
It lay in the "Soul"! The Soul of an entire nation!
A flame—not of spiritual energy, but of pure will—suddenly blazed within Tran Kien's nearly despairing eyes.
"You are right," he suddenly looked up, his blood-stained lips curling into a smile. It was a smile devoid of fear, containing only madness and ultimate determination. "Our Lac Viet legacy is indeed ancient and 'obsolete' in your eyes."
"But there are things," he ground out each word, "that will never be obsolete."
"That is the spirit! The will that refuses to ever be enslaved!"
He no longer played defense. He did something that no one could have imagined.
He cast the Army-Breaker Saber to the ground.
Biting his fingertip, he used his very life-blood to begin tracing patterns upon the earth.
He did not draw complex array scripts. He was painting. Painting the image of a Bronze Drum. Painting the image of the Sun-Star at its center. Painting the images of people dancing and flocks of Lac birds in flight.
"What do you intend to do?" The Evil Spirit narrowed its eyes, a premonition of unease surging within its heart.
"I lack the strength to deploy the complete Lac Viet Heavenly Cycle Array," Tran Kien spoke, his voice growing increasingly heroic. "But who said this array must be laid with spiritual energy alone?"
"My ancestors taught me: 'A Hundred Clans, One Heart'! Thus, today, I shall use the 'Soul' of those hundred clans, the thousand-year history of my people, to lay down one final array!"
He did not merely use his blood. He poured his entire Divine Sense, his entire will, and his entire enlightenment into those strokes.
He was no longer Tran Kien. He had become a true Shaman.
As the final stroke was completed, the entire cave shook violently!
The ground where he had painted was no longer stone. It transformed into the surface of a colossal, illusory Bronze Drum, radiating a magnificent golden light.
From within the void, ethereal silhouettes began to manifest.
There was Son Tinh, hoisting a mountain. There was Saint Giong, riding an iron horse. There was Ly Ong Trong, with his body of copper and skin of iron. There was Lady Trieu, riding a war elephant. There were countless heroes, countless nameless martyrs of the Lac Viet nation!
They were not resentful wraiths. They were "Heroic Souls" (Anh Linh)—indomitable wills that had etched themselves into the Dragon Veins of this land, and now, they were being summoned by the sole inheritor!
"This... this is... the Heroic Spirit Array?!" For the first time, a flicker of abject terror appeared within the Evil Spirit's voice. "Impossible! The legendary array to summon Ancestral Souls should have been lost to time long ago! How could you know it?!"
"Because I," Tran Kien stood at the heart of the array, his entire being enveloped in the light of history, his aura as majestic as a sovereign emperor.
"Am the Inheritance!"
He no longer needed to strike.
The silhouettes of the Heroic Souls, as if hearing a royal decree, turned in unison, their gazes fixing upon the Evil Spirit. There was no killing intent. There was only indignation—the indignation of ancestors toward a descendant who had strayed, who had defiled their bloodline.
"NO!!! You cannot do this to me! I am also of the Sacred Dynasty's blood! I am the orthodox one!" The Evil Spirit shrieked madly, channeling its full demonic power to form a colossal black dragon in a desperate attempt to resist.
But it was futile.
The illusory Saint Giong merely flicked the bamboo in his hand, and the black dragon instantly disintegrated. The illusory Son Tinh merely waved his sleeve, and all the black miasma within the cave was suppressed.
The Heroic Souls did not attack. They slowly, ever so slowly, approached and surrounded the Evil Spirit, before merging into its body.
They were not destroying. They were "Purifying." Using the righteous qi of a thousand years of history to wash away the wickedness that had persisted for far too long.
"NO! STOP! SPARE ME!!!"
The Evil Spirit let out a marrow-chilling scream. Its newly condensed body began to dissolve—not into destruction, but into transcendence. The resentment dissipated, leaving behind only a faint, ownerless soul.
Tran Kien, having deployed such an earth-shattering array, had reached his absolute limit. He coughed up a mouthful of fresh blood and dropped to one knee.
But within his eyes, there was no weariness. There was only serenity.
He knew that the game here at the Seven Mountains had reached its conclusion.
However, he also knew that this Evil Spirit was merely a fragment of a soul. The true "Sacred Dynasty" still lurked somewhere in the shadows. The path before him remained long and arduous.